Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

  “Is Terry Wozniak here?” I looked toward the dining tables but didn’t see him. “I ought to say hello.”

  She shook her head. “If he were here, I wouldn’t be. I got his tickets.”

  “Well, wasn’t that nice of him.”

  She poked my arm and shook her head. “Don’t get any ideas about Wozniak. He sold me his tickets.” She laughed. “He didn’t charge me a premium, but I wouldn’t want you mistaking him for a nice person.”

  “Or generous,” her husband seconded and moved away.

  “Mr. Wozniak didn’t want to come? I thought he was really excited about the car show.” It reminded me of Travis.

  “He was excited about it, for a solid year. I heard it every day—automobiles and auctions and exhibitors. The only time I’ve seen him in days was when you were there returning his photographs. And he never came back to get them. I guess he’s been at the polo club. Maybe he’s depressed about the big show coming to an end.”

  We talked about the crowd and about the cruise being raffled off, and I went back to the Harbor Village table.

  Tasha was dancing, first with Reg Handleman and then a slow number with a man from the head table, and finally, briefly, with her husband, who moved around awkwardly while she did spins and smiled at him. She knew the band members and the hotel staff and talked with everybody. Dolly, Nita, and I stood beside the rail for a while, watching dancers and sipping our wine.

  With a slow version of the old standard “Moonlight Serenade” beginning, Reg Handleman came to ask if one of the “lovely ladies from Harbor Village” would like to dance. Nita and Dolly pushed me forward.

  Handleman was nimble for such a big guy, tall and broad, but he wasn’t young. Could he have overpowered Devon Wheat in a life-or-death struggle? Was it possible the hand I held had strangled a man? With my thoughts veering in that direction, I didn’t dare look at him, lest he sense my suspicion.

  “I expected to see more lecture participants here,” he said, looking around.

  “You have the most unusual eyes,” I heard myself say. That should’ve been a clue I was drinking too much wine.

  He laughed. “I’ll tell you a secret. People think I’m a mind reader.”

  I laughed, even though I was guilty. “More of a hypnotist, I’d think. You’re quite a good speaker, you know.”

  “Well, thank you, Cleo. It’s a skill set, like any other. Hard won, in my case.” He looked across the room to where Chief Boozer talked with the evening’s emcee. “Do you know Ken Pierce, the master of ceremonies? I just met him this week. Chief of surgery at the medical school across the bay. Lots of surgeons are car collectors, for some reason. His Stutz was runner-up to the Duesenberg. Both Indiana cars, both with beautiful, straight-eight engines—I can just imagine the nice write-ups they’re going to get in the automotive press. I really expected Pierce’s car to win. It would’ve if I’d been judging.”

  “Did I understand that the Duesenberg doesn’t belong to you?”

  “Right. I’m a gear head, not an investor. People like Pierce are much more important to the industry.”

  “That sounds odd, a surgeon being essential to the automotive industry.”

  Handleman shook his head. “I should’ve been more precise. Not the auto industry. We’re more of a hybrid. Tourism and the trades.”

  The number ended and we strolled back to the main level but paused beside the steps, still talking.

  Handleman explained the world of antique automobiles to me. “All sorts of specialists work on old cars, and owners spend big bucks keeping one show-ready. All they get in return is trophies and parties like this and perhaps some good press. Museums accept the completed cars on loan, maybe fifty of them at any given time at an average-sized museum. We keep the car in the public eye, and in exchange, the museum and its community benefit from the visitor stream—lodging and sales taxes, restaurants, motels, amusement parks. The total effect is quite impressive.”

  “And you take cars to shows?”

  He nodded. “All the time. We select appropriate shows for the cars we’re holding and assist with transportation or represent the owner if he can’t attend. He might be stuck in court, you know, or running an ER somewhere.” He laughed. “Everybody likes to support new shows like this one. It’s the sign of a healthy industry.”

  “I hope this show succeeds. Do you have any report yet?”

