Murder at Royale Court

by G. P. Gardner

“Come in and have a 7 Up. How do you think the bike got to the alley?”

  He began to get agitated. “That’s what they asked and I have no idea. I just found it there. You got a beer?”

  I shook my head. “You’re not twenty-one. Right now, it’s 7 Up or water. Or coffee, tea, or milk. Have you decided about moving? Vickie says she found an apartment in town.”

  “Okay, 7 Up. Got anything to eat?”

  “I can find something.”

  “Vickie was going to show me the apartment this afternoon but the cops took care of that. She says she’s writing up an offer on the house.”

  “That was fast.” I thought about her remark about fast versus high. “Remember, you don’t have to accept if the offer’s not a good one.”

  I made two sandwiches, one with peanut butter and jelly, and another with some tuna salad I’d bought at Publix. “You can eat one of these now and take the other one home for later.”

  I poured a glass of milk and gave him a plate with the two sandwiches, paper napkins, and a plastic bag for any leftovers. “Why don’t we sit on the porch? Will you be warm enough?”

  “You sound like a mom.”

  “I am a mom.”

  I took the love seat and turned on the heron lamp. “I’m trying to understand exactly what happened to Devon Wheat. And I think you can help me.”

  The milk and one sandwich were half gone. “Why do you care?” He spoke with his mouth full, then chewed and swallowed. “You didn’t even know him.”

  “I’ve been asked to help clear someone who may be a suspect. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Then I’ll drive you into town, but you’ll have to arrange another way to get home. I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “Riley?”

  I nodded. “And Nita and Jim Bergen. Do you know them?”

  He started on the second sandwich. “It’s kinda cool, hanging out here.”

  “When was the last time you saw Devon Wheat alive?”

  He chewed and swallowed. “He got killed Wednesday night? I saw him the night before. We ate together.”

  “At the Bistro? What did you have?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It contributes to the big picture. Could take some heat off you.”

  “Well, I did eat with him. And I always get the same thing, a cheeseburger with sweet potato chips. That’s their specialty. I don’t remember what he got, maybe some kind of burger with mushrooms, maybe a pizza. And he always had beer. Blue Moon.”

  “And you talked about your trust fund?”

  He sighed. “We always talked about the same thing. Money. How much, when can I get it, what I’m going to do with it. How much I owe him.” He laughed.

  “Do you know who might’ve killed him?”

  He shook his head. I tried to picture him in a struggle with Devon Wheat. Did he have any muscles? “You went to the Bistro with him often? Did you meet there or go together?”

  “I drove Pop’s car sometimes or walked. Or caught a ride. He’d stop by after work. Or after his bike ride. He only drove his car if it was, like, raining.”

  “And he parked the bike in the alley?”

  “The alley? Why’d you say that?”

  “You said you found his bike in the alley.”

  He shook his head. “The patio has this wall—you can see through but you can’t get out there. If you could, nobody’d pay. You never went to the Bistro? You oughta go. Get Vickie to meet us sometime. Riley can come, too. We could do it tonight.”

  “Some other time maybe. Tell me this. On a normal night, where did Devon Wheat leave his bike? Not in the alley, you said.”

  “Chained to a tree out front. Like everybody else.”

  “But you found his bike in the alley.”

  “Yeah, after he was dead.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  He shrugged, seemingly frustrated by all the questions. I’d let this be the last one.

  “It was there Wednesday night. That weird guy was checking it out. Usher? I thought if he could take it, I could, too, so I rode it home.” He laughed. “Maybe Usher left it in the alley. Maybe Usher killed him—did you think about that? I saw you talking to him.”

  Well, that answered one question, whether anyone would notice if I sat on my porch with a possible murderer. Or maybe it was the murderer who noticed.

  He raised the glass and drank the last drop of milk. “I went to Devon’s office the next morning and everything was roped off. You were there—is that when you found him?”

  I nodded. “I remember seeing you. You wouldn’t speak to me.”

  “Hey, I’d just found out he was dead. There I was with the dead guy’s bicycle, cops all over the place. What was I supposed to do?”

  “What did you do, ride his bike home again?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned and nodded. “Rode it home and put it in the garage.”

  “One last question. How do you suppose the bike got to the alley?”

  He looked at me from the corner of his eyes. “I probably think the same thing you do. It was, like, a getaway vehicle.”

  “Can you show me where you found it?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  I took the empty plate and several glasses to the sink and got my things.

  Nita called as we walked to the garage. “The boys are in Jim’s office watching sports, but I barely hear it from the living room. We can sit and talk if you’d like.”

  There was a long pause after I told her I was driving Todd to the Bistro.

  “Cleo…by yourself? Do you think that’s wise?”

  “No problem. He’s going to show me where he found Devon Wheat’s bicycle. And I want to see how far that is from Royale Court, so I can visualize things better. I’m trying to help Ann decide what to do.” I smiled at Todd, who was listening. “I’ll be at your apartment by five thirty.”

  “Please be careful,” Nita said.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

  Chapter 19

  As we drove into town, Todd asked, “Exactly where is this apartment Vickie found?”

  “All I know is near the amphitheater.”

