Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  Riley leaned through the doorway to look into the dining room. “Is this representative of all the houses along here?”

  Vickie made an unhappy face and nodded. “The ones still occupied by original residents. New buyers are modernizing, but I worry about resale. The houses are on the big side, so renovation is costly and raises prices pretty high, once you factor in Harbor Village’s monthly fees. I don’t suppose the fees are likely to decrease?”

  I shook my head. “They’ll go up eventually.”

  She flapped a hand dismissively. “Everyone likes an updated house, but they don’t like paying for it. But don’t worry, it’ll sell fast. We don’t have a lot on the market right now.”

  There was a little passageway off the kitchen, filled with natural sunlight, laundry equipment, a forest of mops and brooms, vacuum cleaners, carpet sweepers, shelves holding outdoor shoes and other stuff I couldn’t identify, and three doors in addition to the one I’d entered through. One opened to a drab powder room, another to the garage. The two spaces were taken up by a Cadillac, a few years old and, beyond it, something covered with a blue plastic tarp. The third door opened to the driveway. We walked out beside Vickie’s car.

  “Well, I think I’ve got what I need,” she said.

  “So? How much?” Todd sounded nervous again.

  Vickie quickly fell into the business side of real estate sales. “I have to do some calculations, but in the neighborhood of three. It’ll take longer to empty than to sell, so you’d better get started. Right now, you need to select an estate sale specialist. I’ll bring you a list of the people I recommend. Take whatever you want out of the house and go. They’ll take care of everything else. Are you staying here? Got an apartment picked out? Or do you want to buy? A condo, perhaps?”

  He opened his mouth but no words came out.

  “I can show you some things.” She smiled prettily.

  I took pity on him. “Give him a day to think about it. The estate sale people will need two or three weeks?” I based that on my recent experience. “And you’ll start showing after that?”

  Vickie nodded. “We’ll get a cleaning crew in as soon as the stuff’s out. Unless you want to do the cleaning yourself?” She looked at Todd.

  He shook his head.

  “He’s on a tight budget.” I wondered if he wasn’t making a mistake but realized he wouldn’t know anything about cleaning, either. Better bring in the professionals.

  “No problem. I’ll run a tab and he can reimburse me at closing. I’m already thinking of a client who wants investment property. I may show it to him right away.” She tapped Todd on the chest. “It’ll be sold before Christmas if you stay focused and we don’t run into termites or mold or something. Whatever you do, keep the HVAC going. Don’t try to economize there. What’s the best time to catch you tomorrow?” She unlocked her car and looked back at him.

  “Hmm, whenever. You pick.”

  “Two o’clock.” She stuck out her hand. “Thanks for calling me, Cleo. I’ll take good care of your friend. Nice to meet you, Todd. And Riley.” She moved to shake his hand, too, then swung into her car and zoomed away.

  “We need to go,” Riley said.

  “What’s HVAC?” Todd asked him.

  “Umm. We’d better walk back through the house.” Riley found the thermostat on the wall near the pantry and showed Todd what temperature it was set for. “Just leave it exactly like it is. If you get hot or cold, adjust your clothing. Put on socks. Wear pajamas. How’ve you been paying the utilities?”

  Todd didn’t know.

  “Automatic deductions?” I asked.

  Riley shook his head. “The account owner’s dead. How’s that still working?”

  Todd looked from one of us to the other. “Are you talking about paying bills? Well, this lawyer guy…guardian, you said? I guess he wants to tell me about that stuff. He leaves messages on the phone or taped to the door. I told him whatever, just take care of it, but he keeps coming around.”

  I looked at Riley. He’d raised two boys. I was willing to bet they’d known about thermostats and paying bills by age twenty. My daughter, on the other hand…I wasn’t so sure about her, and thermostats were tricky. Did she know even now?

  “Ready?” Riley moved toward the front door.

  I motioned to Todd. “Walk with us a little way. I want to ask you something.”

  He swiped his hair back, jammed his hands into his pockets, and walked with his head down. “Boy! So much to think about.”

