Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  “I get the sugar shakes if I eat only pancakes. I’m going to try the casserole, too.”

  “The whipped cream, ma’am,” Usher mimicked, holding the big pottery bowl, still cold from the refrigerator. “Let me hold this while you serve.”

  A wooden spoon stuck out of the mound of whipped cream. I put two scoops on my pancake.

  “Now, give me three times that amount.” He moved the bowl closer to his plate.

  The food was the happy part of breakfast. The people part left something to be desired. Ann seemed angry with her brother and was doing a poor job of concealing it.

  “I wanted you to meet Usher, Cleo, so you’ll know what we’re up against.”

  “Ooh, that sounds bad. Doesn’t it, Cleo? Please, Sister, don’t tell people you’re up against me. It makes me think I’m about to be flattened.”

  Ann ignored him. “Usher owns a share of Royale Court, same as the rest of us. And he thinks we should sell.” She gave him a frown.

  Evie’s attention stayed on her plate. Did she agree with Ann? I couldn’t tell.

  “Well, that’s not exactly what I said. And I don’t think Cleo wants us washing family linen at breakfast.”

  “Cleo’s a busy woman. And a businesswoman. I’m asking her advice, so I want her to know what I’m talking about. You want to tell her yourself?”

  Usher looked at me, leaned back, and put his guard up. “Exactly what do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you’d like to tell me. I understand you’re the manager of Royale Court.”

  He sighed. “Have you ever tried managing people who outrank you? A diplomatic nightmare. Any sane man would get out of that deal immediately. So, you know what that makes me, after twenty years.” He laughed and began to eat, relaxing as he shifted back to banter. Over the next few minutes, while we ate, he confirmed that he managed the courtyard and described duties that involved hanging around the premises and interacting with tenants and shoppers. “The T-shirt shop is laundering money, but it’s none of my business. I need caffeine.”

  He got up and went to the kitchen. Ann and I looked at each other and smiled. The refrigerator closed and Usher returned, opening a can of Mountain Dew.

  “Get a glass,” Ann said.

  “This is fine.” He took a swig and put the sweat-beaded can on the quilted place mat. “My sisters have always taken advantage of my youth and inexperience.” He laughed and resumed his monologue, interspersing long swigs from the can.

  I wondered what his sisters were thinking, and finally Evie spoke up. “The police talked with Usher about Devon’s murder, but he doesn’t know anything about it. Those security cameras haven’t worked in years.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “They might’ve recorded crucial information.”

  “Yes, isn’t it,” Ann said coldly. She looked at Usher.

  “Devon Wheat.” Usher leaned back, covered his face with his hands, and laughed. “I wish to God I’d never heard that man’s name.” He shook his head side to side. “I’ve spent hours at the police station. Hours! How am I supposed to know who his friends were? Not me, that’s for sure. For damn sure!”

  “Usher,” Ann warned.

  “Oh, Sister. Cleo’s heard the word damn before.” He looked at me. “She might even have uttered a damn or two herself, am I right, Cleo? A woman who wears blue jeans to breakfast? My sisters never wore blue jeans in their lives, did you?”

  Okay, I decided, he must be drunk. Or high on something.

  He picked up the empty drink can and crushed it, creating a loud pop. “Look at that. Remember who taught us to do that?”

  They didn’t respond.

  “He met with a real estate man to talk about selling Royale Court.” Ann scowled at him. “Didn’t even invite us.”

  No wonder she was angry. I looked at Usher and he swiveled to face me.

  “Cleo, you’re a perceptive woman, I’m sure. You have no doubt noticed we’re old. I’m old. My sisters are even older. There is absolutely no way on God’s green earth I could run Royale Court without their participation. That’s the nice word for what they do. Participate. Day and night.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, then continued.

  “It’s simple prudence to have a succession plan. That’s the real estate term. A succession plan. I agree we need it. Prissy agrees. And we, Prissy and I, we are the success-ees, if I may invent a term. The day Ann and Evie hang up their hats, Royale Court goes on the market! And Usher is off to see the world! We’ve got a family fortune in Europe. Did Ann tell you? Just waiting for us.” He laughed.

