Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  Ann winced and closed her eyes, as though I’d touched a nerve. “She says he took down the security cameras.”

  “Hmm.” That did sound suspicious. “Maybe he was taking them down to give to the cops.”

  “I wish.” She looked terribly worried now that the fact was out. Worried and old.

  “When did he remove them?”

  “We don’t know. Evie found them late yesterday in a box under her counter. I was over at the big house all afternoon and she didn’t leave a message at first, just kept calling back, trying to catch me. I came home at six to change clothes for the lecture and Usher called, wanting me to come to the police station. I missed the lecture and sat down there all evening. Did they have enough food?”

  “Yes. It was very successful. The whole series was. We’ll be on TV today, I guess. When did you last see the security cameras in place? And where were they?”

  She shrugged. “It had to be in the last day or two. Evie says the box wasn’t there Wednesday afternoon when she cleaned. You didn’t see him removing cameras yesterday, did you? One of the them was right outside the knit shop.”

  I shook my head.

  She sighed. “It had to be Wednesday night or yesterday, before you got there.”

  “But no one knew Devon Wheat was dead then.”

  She looked like she might cry. “The killer knew.”

  My heart sank. But she was right about that.

  She sighed again and rubbed her temples. “The cops kept saying he’d be able to go soon, but it got later and later. And finally, they released him but told him not to leave town. You know what that means. He’s a suspect.”

  “Well, maybe. But they’ll have a lot of suspects. Travis was a suspect a few months ago, remember?”

  “Yes, and you hated it, didn’t you?”

  I admitted it. “He’s my daughter’s father. I hated it for her.”

  “Evie left a message here—several, in fact. When I got home, it was almost midnight but I called anyway, so she’d be able to sleep. And she told me about the cameras. Then we both stayed awake all night. The cameras were in a box where she keeps needlepoint rugs for her little houses. When she picked it up, it was heavy and she knew something was wrong.”

  Nita and I had intended to visit Evie’s shop and see the rugs before Devon Wheat’s death changed everything.

  “And now Evie has the cameras?”

  She nodded. “Do we have to turn them in?”

  What a spot! I nodded. “Yes, you do. Otherwise, you’ll be involving yourself. Maybe…” I was thinking as fast as I could.

  “Maybe what? We’ve got to decide now.”

  “Maybe you could get Usher to turn them in. He can tell the cops he took the cameras down to deliver to them. And you don’t know that’s not true.”

  She was shaking her head. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Well, finesse it. Involve Usher, have him there with you. He doesn’t have to know the cops are coming. When they get there, hand them the cameras and say he disconnected them. Do it for him if he won’t do it.”

  Ann looked doubtful but I persisted.

  “He can’t very well refuse to hand them over if the cameras are there and the cops are reaching for them.”

  She still looked unhappy, but what choice did she have? “Well, it’s better than nothing. I knew you’d come up with something.”

  I thanked her for breakfast and asked her to keep me informed and was already going out when she said, “Cleo! Wait a minute.”

  She picked up a square white envelope, about six by six inches, from her coffee table. She opened the lined flap and slid out a matching card, with a little square of onionskin paper protecting it. “The Grand gave me this by mistake. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  She handed me the card and envelope.

  The first thing I noticed was the quality. Heavy paper, slick gold lining in the envelope, lots of white space on the card, and little gold curlicues in raised print.

  “Exclusive Offering,” the heading said, in fancy letters with swirly designs on each side. There was a small oval photograph that looked something like Handleman’s royalty cars. “Royale Consortium,” the print said. There were words like “confidential,” “exclusive,” and “prototype,” but Ann didn’t give me time to read it all.

  “They gave it to you when you were setting up the knitting workshop?”

  “Don’t you think it belongs to Mr. Handleman? I want to get it back to him.”

  I looked at the envelope, but it was blank. “Ann, isn’t this what he was talking about last night? The Type Forty-One scam?”

  Ann gave me a puzzled look. “I wasn’t there last night. Did I miss something interesting?”

  The bottom line of text said, “For a complete prospectus, contact—” There was a long blank line where something was supposed to be written in by hand.

  “Where did you get this? From the hotel, you said?”

  Now it was Ann’s turn to look puzzled. “Well, I suppose so. She didn’t say anything about it, but it was mixed in with the other stuff. I think she gave it to me because it says Royale and she was thinking Royale Court. Marjorie Zadnichek, I mean. The special events person. She’s awfully busy with the holidays coming up. Overworked and distracted. She’s older than I am, you know. Do you think it’s a stolen car or something?”

  “The one Handleman told us about doesn’t actually exist. Well, some do. Six, I think he said. But people think there’s a seventh that’s worth ten million dollars or something outrageous. They’re tricking people into investing a lot of money in hopes of getting a big payback when the car’s sold.”

  “Tell me more. I might be interested.”

  “You’re missing the point. They take your money and disappear. You never get it back because there’s no car.”

  Ann tapped the envelope. “There’s a photograph of it on here. How’d they get that?”

  I wasn’t doing too well at explaining, but her interest ran out about the time my answers did.

  “Just give it to somebody, okay? Get it back wherever it belongs.”