  “I’ve got the address. Can we take a look?”

  I agreed to drive past it. “I’m sure it’s locked up, but you can see what it looks like.”

  He took a scrap of pink paper out of his shirt pocket and read off an address on South School Street, which ran straight and level beside the community college and then turned twisty. The house number came up on a mailbox in front of a handsome house, set back from and elevated above a paved parking area. I pulled to the curb beside the mailbox. Lights were on in the main house, which stepped in multiple levels up a heavily wooded slope, unlike most of Fairhope. Beyond the parking area was a separate garage with stairs on the outside and a balcony on the second level.

  “Can I afford that?” Todd sounded incredulous.

  “You’re looking at the garage apartment, aren’t you?” I pointed. “Not the house.” It did look appealing.

  “Very private,” he muttered, staring.

  “Might be hard to get your furniture upstairs.”

  He snorted. “What furniture?”

  “Whatever you keep from your grandfather’s place.”

  He shook his head. “My style’s more modern. Chrome and leather, maybe.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have fun furnishing it. If you get the apartment.” I drove to the next wide driveway and turned around. Todd craned his neck for another look as we passed again.

  We continued into the downtown area, passed the clock, and circled a block before parking near the Bistro.

  Todd looked around. “I thought you’d go to de la Mare.”

  “Okay.”

  Daylight was fading. I started up
again, circled a different block, and parked down the street from Royale Court.

  He vacillated when we got out but finally made a decision. “This way.”

  We walked to the corner, turned, and entered the dark, deserted alleyway in back of the drugstore.

  Back doors to the main-street shops were steel, windowless, and painted to match the buildings. Some had little stoops with a bench or a tiny shed roof, or a stack of wood crates or other cast-off items. All of them had garbage containers, one or more beside every door, heavy-duty plastic carts or small dumpsters sitting tipsy and higgledy-piggledy. The smell of cigarette smoke and dead fish permeated everything, and light was fading rapidly.

  A few weedy saplings had sprouted between the pavement and the back walls of buildings, where they’d grown to substantial heights. I looked above eye level and saw a rat perched on a branch, looking back at me with beady little eyes.

  “Oh my god.”

  I backed away fast, hoping it wouldn’t jump into my hair or, if it did, that my death would be dignified. “I’ve seen enough.”

  Todd picked up a pebble and flipped it into the branches. “They’re everywhere back here. Must be hundreds.”

  The rat ran upward, hopped one branch to another, and finally onto the flat roof. I shivered and pulled my sweater close, and we walked on.

  The alley was just wide enough for a small garbage truck to squeeze through.

  “It’s pretty tight in here,” I said. “Do the garbage trucks back out?”

  “Naw, the alley goes through behind the fish place.” He grinned. “We could’ve come that way. It’s closer, but it stinks.”

  I looked down the alley, estimating where we’d left the car. The patio, walled off with latticework, was near the point where the alley took a ninety-degree turn.

  “Right here,” Todd stopped abruptly and gestured to an open area.

  A garbage cart and half a dozen wooden pallets were on one side of a graveled space, a battered blue mini dumpster on the other. “This is where the bike was.”

  The garbage cart was four feet tall and so overfilled that the top stood open. I saw cardboard, hunks of Styrofoam, a few black plastic bags, neatly tied. Loose paper was jammed against the side of the cart.

  Todd poked through everything.

  “Look at this!” He sounded indignant. “I coulda got fifty bucks for this!”

  He pulled out pieces of a Bugatti Royale poster, two feet by three feet before it was ripped apart. He handed the heavy cardstock pieces to me and leaned into the cart to dig again. Finally, he backed away from the container and inspected the buildings beside us.

  “What is this place? Reckon they’ve got more posters?”

  I was still holding the ripped one, standing in the center of the alley and keeping watch for rats. The building had no visible identification. I counted the closed steel doors. “It’s a green building, two doors from the Bistro.”

  “Let’s go around front and see what it is. Maybe somebody’s here.”

  He set off, retracing our route to the side street.

  I handed the poster pieces to him as we walked. “Do you want to keep this? It’s no good like it is. What would you do with it anyway?”

  He took the pieces from me. “I could sell it online if it was still in one piece. Poster collectors love this stuff.”

  We walked to Fairhope Avenue. At the middle of the block, green paint identified the office of the Henry George Utopian Tax Colony. Lights were on inside and a plain white pickup was parked out front. Two doors farther on was L’Etoile Bistro, with cars lined up on both sides of the street. Light and music spilled out to the sidewalk.

  The Colony office was unlocked. A bell chimed when Todd pulled the door open.

  “Anybody here?” he called.

  Terry Wozniak was walking around the glass partition, coming toward us.

  I was pinging with anxiety, which I attributed to rats and encountering Wozniak unexpectedly. Fortunately, Todd did the talking.

  He showed Wozniak the ripped poster and spoke tactfully. “I found this in the garbage out back. I wondered if you got any more. I collect them.”

  Wozniak looked at the pieces, then at me. “Ms. Mack.” He didn’t sound particularly friendly.

  “Mr. Wozniak. We missed you at the gala last night.”

