Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  He didn’t need to see a menu. “A ham steak, well done, scrambled eggs with cheese, and a sliced tomato.” He gave her a smile.

  She smiled back. “Wheat toast, light butter?”

  He nodded. He must eat here often.

  She glanced at me like I was intruding. “And what are you having?”

  I ordered tomato juice with a glass of ice.

  “That’s all?” Travis settled into the other side of the booth, his back to the entrance.

  “My neighbor Ann had a problem and bribed me with food this morning. She’s a great cook. The one who’s been helping Carla.”

  “And what’s Ann’s problem this morning?”

  He didn’t sound very interested, but when I told him about Ann’s brother being questioned in Devon Wheat’s murder, he perked right up.

  “These cops. They like to rope innocent people into their investigations. They’ll look at surveillance video, identify everybody who walked through that courtyard in the last month, and then hassle them all to hell and back. Let the cops work out the details of the crime and then go after the one who did it. Be efficient about it.”

  He was speaking as someone who had been hassled. Maybe I’d feel the same way if I had personal experience?

  “Well, whatever.” I poured tomato juice over the ice cubes and took a drink. Tomato juice always shocked me with how good the first sip was.

  “I want your opinion about the monthly fees for condos and houses. We need to cover property taxes, yard care, security, basic cable, water and sewer, insurance, and housekeeping once a month…” I counted them off on my fingers until my voice trailed off. “What am I forgetting?”

  He glanced down my written list, added transportation services, and put the paperwork aside when his breakfast arrived.

  Since I wasn’t eating, I talked. I showed him Wilma’s rental report.

  “What’s the occupancy rate?” he asked.

  I jotted figures in the margin. “Forty vacancies out of two hundred and twenty-four units. What’s that? Ten percent would be twenty-two, so twenty percent would be forty-four. I guess we’re at about eighteen percent.” I’d been training myself in shortcuts. Sixth grade math for grandmas.

  Travis looked surprised. “Very good. The corporate average was nineteen last time I looked. You’re doing a good job, Cleo.” He took a sip of coffee. “I guess I forget that you ran a university department, and picture you doing casework your entire career.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with casework.”

  He looked at me and gestured with his fork. “No. But I’ve got an idea for you to think about. How would you like a regional position? You’d be gone some but our other facilities are nice, too. You could keep your apartment here.”

  I was shaking my head long before he finished. “I like what I’m doing.”

  The server came back, poured more coffee, and left the check.

  “You said no to this job at first, too. Think about it. There’d be more money.”

  I didn’t want to think about it. “Travis, I’m making a big salary already, plus my pension. And I like Fairhope and the people here. This is where I want to be.”

  “Well, don’t say no yet.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin, picked up the check, and looked at it. “There’s no such thing as too much money. Do you know what tomato juice costs?”

  “I disagree. I read about lots of people who have too much money. Unless they’re going to start a charity or something. What do you do with a million dollars a year? It’s absurd.” I noticed his expression and corrected myself. “I didn’t mean you personally. I meant one. What would one do with a million or two a year?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” He put his coffee mug down, eyebrows pulled together in indignation. “One would pay a boatload of money to ex-wives, and set up insurance policies to be sure the money keeps coming if one dies.”

  I tensed up at the mention of ex-wives, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “And one would pay an expensive attorney to keep one from spending half his life in court, quibbling over pensions and bonuses and cosmetic surgery and condo fees.”

  “No,” I said quietly, outraged.

  “Cleo.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  I jerked away.

  “I didn’t even think—I’ve never thought of you as an ex-wife. You’ve always been a colleague, a partner.”

  “No.” I put my hands in my lap and rubbed them together, hard. “Oh my god,” I heard and realized it wasn’t the mental chorus this time. I’d actually said it out loud.