  I said I’d try and thanked her for a very special breakfast. “I’m supposed to meet Travis at Julwin’s in an hour. I doubt I’ll even be able to drink a cup of coffee.”

  I went back to my apartment, picked up the paperwork I’d brought home, and checked on Tinkerbelle. The food and water dishes were half full, and the cat box was in good shape.

  The cat was at her usual station, on the corner of my bed. She raised her head and looked at me, then rolled back into a fuzzy ball.

  Evie’s fleece jacket was on the dresser, and it looked as if Tinkerbelle had slept on it all night. I hated to return it dirty. I read the label and stuck it in the washer with a few similar items and left them washing, thinking I’d come back later and switch everything to the dryer. I locked up and walked to the office.

  Chapter 10

  I had a regular appointment at eight thirty on Fridays to review the current status of Harbor Village rentals with our new agent. Wilma Cortez, a sweet lady about my age who wore long skirts and bright lipstick, had a high-pitched, nervous laugh. Today she was wearing a knitted shawl, which I complimented.

  “I made it.” Wilma revolved slowly, arms extended to show off the full effect. “I’ve been dying for cool weather so I could wear it.”

  The shawl was triangular, lacy-looking, and changed from blues to golden browns in wide, watercolor-like stripes.

  “I love it. I’m definitely going to start knitting again. Maybe if I start now I could have a shawl like that by next fall.”

  Wilma giggled like a jungle bird. “Twee-hee-hee-hee.”

  We had begun the practice of meeting in her office, around the corner from Patti’s desk, so we could look at the key box. It gave us a visual reference for which apar
tments were available and which needed attention from outside contractors or from Stewart and his maintenance crew.

  The big, flat, felt-lined box was mounted on the wall. Wilma folded the doors out of the way and I turned one of her armchairs to face the box.

  The black background was divided into sections representing the seven rental buildings at Harbor Village. Within each section were little pegs holding keys and an attached, color-coded tag designating the current status of that apartment. Rented units had green tags and I was happy to see a vast majority of green tags in the box.

  A yellow tag meant the unit was vacant and ready to rent. There were still too many yellow tags, but fewer than a month ago, when Wilma came on staff. The vacancies were concentrated on the upper floors of the two-story buildings, and I was counting on Patti’s screened porch project to cut their number substantially.

  “I was wondering, do we have any flexibility about cutting rent on those second-floor units?” Wilma stood, hands on hips, looking at the key box. “Maybe give new tenants a free month, or knock off two hundred a month for a year’s lease? A thousand a month is less than twelve hundred, but it’s still a lot more than zero, which is what they’re bringing in right now, sitting there vacant.”

  “But that’s not fair to the residents who already live here, so it’s a last resort. Let’s see if Patti’s porch project brings in some new people. Then we might offer free lunches for the first month. That would save the residents four hundred dollars a month, but the cost to us would be less than two, or whatever our profit amounts to. I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

  Wilma seemed surprised. “Why? It sounds so impressive.”

  “I’ve always had this block about numbers.” I waved away the compliment. “I’m getting over it finally. You know, we could make it more equitable by giving everybody a free meal ticket for the first month of a new or renewed lease. Let me think about that.” I made a note for myself and looked back at the key box.

  “People say we’ve been evicting some tenants.”

  I nodded. “We’ve relocated a few who didn’t fit our tenant profile, but everyone went peacefully. We made it easy for them. And for the future, as long as one member of a couple is fifty-five or close to it, we’ll be happy to have them join the community.”

  “What about this young man living in the houses?”

  I frowned. “Todd Barnwell. What are you hearing about him?”

  Wilma shrugged and her shawl fell off one shoulder. “Nothing, really. But I see him now and then, out walking or skateboarding. Does he live there alone?” She twirled the shawl and covered both shoulders, then tucked one end in at the neckline.

  “So far as I know. Maybe I’d better have a little talk with him.” I made another note. “It’s been several months since his grandfather died and he should be making other arrangements.”

  Wilma counted under her breath. “Looks like we’re down to eighteen red tags.”

  A red tag meant the apartment needed attention—paint or carpet or repairs, usually. Stewart and his crew had worked hard to whittle the number of red tags down to the current level. Wilma ran through the affected units quickly, giving me the apartment number and the problem. We were waiting for carpet in two cases, waiting for Stewart to cut out fiberglass showers and replace them with tile in two cases, and waiting for painting or new appliances or carpentry work in the others. Somebody’s dog had chewed up a windowsill, but Stewart said it wouldn’t be hard to fix when he got to it. In addition to the renovations, he had to keep up with appliance repairs, sticking windows, pictures to be hung, and all the other maintenance tasks.

  “Not bad,” I told Wilma, glancing over the red tags and nodding approval.

  “Here’s the official tabulation.” She gave me a printed page showing buildings and numbers.

  I scribbled the date in pencil at the top corner. “Have you seen the screened porches on the second floor of One South?”

  “I love them. I’m showing there this afternoon. One prospective resident and one current resident who thinks she’d like to move upstairs. She says it’ll be quieter, but those porches are the real draw. You know, it effectively enlarges their living space, since they can have meals out there, or parties. Mrs. Moore already moved her finch cage to the porch.”