  Handleman nodded agreeably. “A new show isn’t expected to be profitable, but there’s support here. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been thinking someone should put an auto museum in this area. That’s the real reason I invited myself down this last week, to check out some possibilities. Alabama has a big automobile industry now. And that golf trail brings a lot of visitors. Snowbirds all winter, families at the beach in summer.”

  He hesitated, then indicated Boozer standing at the other side of the steps. “You know, I’d like to get a photo of that police chief. Will you pose with him, so I don’t have to explain? Tasha, too.”

  “For your wife?”

  “My wife, and maybe an investor or two. Do you know any wealthy people who’d like their name on an automobile museum?” He smiled conspiratorially and then glanced toward the band, which was just starting into a Boz Skaggs number. “Would you…?”

  I shook my head. “When it comes to dancing, I’m a good observer.”

  He offered his arm and we started back toward the Harbor Village table. “Where’s Mr. Wozniak tonight? I understood he was one of the organizers of this show, but I haven’t seen him in days.”

  “That’s odd.” We stopped again and I told him what the Colony office manager had said about Wozniak’s disappearing act. “She told me yesterday he’d burned himself, but it didn’t sound serious. She assumed he’d been at the show. But you didn’t see him there?”

  “I wasn’t there all the time, of course. Did you hear how he tried to fool me with the Royale? Claimed to know the Schlumpfs personally.”

  “Really? What was that name?”

  He said it again. “Fritz and Hans were textile moguls from Switzerland, who acquired every Bugatti they could find back in the seventies. Wozniak insists the family has the original wrecked Royale under wraps in France. He showed me a dark, blurry photograph and said the heirs are inviting offers and he’s joining some mysterious group to buy it and bring it to the US for auction.” He laughed.

  “That name reminds me of Ann’s last name—Slump. Wozniak actually knows these people?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Hell, no. He drank the Kool-Aid. Thinks this local man is a close relative and just being coy. I talked with Usher at Royale Court and I guarantee you there’s nothing there. I tried to tell Wozniak, but he became quite angry. Charged off and left his photographs, then skipped the final lecture, or most of it. I wanted him in your little competition Thursday night. He would’ve won and maybe forgiven me, but he came in too late.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I hate to leave bad feelings. Do you know where to find him? I’d like to apologize before I go. Or maybe it’s best to just leave him alone.”

  I didn’t know where to find him, other than at the colony office. “I owe him an apology, too, I’m afraid. I’ve been rude to him, after he assisted me.”

  He smiled. “I find that difficult to believe. And where’s your boss? Travis sided with Wozniak in our little contretemps, but I don’t think he was angry. I expected him to be here tonight.”

  I nodded again, amused at the idea of Travis being my boss, even though it was true. “He decided to go home early, for some reason. He lives in Houston. Our daughter went with him.”

  Handleman’s eyes widened and he stared at me. “Our daughter? You and Mr. McKenzie have a child together?”

  I laughed. “Not a child exactly. She’s twenty-five. A youthful indiscretion on our par
t—marriage, I mean, not the child. It lasted a couple of years.”

  “And you’ve stayed friends? How very nice.”

  “Better say we’ve become friends again. Did I understand that Travis sent you to visit Devon Wheat?”

  Handleman nodded. “The lieutenant asked about that, too. Maybe I remember wrong. I could’ve confused him with someone. Easy to do, with the crowds at the lectures.”

  “You didn’t really want Travis to win the competition, did you? You intended for Wozniak to defeat me.” I smiled.

  Handleman laughed and winced in embarrassment. “Nothing about that competition went according to plan. But I had no idea I’d created a family feud. You’re a good sport, Cleo. I’m sorry the young man wasn’t, but the audience enjoyed his antics, too.”

  We rejoined my friends.

  “I’d like to be in the suite until Monday, if you’re sure that’s okay. I’ll come by your office before I go.”