  He glanced back at the ripped poster and suddenly lunged, grabbing the pieces from Todd’s grip. With quick, savage motions, he gave them another rip and then another. But as he did so, I got a good look at his forearms, visible below rolled shirtsleeves.

  White gauze bandages covered both arms but the tape had come loose on his right arm. The rectangular bandage dangled free, revealing deep red scratches on pale skin.

  I gasped reflexively and covered my mouth. The lacerations were angry and irregular, and I couldn’t avoid thinking of the ferociousness with which they’d been inflicted.

  My gaze slid upward and met Wozniak’s. As he took a step toward me, I reached back for the door.

  “Hold on,” he ordered.

  The bell chimed.

  “Come, Todd.” I exited to the sidewalk.

  Wozniak followed me. “I need to explain.”

  “Come on, Todd,” I called louder, backing across the sidewalk, almost to the curb as I thought about what the scratches meant. No wonder he’d skipped the final lecture, and the gala.

  Todd appeared in the doorway behind Wozniak. “If you find any more, just hang on to them.” He was still trying to close the deal on some posters. “I’ll check back…”

  “Todd!” I yelled as Wozniak whirled and grabbed.

  “Hey!”

  He dodged past Wozniak and we began to sprint down the sidewalk, with Wozniak in pursuit.

  “I can explain,” he shouted.

  We turned the corner but didn’t slow down.

  “What was that about?” Todd demanded, looking over his shoulder.

  I was puffing as we crossed the entrance to the alley. “He killed Devon Wheat.” I plunged on toward de la Mare.

  Todd stayed beside me. “How do you know?”

  We turned onto de la Mare Street and my car came into view. I finally felt safe slowing down. Not that I had much choice. My pulse was pounding and my voice came out in little gasps.

  “Todd, what exactly is a stranglehold? How would you strangle someone with a towel?”

  He looked confused. “You want me to show you? Here?” He shook his head.

  “Yes, just show me,” I panted. We had walked a few feet from the corner, but my car was still some distance ahead. “I know you put the towel around the neck, but doesn’t the victim fight back?”

  He stepped behind me, hesitated, then stretched one arm across my neck. Suddenly, I was jerked backward. Trapped.

  I gasped.

  Todd was speaking normally, giving no hint that he was an inch away from inflicting a mortal injury. “You could use a towel, I guess, or just apply pressure with the arms.”

  His left hand came up, tightening the arm angled across my throat. He took a step back and I staggered and lost my footing.

  “I hope nobody’s seeing this. They’d think I’m attacking you.”

  I could make the same mistake. My hands went up, pushing at his arm. Scratching and clawing would have come in another instant. I signaled for release and Todd helped me regain my balance before letting go. We walked on.

  When I could speak, I asked, “Did you see Wozniak’s arm? It’s all scratched up.”

  He seemed stunned. “I saw bandages. You think Devon fought him? Was there blood under his fingernails?”

  I felt a twinge of panic. The oh-my-god chorus started softly and synchronized with my steps. Royale Court was just ahead, on the opposite side of the street. I pointed to the filigree arch.

  “Let’s go in
here, where we aren’t so exposed. I need to make a call.”

  I called FPD, got Mary Montgomery for once, and told her what I’d just seen. “The office manager said Wozniak burned himself, but his arm is covered in scratches.”

  “Where are you now?” she asked calmly.

  “Todd and I are in Royale Court. My car’s right down the street.”

  “And Wozniak’s still at the Colony office?”

  “He was. He followed us at first but gave up.”

  Todd went to Boudreau’s and looked in a window. “They’re closed but there’s a light in the kitchen. I’ll see if anybody’s here.” He walked through the breezeway and out of sight.

  “Stay where you are,” Montgomery said. “Someone will be right there.”

  I disconnected and walked toward the fountain, which splashed and dripped onto potted red impatiens that stood on risers in the lowest pool. I sat on the curved concrete bench and bent forward, rubbing my forehead, my breathing still ragged and the oh-my-god chorus drowning out Dixieland that played on the courtyard speakers.

  It drowned out Terry Wozniak’s footsteps, too. I didn’t realize he was there until he stepped in front of me and dropped onto the bench at my side.

  His breath came in little gasps. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Ohh,” I groaned softly and stood, looking around. Where had Todd gone?

  Wozniak grabbed my wrist and jerked. I sat down abruptly. His sleeves covered his arms now and were buttoned snugly at the wrists.

  I lifted my phone but he grabbed and hurled it toward the fountain. “I’ve got to explain.”

  Oh-my-god. His eyes looked like that rat in the tree. I forced myself not to slap him away and tried to follow his gush of explanation, a tangled tale about hard work and privation and cheats like Devon Wheat.

  I couldn’t bear to look at him, but he jerked my arm when I turned away. A low groan of dread blotted out half his words, and I was vaguely aware that the sound was coming from me.

  When Todd reappeared in the breezeway beside Boudreau’s, I waved him away with my free hand.

  “Self-defense,” Wozniak babbled. “A madman…I didn’t know…do you understand?” He tugged at my arm when I didn’t answer immediately.