  “Do you want to put it off for a while?”

  “No! I want it over with.”

  He acted a lot like Barry, my toddler grandson. And at twenty, he was closer to Barry’s age than to mine, with no family left to advise him. I was still a softie where kids were concerned, even when they neared adulthood. “Tell me about your family. Did you know your grandfather well?”

  Todd nodded. “We lived with Pops and Mimi when I was little, me and my mom.”

  “Where’s your mom now?”

  “Gone. A boating accident. It’s just me now.”

  “What happened with college?”

  He laughed sarcastically. “Didn’t work out. So, how am I going to move out, with no money and no place to go? I don’t know where to start.”

  I tried to come up with a reply that didn’t sound like a motivational poster, but Riley answered first.

  “We’ll tide you over financially. You focus on a career. It doesn’t have to be a profession. Maybe you’d like to drive a truck, or be a surveyor, or a chef. There’s training for anything. Rent an apartment, get a job. Wait tables or cut grass while you’re deciding. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

  He sounded impatient, so I stepped in with the nurturing. “And you might get some counseling. Vocational or grief. Or motivational.”

  “So, how much is the house worth? She said three—what does that mean?”

  “Three hundred thousand. There’ll be a fee for the Realtor and for cleaning, plus some legal work you’ll have to pay for. Maybe you’ll get two fifty when the dust settles. I mean, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Whew!” His eyes were wide and he took a step back, blinking. “More than I thought. Isn’t that, like, half a million?”

  “Half of half a million,” Riley answered sharply. “And it’s what you live on until your trust comes through. It’ll be adequate, if you don’t do anything stupid.”

  He jingled keys in his pocket and looked at me. We had stopped at the corner beside the mail kiosk. Todd cut his gaze toward Riley and smiled.

  “Thanks, you guys.”

  “Are you using the office?” Riley still sounded gruff. “Or does all that stuff belong to your grandfather?”

  He shuffled his feet. “Me and Patti got some papers out of a drawer. I don’t know anything about that stuff. He was in there all the time, reading or talking on the phone.”

  “I’ll go through it tomorrow, if you like,” Riley volunteered. “Organize the desk and see if there’s any more paperwork you’ll need to sell the house.”

  “Okay.” He sounded indifferent.

  I raised the topic I’d been thinking about. “I heard you wanted to invest in a Type Forty-One. Where did that idea come from?”

  Sand had washed out of the soil and covered a corner of the sidewalk. Todd drew a line with the toe of his shoe. “Aw, it was his idea.” He glanced up, then back at the sand. “Told me the money would double, I’d get eight million instead of four. I said sure, do it, but the lawyers…” He shook his head. “They said no. The investments had to be on some list and the only car was Tesla.” He looked at Riley. “I didn’t know Pops ever heard of Tesla. Okay by me. I wouldn’t mind having one. But Tesla’s not going to double. Probably.”

  Did he know the difference between owning stock and owning a car? I had my dou
bts. “When you talked about the Type Forty-One, did Devon Wheat give you any paperwork? A prospectus, or a projection of how much you could earn? An invitation to invest? Anything?”

  He looked blank.

  “He said your money would double. You weren’t going to put all your funds into that one investment, were you?”

  He shook his head. “We were just friends, you know, talking at the Bistro. All I’ve got is that stuff in the folders.” He jerked his head toward Riley, who still held the stack of folders.

  “I’ll look when I organize the desk,” Riley offered. “Are you ready?”

  I took a step toward him.

  “She’s coming tomorrow at two, right?” Todd asked. “You can come, too, if you want.”

  “I’ll come in the morning and work on the desk,” Riley said. “Cleo has plans.”

  It was news to me.

  We told him good-bye and walked past the jelly palms, which sounded lonely, whistling and rattling in the breeze. I felt lonely, too. Riley was annoyed with me, but I’d learned a few things. I took his arm.

  “What was that about the Type Forty-One not being on the list? What’s the list?”