  He seemed to be taunting Ann, who put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands.

  “Remember, I am your faithful servant, Ann, and you know it. Evie, too. But it’s time for a change.” He took his crumpled drink can to the kitchen, and I heard it land in an empty bin.

  Breakfast was finished.

  I thanked Ann, told Evie good-bye, and offered my hand to Usher. “It was nice to meet you, Usher.” What else was I going to say?

  Ann said, “There’s something I’d like you to look at, Cleo.”

  She pushed her chair back, as I did, but didn’t get up right away. Instead, she swiveled toward the green china cabinet in the corner and pulled out a green folder. “Take this with you, if you will. Just look at it when you have a chance.”

  Usher reached for the folder—to pass it to me, I assumed—but Ann jerked it out of his reach and put it into my hands directly.

  “Don’t look now. Save it for a rainy day, when you can’t go out to play. It’s just some personal papers, but I’d like your opinion.”

  I was curious about the contents of Ann’s folder, but the morning was passing quickly. I went back to my apartment and, without even looking to see what was inside, dropped the folder on my coffee table. I got the shopping list from the kitchen and drove to the pier. Not the fastest way to get the chores done, but good exercise. If my daughter could take mental health days, surely I deserved a walk on the pier. I put on the canvas windbreaker I keep in the car and made two trips down the pier and back, getting in a mile of walking. Pitiful for a week’s effort, but this hadn’t been a normal week. Then I drove two miles north to Publix.

  I stopped for gas on the way home, then washed veggies, put away the paper products and canned goods, stripped the bed, put on fresh linens while the dirty stuff washed, and worked through the routine Saturday chores, including the litter box. Eventually I got tired and sat at the desk beside the living room window, but that was work, too. I went online to pay the credit card bill and, while I was there, did a search for Type 41. Patti had said Todd Barnwell wanted an investment named something like that, and the term had appeared in the invitation I’d passed along to Lieutenant Montgomery the previous night. I threw in the word automobile for extra precision, since that was what the invitation was about. Right away, Google popped up with the answer.

  The Bugatti Type 41, the most elegant car ever built, was better known as the Royale, Wikipedia said. Bugatti had been able to sell only three of seven Royales manufactured. Six still existed and the seventh was wrecked by Ettore Bugatti. The picture on the website might’ve been the same one used on the invitation, but the colors looked brighter on screen.

  I leaned back and looked out the window. So, who was right, Reg Handleman or Wikipedia? Six Royales or seven? And why did Todd Barnwell, an automotive dunce, want his trust money invested in a Type 41? Scam, scam, scam. I didn’t understand it.

  I gathered up garbage and recycling, took the garbage to bins at the garage, and walked on to the recycling shed with scrap paper and a few aluminum cans and glass bottles. When I got back to the apartment, I washed up and changed clothes, ran a comb through my hair, then went to test out the first ever Saturday lunch at the Harbor Village dining room.

  I was late. At a quarter past n
oon, the dining room was just as full as it usually was on a weekday. Many people had finished lunch already and stayed to talk. Most of the diners were residents, some with visitors or family members in tow, which altered the usual atmosphere.

  Carla was buzzing around in a happy daze. “Do you think we’d get this many people every Saturday?” she asked.

  I didn’t know.

  Ann Slump hurried across the room when she saw me. “I’m so sorry, Cleo. I spent a lot of time with him yesterday and last night, and this broker business is just now coming to light. I’m in shock, I think. Thank you for coming this morning. I hope you’ll advise me. I value your opinions, you know.”

  “I know it must be stressful for you.”

  She nodded and stacked dirty dishes, clearing a small table. “Like pulling teeth to get information out of him. He’s so much worse lately and I can’t decide what to do. I went to your apartment to apologize after he left but you weren’t there.”