  “I’ll be there by eight Monday. Or at my apartment tomorrow, if you need anything. I hope you’ll persuade your wife to visit us sometime. Fairhope might look pretty nice when it’s ten below and icy in Indiana. Just imagine the wisteria and azaleas in bloom.”

  Nita and Dolly chimed in, singing the praises of Fairhope.

  “You paint a lovely picture,” Handleman agreed.

  Nita, Dolly, and I returned to the table. I sat in Handleman’s seat for a while, keeping Nita company, and Eloise Levine favored us with a running commentary on the fashions surrounding us. Then the servers began to deliver food and everyone returned to the table. I went back to my self-assigned seat across from Tasha and was entertained by the group.

  After dinner I posed with Chief Boozer while Handleman photographed us. They didn’t seem to have much rapport and I wondered if they’d already discussed the note in the Sudoku book.

  The Realtor Vickie Wiltshire stopped by our table, drop-dead gorgeous in a slinky, cream-colored dress and emerald jewelry to die for. Clearly the real estate business could be lucrative. She hugged Nita, then went to the other end of the table and surprised Jim with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He hopped to his feet with just a little wobbling and almost bowed to her. But the diners at the Harbor Village table didn’t hold her attention for long. She knew most of us were out of the real estate market.

  In a mischievous moment, I called her back and introduced her to Handleman, identifying him as a prospective resident of Fairhope. He demurred, but Vickie smelled a buyer. I could only hope Mrs. Handleman wouldn’t be allergic to azaleas.

  The presentation of awards was handled quickly and professionally. Terry Wozniak was on the list of locals who got special recognition in the printed program. I scanned the other names while the emcee gave a brief tribute to Devon Wheat, never saying his death was due to anything other than natural causes or that he’d been only thirty-two. Wheat Wealth Management was identified as an original sponsor of the Fairhope/Point Clear Grand Concours, listed in the platinum category in the program. I wondered how many dollars that meant.

  Handleman accepted the Best in Show prize—a beautiful art glass bowl—on behalf of the owner of the Duesenberg. Dessert was served while photographs were taken.

  Like others at our table, I ate three bites of the bread pudding with rum sauce and asked for a takeout box. The Grand Hotel had really nice, plastic takeout boxes with see-through tops, and each box came with a separate cup containing a little extra whipped cream. “Put it in the fridge as soon as you get home,” the servers told us as they transferred the desserts from plate to box and clicked the tops into grooves.

  “We should get these for the dining room.” Jim was taking what appeared to be a leisurely postprandial stroll around the table. “Nita, are you going to eat the rest of that bread pudding? I’ll finish it up if you’re not going to, and you can save your takeout box for Carla to see.”

  When Nita and Dolly and Eloise went to see the Nall paintings on exhibit throughout the main floor of the hotel, and Charlie Levine went in search of the facilities, I was left alone with Chief Boozer. We stood at the rail and watched the dancing.

  “How’s the investigation going?” I asked. “Got any good suspects?”

  He shook his head. “We’ve ruled out a few people. All of Wheat’s clients were happy with him, they say. And any printer can do cards like the one Ann Slump found, but nobody in town claims it. The envelopes come in boxes of two hundred and fifty, so that’s a likely number for a minimum order.” He shrugged. “So far we haven’t found another one.”

  I told him about the envelope Riley discovered on the desk in Todd Barnwell’s house. Boozer knew Riley but not Todd, so I gave him a brief account, mentioning that he was only twenty.

  “Probably a wedding invitation,” he said.

  “Riley’s doing some work over there tomorrow, getting the paperwork under control. Maybe he’ll come across a matching card. We do know Todd badgered Wheat to invest in a Bugatti.”

  Boozer shifted his gaze to me. “Where’d you get that?”

  I was happy to have told him something he didn’t know. “Somebody overheard them talking at the Bistro.”

  Boozer nodded. “We’d better talk with him.”

  I asked if he’d interviewed Handleman. “He says he’s leaving Monday.”

  He leaned forward, arms on the rail, his gaze blank. “That man has a lot to say without telling much. The gift of gab, Lieutenant Montgomery called it.”