  Riley smiled. “His grandfather was a smart old guy. Specified exactly how the trust monies could be invested. Gave him a list of forty good companies. Good thing, too. Otherwise, Todd and his accomplice would’ve blown it.”

  “Who’s his accomplice?”

  “Devon Wheat.”

  “You think? Maybe it’s a list of buggy whip manufacturers.” It was a reference to controlling ancestors who tied up estates, protecting the funds from heirs until there was nothing left.

  “I think.” His voice was firm. “And I’ll bet that invitation is on the desk. Or filed away somewhere.”

  “How do you explain a detail-oriented guy having a desk like a garbage dump?”

  He laughed at that. “I think Todd rooted through the whole place, looking for cash. And I think you’re incredibly naïve where he’s concerned.”

  I was shocked and dropped his arm to stare at him. “Nobody’s ever accused me of being naïve.” No one except my daughter, who exaggerated.

  We walked on, reaching the sidewalk and turning toward my apartment.

  Riley kept talking. “Where was Todd the night Wheat was killed, do you know? You heard he argued with Wheat. How do you know he didn’t kill him? You can see he lacks all self-discipline. Women ignore how dangerous, how volatile, young men can be.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How about the quiet, competent, mature version?”

  He flicked a glance in my direction and smiled grudgingly. “The worst kind. What did you think of the house?”

  “Depressing,” I said automatically, picturing the desk and the dirty carpet.

  “Really?”

  He seemed genuinely surprised. But what else would anybody think about such a musty, disheveled, dirty place? If I were representative of her target market, Vickie Wiltshire had a big job on her hands. Finding a buyer might take a while.

  Chapter 15

  “Poor Tinkerbelle. You’ve been neglected all week, haven’t you, pretty girl?”

  The cat meowed and twisted around my ankles while I tried to brush her. I wound up sitting on the floor to corral her. “And I’m going out again tonight.” She flopped on her side and stretched out. As I brushed, I told her all about banquets and she squirmed and squinted and slithered on her side.

  I gave Tinkerbelle a thorough brushing for the first time in days, scooped the litter box again and walked the garbage to the containers, removed Patti’s SD chips from my pocket and left them beside the computer, and finally hopped into the shower, setting the temperature on hot.

  I washed and shampooed and steamed until I was lobster pink. My hair was too short for braids or jewels, but a few poofs of styling goo and careful drying coaxed maximum volume out of it. I put on a few clothes and then took my time applying moisturizer, foundation, blush, lipstick, and mascara. Finally, I slid old faithful carefully over my head.

  My one fancy dress, a long, bright-teal, silk column with elbow-length sleeves, had Swarovski crystals and pendants outlining the neckline. I looked in the long mirror and sucked my tummy in, turning one way and then the other, swishing my fanny and smiling. Not bad for an old lady, assuming my eyesight could still be trusted.

  My pashmina wrap was several shades lighter than the dress, its color selected to look good with a wardrobe that leaned heavily toward black. I laid it out and transferred keys and a few essentials, plus a couple of tissues, to a little silver bag with a wrist strap.

  Riley drove, with Jim riding shotgun. “You clean up real nice,” Jim told me and laughed when Nita called him impertinent.

  Riley cocked an eyebrow and smiled like he was trapped with squabbling children. No comment, no wink, no nothing.

  Nita and Dolly and I gushed and twittered and complimented one another’s appearance. The three of us sat in the back. Being the youngest and theoretically the most flexible, I was stuck in the middle. I was also the only one wearing a long skirt, which might’ve been as much of a handicap as the age difference but didn’t earn me one bit of sympathy. Nita and Dolly wore black pants with glitzy tops.