  “Look.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his face and I heard the scrape of whiskers. “I got off on the wrong foot here. I’ve never told you this, but I see how Steffi turned out and I’m embarrassed I had so little to do with it. I didn’t treat you the way I should’ve, the way I wish I had. I thought I could make up for it with a job, but you’ve turned out to be good at that, too, so I feel like I still haven’t done anything. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? I want you to move up in the corporation, to a vice presidency if you want it. Come to Houston. But it’s your choice. Okay? You’ll think about it?”

  I didn’t believe half of what he said and my face felt like it was on fire.

  “I’m staying here. I may be getting into a new relationship.” I certainly hadn’t intended to tell him that. What was wrong with me?

  He snapped to attention and started to say something but I interrupted.

  “I’ve met a nice guy.”

  “Well, congratulations, if that’s what you want. But do yourself a favor. Get a pre-nup.”

  “Who said anything about nups? Travis, why are you talking like this?” I looked around for the server or other eavesdroppers. “You’re wealthy! Part of the one percent. Stephanie raves about your house. Says it’s a palace.”

  I’d been to Houston twice, once for orientation and again for a meeting of executive directors, but both times were right after his wife had died and we weren’t invited to his home.

  He snorted and shook his head. “The fact is, I don’t have a house. My stepdaughter has a house that I pay the mortgage on. My former sister-in-law has an expensive defense attorney. My former sister-in-law’s girlfriend—wife—whatever she is—is avoiding jail by lounging around in an expensive, country-club rehab program at my expense. My—what is he? Great-uncle-in-law? Uncle Nelson pays his own way, fortunately, but I’m responsible for him. I saw him yesterday and he has no idea who I am. What I’m trying to say, Cleo, is that I make an obscene amount of money and still can’t afford to retire. Not for years. But I’m not complaining. I just wish people wouldn’t make assumptions. And I wish I’d thought ahead. Like you did.”

  “Oh, Travis. You know you’ve done very well.”

  “I admit it. I’ve done well. I am doing well. But not half as well as everyone assumes. And not as well as I could’ve, if I hadn’t screwed things up.”

  It was no fun being hard on someone who was so hard on himself.

  “I can only speak for myself, but I’ll stop the assumptions and focus on being a partner. That was a nice compliment, by the way.” It really was, I realized. How many ex-wives ever heard such a thing?

  Travis hung his head but smiled.

  * * * *

  I drove back to Harbor Village and went to the apartment first. When I opened the laundry door, Ann’s square white envelope was lying on the dryer. “Oh, pooh!” I’d forgotten all about it. The cat, enjoying the warm air eddying around my knees and ankles, looked at me.

  There were some cotton sweaters and socks, still warm, lying in the bottom of the dryer, along with Evie’s fleece jacket. I set the dial for warm-up and leaned against the rumbling machine, enjoying the heat. While I waited, I opened the square envelope and slid the card out for another look. Too bad
the sender hadn’t filled in the contact line. Had it actually been sent? Maybe this was a printer’s proof.

  After a couple of minutes, I removed the sweaters and folded them and laid the socks on top of the washer for more drying.

  Ann would be in the dining room now, so no point in taking the jacket over. I put it on a hanger, hung it on the laundry rack, and picked up the white envelope. I didn’t really think the invitation belonged to Handleman, but I’d like to know what he thought about it. Tinkerbelle meowed when I nudged her out of the way and closed the dryer.

  It was sixty-five degrees and sunny outside, and the walk up to One South was a short one. I took the elevator to the second floor, where Patti’s carpets and love seats made a great impression, even on a second viewing. At the end of the porch, I was about to knock on the guest suite, but the door swung open at the lightest touch.

  The place gave off the vibe that said nobody was home, but I knocked anyway and called out. “Mr. Handleman? Reg? Anybody here?”

  No answer. I stepped inside. The kitchen looked just as it had days ago. He probably hadn’t used it all week. I looked toward the bedroom and called again, then walked in that direction, my steps silent on the carpet. The comforter, when I could see it, was pulled up but crooked. Used towels lay in a heap on the bathroom floor. Handleman was gone. Any luggage he’d brought had been removed from the apartment and no trace of him remained except used linens.