  “He told me he’s black.”

  Ray Boozer looked at me. I looked at him. We grinned. Chief Boozer might not like Handleman, but he didn’t seem suspicious of him. So why should I be?

  I chatted with Charlie Levine. He was ready to leave, but Eloise was still going strong. Then the photographer’s assistant came looking for me, saying Handleman wanted me in a photograph with him and his prize.

  The award for Best in Show was displayed on a table, a stunningly beautiful piece of handblown, blue art glass, a foot tall, with a narrow, asymmetric opening and curving rows of intricate, geometric designs in cinnamon and white. I had no idea how anybody made such things, especially after I’d taken a close look at it. I teased Handleman about wanting me there because my dress matched its color perfectly.

  At least half the crowd had already gone when I got back to our table. Nita lifted her eyebrows in an unspoken question, and I nodded I was ready to go. The band was beginning to pack up, too, leaving just a trio—piano, bass, and drums—to accompany a young vocalist who’d just come in. Her first number was slow and jazzy. I followed Nita and Eloise to the rail when the singer began in a lovely, clear, torchy voice, and Riley was suddenly beside me, leaning close to my ear.

  “This is slow. I think I can manage if you’re interested.”

  I returned my wineglass to the table. How many was this? I didn’t remember but was glad to have him holding my hand as we went down the steps.

  Lots of people had the same idea. The dance floor was crowded when we got there, giving us just enough room to stand together, touching lightly, encapsulated in bass vibrations, pierced by the achy perfection of voice and lyrics. She was a great singer. Amid a sensuous list of colors and clouds and body parts, the word miraculously bubbled out in what struck me as miraculous syncopation. And just like that, the word was stuck in my head.

  “Come home with me,” Riley murmured, his head against mine.

  His breath tickled my ear and I felt a little thrill, the kind that usually came with goose bumps. I stepped closer and leaned against him, moving with the music. It was entirely too slow for any fanny swishing, even during the swingy piano riffs that set my spirit soaring. Riley’s hairy cheek brushed against my temple.

  I was already feeling my reply, about to whisper it, when I glanced up. Nita and Dolly and Jim and Eloise were side by side at the rail, all of them beaming down at us.

  I stiffened an
d completely lost the rhythm.

  Riley steered me to face the band and I was sure he saw the same little audience watching us. I felt him chuckle. And when the number ended, he arranged to give them a thrill, too. He looked into my eyes, pulled me close, kissed my brow, and then pressed his cheek against the kissed spot as he gave me a quick hug. My face warmed, and I smiled and dropped my gaze like some teenager caught in the glare of the porch light by her parents.

  “Damn,” he said, so softly I might’ve imagined the word.

  We were home by ten. Riley stopped in front of the Bergens’ apartment and walked them and Dolly to the porch while I moved to the front seat and threw the wrap around my shoulders. He got back into the car and looked at me, and we broke into laughter.

  “I can’t go home with you,” I said.

  “Yes. We’ve got a little problem here.” He shook his head and drove around the median to our side of the street.

  We parked in his usual place and he walked me home, gave me a good-night kiss—medium hot but no fireworks—and waited for me to get inside and lock up. Then he walked up the slope toward his building as I watched through the blinds. My mental soundtrack was looping the word of the night, chopping it into syllables. Mi-rac-u-lous-ly.

  Stephanie called a few minutes later, after I’d washed my face and changed into pajamas. “So? How was your big affair?”

  “Haven’t had it yet. The gala, if that’s what you meant, was very gay. And la. I might’ve had too much wine.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ve been meaning to ask you something. You do know about STDs, don’t you?”

  “Stephanie!” I gasped, sobering up instantly.

  She giggled. “Just checking. It’s been a while since you were out there, you know.”

  “I don’t think anything’s changed.”

  “But it has, Mom. It really has.” She actually sounded serious for once in her life. “That’s why I brought it up. Be careful and have fun. Does that sound familiar?”