  The Grand Hotel was at Point Clear, a few miles south of Fairhope. The drive along the bay was gorgeous, with a speed limit of twenty-five, so it took a few minutes to get there and involved a lot of oohing and aahing. Live oaks reached out over the winding road, dangling tendrils of Spanish moss. To the west, beyond Mobile Bay, the orange remains of sunset were visible in flashes between trees and homes set well back from the road. Addresses were communicated not with numbers but by wooden signs bearing whimsical names: Day’s End, Bay Breeze, Malpractice. One sign bore the legend “The Green’s” and disturbed former teachers like me. There should be a rule that anyone who failed to master the plural possessive would never be allowed to own an estate with a name.

  Nita pointed out a cute little covered bridge walkway at the hotel marina.

  Jim looked at the collection of yachts in the basin. “Good opportunities for the smuggling business down here. Customs agents may live on this side of the bay, but they don’t work here.”

  Riley hadn’t needed to worry about Jim and Nita’s safety in a dark parking lot. He stopped at the glass guard shack for directions and then drove straight to the hotel entrance, where we stepped out on a well-lit, flat sidewalk and were immediately surrounded by solicitous attendants in dinner jackets. What he should’ve worried about was his car, whisked away by a kid who might’ve been old enough to have a license.

  Things functioned perfectly at the Grand Hotel, even with multiple events and a major remodeling going on. And our event, high profile as it was, wasn’t their featured attraction of the night, which explained why we didn’t get the main ballroom, but a substitute dining room with a view of the bay and a small dance floor a few steps lower than the dining level.

  It turned out that a last-minute table by the kitchen wasn’t a bad location. We weren’t near the coveted spots, cradled in the curve of the room’s expansive windows, but it was dark outside and the bay wasn’t really visible. I told myself it might be a little cool on that side of the room, with all that glass. We were in the skinny part of the room, off to the side and with only one table between the head table and us. And right beside us was a view over the rail to the dance floor and the little band already entertaining us.

  The five of us were the first to arrive at the Harbor Village table, but servers materialized immediately to fill water glasses and pour wine. Jim calculated which seat would give him the best view of the entrance and sat with his back to the head table. The band was playing softly by this time.

  “I’d better sit with our other guests.” I moved toward the kitchen end of the long table.

  “I’ll go with you,” Nita decided. “Dolly, you loo
k after Riley and Jim.”

  “Do you dance?” I asked Nita.

  “Oh, no, honey. Not since Jim’s knee replacement. Not for ten years before that, now that I think about it. But you go.”

  “You and Riley dance,” Dolly shouted. “We want to watch.”

  But I had hostess chores to attend to. I put Nita on one side of the table, and when Reg Handleman arrived, courtly but distracted by business, I asked him to sit beside her. He excused himself long enough to speak to the honchos at the head table, then returned to charm Nita and everyone passing by.

  Patti and Stewart arrived, and then Eloise and Charlie Levine. I had worked out a seating chart earlier and was trying to remember who went where. It kept me on the go, verifying that all our guests knew one another, but my chart quickly gave way to individual preferences.

  I had anticipated that Tasha Boozer would be the difficult one, if she and Chief Boozer actually came, because none of us had ever met her. I was wrong. Tasha Boozer was a big, beautiful, black, dramatic firecracker, and she was wearing a formfitting, gold lamé outfit.

  “Put me somewhere else,” she said to me, with her husband listening and grinning. “Don’t make me sit with Ray. He’s the biggest party pooper in Baldwin County.”

  She blew him a kiss and I selfishly put her across from me at the middle of the table.

  “Mary Montgomery said you’d be the life of the party.”

  Tasha twinkled at me. “I saw Mary outside. Maybe she’ll come in later. She’s a good dancer.”

  Really? That was hard to believe, but maybe I’d ask to see a few moves the next time the glum, grouchy lieutenant showed up.

  The office manager from the Henry George Utopian Tax Colony was at the silent auction table.

  I went over to say hello. “I thought we’d be in a bad location, signing up at the last minute like we did, but this is perfect. Good view of the head table, good view of the dance floor.”

  “Some people don’t like all the traffic coming and going, but I’m glad you’re happy.” She introduced her husband, who had a long, gray ponytail, and said another of her staff members, a woman I hadn’t met, was on the dance floor.