  I told her I’d gone to the grocery store. “I haven’t looked at your folder yet.”

  She stood still and gazed off into space. “It says Usher has a health-care proxy and power of attorney and handles the wills when we go. For me and Evie both. But I don’t trust him now.” She had a somber expression. “I don’t think he can handle it.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Does he drink?”

  She jumped and did a double take. “Did you smell something on his breath?”

  “No. But I didn’t get that close.”

  I was toying with the idea of telling her what Stephanie had told me, about the knit shop for sale somewhere along the coast. Ann had said Usher talked with a real estate broker and she thought he was just gathering information, but had he actually signed a listing agreement? Without Ann’s knowledge? That didn’t seem possible.

  Nita saved me from making a decision. “Honey, the soup’s running low. Can I get you a bowl while there’s some left?”

  I walked with her to the steam table. Soup, salad, and sandwiches. Turkey and cheese or ham and cheese. Going once, going twice…almost gone.

  There was a crowd at the big table and smaller groups at some of the little ones.

  “Let’s go sit by the window,” Nita said. “So we can talk.”

  Nita had already eaten but she pointed out the little table Ann had just cleaned, which had a view of sorts, and led the way. Nita was wearing a purple velour pants suit with long sleeves and a high neck, and it looked gorgeous with her silver hair and big smile.

  The moment we sat down, she leaned across the table. “Did Riley spend the night? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but Jim said—”

  I was shaking my head. “No, no. Riley left right after Jim and Mary did. He was home before Jim was.”

  “Oh, Cleo.” She sounded terribly disappointed.

  Probably all of Harbor Village monitored who spent time together, who went out to dinner, and where residents spent their nights. Of course they did. But Nita was eighty and disappointed that her friends weren’t having an affair?

  “He did talk with me a few days ago.”

  She was immediately all ears. “Oh? Can you tell me?”

  I did, speaking softly, our heads bent together. “He was wonderfully sweet and invited me into his life. And I was an idiot, Nita. I did everything wrong. I didn’t expect it. I thought he was joking, I joked back. But then he gave me the sweetest kiss.” Not sweet exactly, but close enough. Did she quiz Riley this way, too?

  Nita was beaming. “I’m so happy. My two favorite people! Of course, I know you wouldn’t do this just for me, but you two are so perfect for each other, I wouldn’t care if you did. I don’t suppose you’ve…” She looked at me, raised her eyebrows, and wiggled her fingers.

  I shook my head. “No!” Whatever she was thinking, the answer was no. My cheeks were on fire.

  “Well, remember, dear. Happy couples make sex a priority.” She looked down and smiled. “I’m no expert, but I do know a thing or two.”

  Oh-my-god, the chorus chirped.

  Crawling under the table would attract too much attention, but I wasn’t prepared for this. I recalled what Stephanie had said last night and asked Nita, “Are overnight visits common occurrences here?”

  She looked startled. “Here? Of course not.” She hesitated. “Not that there’d be anything wrong with it.”

  We looked at each other and she grinned. A tryst between her friends? It was like a sporting event where she could cheer for both sides.

  Chapter 14

  Saturday was an off day for the office staff, but Patti was with Todd when he arrived for the two o’clock meeting. She wore olive green leggings with a colorful top and carried a jacket, and when they got closer, I heard Todd’s leather jacket squeaking. He carried a stack of manila folders bound with rubber bands.

  Riley greeted them politely, put on skinny reading glasses, and began arranging Todd’s folders, taking out documents, reading aloud from their cover pages: Grandfather Barnwell’s last will and testament, an assortment of trust documents. “Prepared by the law firm of Ehlers and Leff,” he read at one point, and then looked at me and raised his brows.

  “A local firm,” I said. “I’ve seen the name.”

  “Yeah,” Todd said. “They think they’re in charge now.”