  “That’s just the sort of thing Patti envisioned. And it adds to the social life.”

  “That, too.” Twee-hee-hee-hee.

  When Wilma and I finished the review, I went to my office and added Wilma’s rental report to the stack of papers I was taking with me to see Travis. I stopped at Patti’s desk and asked her, “What time are you going to the car show?”

  She was wearing lavender glasses today, with a purple tunic top. “Are you kidding? Did you hear Reg say what tickets cost?”

  So now they were on a first-name basis? Really. “Want to go to the gala tomorrow night?”

  She looked uncertain. “What does it cost?”

  “Harbor Village has a table.”

  “You mean for free? Can I invite somebody?”

  “Yes and yes. I’ll be out for an hour or so. I’m meeting Travis.”

  “Stewart!” she crowed.

  I looked over my shoulder. The maintenance man was walking in from the ballroom, carrying a stack of picture frames.

  Patti waved to him. “Come here a minute!”

  She had purple and orange nails today. I saw them when she pushed the driftwood and turtles aside so Stewart could balance his load on the corner of the desk.

  “You want to go to the car show gala tomorrow night? For free?”

  “It’s at the hotel,” I explained. “We’ll all sit at one table and represent Harbor Village.”

  “Sure.” Stewart wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as Patti. But neither was I.

  Patti clapped her hands and beamed at him.

  “Somebody forgot their pictures last night.” Stewart picked up a sheet of paper and read from it. “Terry Wozniak. You know him?”

  I nodded and looked at the top photograph in the stack. Handleman’s efforts had been wasted on me. I had no idea what kind of car it was.

  “I saw him leave early last night. I guess he didn’t come back.” Even the enthusiasts were tired of cars. “I’m about to go into town. I can deliver them to his office, I guess.”

  With Travis expecting me, I’d have an excuse for a quick getaway if Wozniak should turn talkative again.

  “I’ll put them in your car when you’re ready to go,” Stewart said.

  “I’m about to leave now.”

  We walked out together. I opened the garage and Stewart braced the frames against the back of the front seat. “You don’t want them sliding around every time you touch the brakes. That should do it.”

  I left the garage open while I hurried to the apartment and switched the load of laundry to the dryer.

  It looked like a beautiful day for the car show. Fairhope hadn’t had much of a fall yet, but as I drove into town, a cluster of cypress trees looked ready to shed orange needles. A few popcorn trees glowed red and one bright yellow ginkgo had a circle of yellow leaves on the grass beneath it. Maybe Wozniak would be out at the polo field already, enjoying the day.

  There wasn’t much activity in town. I circled a block, lining up to park right in front of the Henry George Colony office, but I was out of luck. Hertha’s was having a sale. I turned right at the corner and took the first nonhandicapped space beside the drugstore. Stewart had done a good job of wedging the frames in. I finally got the big one loose and decided they were too heavy for a single trip.

  The Colony office was half a block away and the woman who’d been so helpful in arranging for a last-minute table at the gala was at the counter. “Morning, Ms. Mack. You’re out early.”

  Through the glass partitions, I glimpsed Terry Wozniak going through a back doo
rway.

  “I’m returning Mr. Wozniak’s photographs. I’ve got a couple more in the car.” I looked toward the back again, expecting him to come out and walk to the car with me, to save me another trip. He didn’t. “I’ll be right back.”

  I went back to the corner, rounded it, and saw Wozniak come out of the alley and turn in at the drugstore. If he recognized me, he gave no indication.

  The smaller pictures weren’t nearly so heavy, but I was still puffing a little by the time I got back to the Colony office.

  “Tell Mr. Wozniak we appreciate his bringing the photographs.”

  “You just missed him.” The woman glanced back toward his office, which was still empty.

  “Yes. I saw him going in the drugstore.”

  “Burned his arm, you know. Probably getting some numbing salve.”

  “Sorry to hear that. How did it happen?” I started to leave.

  “I don’t think he said. I’ll see you tomorrow night, won’t I? At the gala?”

  “Yes. And give Mr. Wozniak our thanks for the photos.” I hurried back to the car without meeting Wozniak, did a loop of the adjacent block, and parked just down from the breakfast spot.

  Julwin’s was the oldest restaurant in town, according to the sign on the window. Travis liked it, and in the last four months, we’d had most of our serious discussions there, usually in the front booth of the main dining room. That space was taken today and I had to sit in the side room.

  “Decaf,” I ordered. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  While I waited, I spread out the budget sheets and stuck notes on a couple of things I wanted to remember to discuss.

  Travis came in fifteen minutes later, a handsome, smiling man who looked as though he’d just come back from a two-week beach vacation and hadn’t heard that suntans were bad for us. His eyes were chocolate brown, his hair and brows black and precisely groomed, with just the slightest bit of graying at the temples. As usual, he wore a suit and tie and looked like he might be about to address the legislature on some new bill affecting senior citizens.

  I stacked my worksheets to one side and a server brought a cup of coffee for Travis and greeted him like an old friend.