  The Sudoku book was on the dresser with the cover folded back. I walked closer and saw that someone had used the top page for a notepad. “Devon Wheat,” the first line said, in blue ink and a heavy scrawl. There was a phone number and, below that, what I took for directions.

  “L on Section, R on de la Mare.”

  The note hadn’t been there Monday. Handleman had moved in Tuesday. And Devon Wheat died Wednesday night. I read the note again and told myself there was some perfectly innocuous explanation, but I had no idea what it was. Why would an automotive history expert visit a small-town financial advisor a thousand miles from home?

  Still holding the envelope Ann had given me, I went back to the porch and sat on one of the rattan love seats, where I could look down the boulevard toward the big house. I thought for a minute, then once again dialed the FPD. Mary Montgomery was at a conference in Mobile, I learned. And so was Chief Boozer. Would I like to leave a message?

  I asked for a callback from either of them, clicked off, and sat for another minute. It was cool there in the shade. One of the housekeepers, rolling a noisy cart, turned in at Riley’s building. Would they show up here as soon as I left? Would they rip out the used page, as I had done a few days ago? Or maybe toss the entire book into the trash bag hooked to their cart?

  I went back into the guest suite. It took a minute, rummaging through the kitchen drawers, but finally I found a box of plastic bags and pulled one out. I fiddled the bag inside out and stuck my hand in as if it were an oversized, stiff glove. Holding the corner of the Sudoku book through the bag, I popped the bag over it, dropped the square envelope in, and zipped the bag closed. Then I closed the apartment and took the elevator down.

  So Handleman knew Devon Wheat and had perhaps gotten together with him at Royale Court this week. I hoped Patti’s intuitions didn’t turn out to be right, in spite of all my denials. I hoped he wasn’t a bad guy.

  I went back to my apartment, dropped the plastic bag with its contents on the coffee table, and put on a black cardigan. Maybe I’d order a couple of those fleece jackets. I’d ask Ann where Evie got them.

  Chapter 11

  The shuttle bus was late and half full when it finally arrived at the big house, where another twenty people were waiting. We climbed aboard and set off for the polo field.

  Banners hung on rail fences all around the entrance to the event. The shuttle bus pulled in at a circular drive, and thirty-six of us were processed into the arena through side-by-side lines. Tickets to the Grand Concours were expensive, but there was a discount if you bought two days at once.

  “One day,” I told the man at the gate and handed over my credit card. Ridiculous. How did young families afford to go anywhere?

  “My treat,” Riley volunteered, as he usually did.

  I refused flatly, as usual, but he paid twenty-five bucks for a slick, illustrated program and offered it to me. “Let’s share one.”

  Every outdoor exhibit should be held at a polo club, I decided right away. There were open pastures on both sides of the road, enclosed with rail fences. One side had low hills with a few trees, a series of paddocks, and handsome ponies grazing or whinnying at the crowd from a distance. The other side, where the car show was set up, was almost flat and divided into three big paddocks.

  There was a parking lot with valet service for VIPs.

  I pointed to a white BMW as Riley and I walked side by side across lush, bright-green grass. “Is that Handleman’s car?”

  He looked where I was pointing and gave a nod. “I don’t think there’d be two with Indiana tags.”

  The biggest field, in the middle, looked like the scene of a large wedding and accommodated both the concours exhibit and, near the entrance, a comparatively bland display of American sports cars.

  A weathered wooden pavilion, draped with garlands of silk flowers and gauzy fabric that billowed in the breeze, stood on a little rise between the two exhibits and functioned as a tearoom. I didn’t know about Amelia Island and Pebble Beach, but there were no port-a-potties at the Fairhope/Point Clear Grand Concours. Instead, a row of restroom trailers, with attendants, was provided for the ordinary visitors. For dignitaries, there was a clubhouse atop a little rise and a fleet of golf carts to get people there and back.