  Riley grinned at him, nodded, and went back to laying out the documents, arranging them in the center of the table. “Bill of sale. A lease for the property.” He looked over his glasses at the youngsters as he put those two documents in a separate stack. “Just so you know, there’s no deed when a house sits on Colony property. Just a bill of sale and a ninety-nine year lease.”

  “Ninety-nine years?” Todd groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes and slumping onto one elbow. “I won’t live that long. Is it already paid? I hope.”

  “What happens after ninety-nine years?” Patti asked. “Does everything go back to the Colony?”

  Riley leaned back. “I think the average life for a lease is actually seven years, before it’s canceled or modified.” Todd perked up and Riley continued: “Rent is paid annually in lieu of property tax, and there’s a premium, a demonstration fee they call it, used to benefit the community. When you sell, a bill of sale transfers the improvements—that’s everything except the land—and the Colony issues the next owner a new ninety-nine year lease for the land.”

  Todd, energized, latched on to the selling part. “So I can sell the house? And Grandpa’s lease gets canceled? Or…what?”

  “Hold on until we find out if it’s yours to sell.” He continued emptying the folders. There were court documents and communications from attorneys. Eventually he came across a few financial statements and gave Todd an inquiring look.

  “Those are from Devon Wheat.” Todd tapped the thin collection of reports. “They come to me. Or did.”

  “Still in the mailbox,” smarty Patti said. “It was stuffed full and they’d started using a package box, which was filling up, too.”

  All the private homes on Andrews Street received mail at a little kiosk on the corner. The actual mailboxes were small, but if a resident received a package, the carrier put it in one of several large boxes and left the key in the individual box. All Harbor Village apartment buildings and condos had similar arrangements. But collecting mail had apparently not been part of Todd’s basic coping skills.

  One thing about the situation was a surprise to me. I had assumed that if any resident’s mail accumulated for more than a couple of days, the carrier would let us know so we could investigate. I took out my phone and sent myself a message to check on procedures when mail wasn’t picked up. Come to think of it, when did I last check my own mail? Everything had been off schedule this week.

  The last folder in Todd’s materials, the one with financial statements, contained a handwritten document on lined paper. “That�
�s my budget.” He looked proud but nervous and paid close attention as Riley scanned the document.

  Riley nodded and looked over his glasses again. “A good start. Feels good, doesn’t it? Having a plan and knowing where you stand?” He flipped the page to the back, which was blank. “I don’t see any goals here.”

  “You didn’t say anything about goals,” Todd said.

  “No rush. You’ve got plenty of time. Now, folks, I’m going to sit here and read awhile. Why don’t the three of you do something productive? Check back in thirty minutes.”

  I encountered a crowd of people in front of the big house, waiting for the shuttle to the car show.

  “Come with us,” someone proposed.

  “I went yesterday.” I greeted a few Harbor Village residents I recognized. “Loved it! You’ll need that jacket, I’ll bet.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” someone said. “It’ll be hot again next week.”

  I walked on across the street, past the garages, and entered the lobby of my building. My mailbox was almost full. I pulled everything out and sat beside the fireplace to sort it. The gas logs were off and the sitting room felt a little chilly.

  I’d received hearing aid offers, ACLU renewals, cell phone deals if I’d add another line, a pizza special, and a notice about a new dentist in town. I remembered I needed to return my spare key to Nita. When I finished with the mail, I went inside to get it. There was a note on the door to my apartment, inviting me to Ann’s for breakfast this morning. I stuck it in with the junk mail. Guess she hadn’t known which door I’d use last night and left notes in both places to be sure I’d find one.

  I put all the junk into the recycling basket I’d just emptied and placed the few pieces of real mail on the desk beside the computer. Then I got the spare key, locked up again, and walked across the street to Nita’s apartment.

  Jim let me in. “She’s taking a nap.” His hair stood straight up in several spots. He’d probably been napping, too. “Any news about the murder?”

  I told him about Usher Slump removing the security cameras at Royale Court. “Apparently they didn’t work but it doesn’t look good and Ann’s worried about him.”