  The third and smallest field was a sale paddock with an odd mixture of antique cars, about fifty in all, and three times that number of wheeler-dealers.

  A few people stopped to look at the sports cars but most of the group I arrived with headed straight to the back, where the antiques and classics were on display.

  It would be hard to pick a favorite among the seventy-five or eighty cars arranged in circles or squares or rows, but I tried.

  The Baker Electric was cute and looked like Daisy Duck should be driving it. It was tall and glossy black, with a lot of glass, over a hundred years old, and powered by a whole flock of lead-acid batteries, according to an observer.

  Nearby was a cream-colored Cord with disappearing headlights. A pair of chrome exhaust pipes curved out each side of the hood. I liked it until Riley, frowning, said, “With the headlights closed, it looks sinister.”

  I agreed, and we moved on.

  I also liked the monstrously large red-and-silver Packard with a white top and a V-12 engine, according to a sign. I could barely see over the hood, so you can imagine how tall it was. Its running boards merged into the front fenders with a well to hold a white-sidewall spare tire, and each spare had a little rearview mirror belted to its top.

  The podiatrist who came to Harbor Village once a month was looking at the Packard. I spoke to him and he introduced his wife, who told me that the Packard had once belonged to Bear Bryant.

  “No, honey. Bear Bryant was the football coach. The Packard belonged to that actor, what’s his name?”

  I waved and moved on.

  In the midst of all the old, exotic cars was a bulbous, new, red-and-black Bugatti that looked like a bomb.

  “Is this a Type Forty-One?” I asked the car minder, showing off my newly acquired knowledge.

  He had a pencil-thin moustache and looked down his skinny nose at me, literally. “La Finale,” he said with a heavy accent. He pointed to where the word was written in script below the headlight.

  There was an old Bugatti, too, a race car, more spartan than luxurious, parked facing me. From a distance, it looked like a fish with an open mouth.

  My heavy breakfast was ancient history by th
e time we completed a slow lap around the concours exhibit and a relatively quick walk through the sports cars. I checked the time.

  “Are you hungry?” Riley pointed to the tea tent. “They don’t look busy now.”

  Reg Handleman was there, too, looking around as if he were waiting for someone.

  I caught Riley’s eye and jiggled my head toward Handleman. “Shall we invite him?”

  Riley gave him a wave and I turned around, pretending to be surprised to see Handleman. “Reg!” I called. “We’re about to have a late lunch. Won’t you join us?”

  “Ms. Mack,” he said, “and Mister…?”

  “Meddors.” Riley offered his hand. “Riley Meddors. I enjoyed your lectures.”

  “Oh, yes! Riley. The sporty British model. You’re not actually a Brit, are you?”

  Progress to the pavilion was slow, delayed by the ebb and flow of the crowd. A number of people recognized Handleman and stopped to chat. Some were Harbor Village residents but not all. If Friday was—as Nita had said—the quiet before the storm of visitors, I wondered what Saturday’s crowd would be like.

  The Hospital Auxiliary provided lunch, which included Italian confetti pasta salad, spicy chicken skewers, a cupcake, and a choice of iced tea or lemonade. There had been chopped broccoli salad, but a line was drawn through that part of the menu. “Gone an hour ago,” the women behind the counter told us. We had a big choice of tables.

  The dining area was arranged to offer a choice of view: sports cars or concours. In respect for Handleman, I chose the concours, with the intention of giving him the seat looking out over the cars. The pavilion’s walkways were littered with chairs. Riley put down his tray and cleared us a path.

  “Are you enjoying the show?” I asked Handleman when we were seated.

  “Delightful. Everything I imagined.”

  “I went looking for you this morning. You must’ve gotten here early.”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. I had to prepare two cars. I hope you saw them—a Duesenberg Model A and the little Baker Electric. Now, don’t confuse the Duesenberg Model A with the Ford Model A. Lots of people do that.”