The Harry Starke Series Books 4 -6: The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set 2 (The Harry Starke Novels - The Boxed Sets)

by Blair Howard

  She stood at least six foot four in her heels, an inch taller than my father. I was immediately struck by her likeness to Heather Nauert, a news anchor for the Fox News Channel, but this girl was taller, more broad-shouldered. She had the same blonde hair, cut pageboy style, and she was dressed in a clinging white sheath that accentuated every curve in her body.

  Ouch! I almost said it out loud. Amanda had kicked me.

  “Harry, Amanda,” August said, “this is Ruth Archer. Ruth, meet Amanda Cole and my son, Harry Starke.”

  I offered my hand. She took it. Her grip was… strong.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Starke. I’ve heard so much about you.” She turned her head slightly so that she was looking down at Amanda, who had remained seated. “You, too. Ms. Cole. I so enjoy watching you on television.”

  Amanda nodded, and gifted her with an icy smile.

  “Would you like to join us for a drink?” I asked, knowing damned well I would suffer for it later.

  “Well, just a quick one, then.” It was my father who accepted the invitation.

  And they both sat. August next to Amanda, Ruth rather a little too close to me.

  “I wanted to meet you, Harry… may I call you Harry?”

  “Of course.” I could feel Amanda’s fingernails digging into my thigh.

  “Well, Harry, I wanted to meet you because I’ve heard so much about you, on television and all, and I’m simply fascinated by what you do.”

  The nails dug deeper.

  “Ruth is a local businesswoman, Harry,” my father said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Archer Group. Yes?”

  I nodded. I had indeed heard of it. Who hadn’t?

  “She plays golf, too. Don’t you Ruth? She’s something of a hustler. Took fifty off me today.”

  She smiled. I smiled. It was a rare thing for my father to lose, to anyone, let alone a lovely creature like this.

  “August tells me you play, too, Harry. Maybe you’d like to play with me one day.” It was not what she said but how she said it. Amanda’s claws drew blood.

  “Oh, you’d better watch it, Harry boy,” my father said. “Ruth was State High School Champion in ‘95, and a member of the varsity team at Stamford. She has a two handicap, and she’ll take you to the cleaners.”

  Ruth lowered her head and smiled modestly at me. I had to move Amanda’s hand. Ruth noticed.

  “Look. I’m so sorry. We’re spoiling your evening together. August, I’ll let you buy me another drink at the bar, and then I have to go home. Saturday’s a big day at the dealership.”

  They said their goodbyes and left, and I was glad to see them go. My thigh was killing me. I hadn’t known Amanda had such a strong grip.

  “Jeez, that was uncalled for,” I said, rubbing my thigh.”

  “Maybe you’d like to play with me one day,” she mimicked. It wasn’t a bad imitation, either, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Why, Amanda, darling. I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “Oh come on, Harry. One, she’s as phony as a three-dollar bill, and two, she’s not your type. She’s also a dangerous bitch. I know her well, even if she doesn’t know me. Charlie Grove knows her too, and the rest of her family. According to him, they’ve been screwing the public ever since old man Archer died back in 2002.”

  Charlie Grove is an interesting character. He’s Channel 7’s resident consumer watchdog, a loudmouth, and one nosey son of a bitch. He has a laugh like a hyena and personality to match. I’ve often wondered how come someone hadn’t removed him from the land of the living long ago; he was that unpopular. He was, however, extremely good at what he did. They called him Pit Bull Charlie because, like a dog with a bone, he never gave up. A single consumer complaint, and Channel 7’s dog of war was ready to take on any and all individuals or businesses, large or small. Just a hint that Charlie was sniffing around was usually all it took to bring justice to the masses. He was a nasty little creep, but he got the job done and brought in the ratings.

  Now I was interested. If Amanda was correct, what the hell did Ruth Archer want with me, or August for that matter? And she was right: the woman wasn’t my type—or my father’s. I waved to Joe and ordered more drinks.

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Why are you interested? Should I be worried?”

  “Hell, no. I’m just curious, is all.”

  So she told me.

  “Jack Archer owned and operated a small used car dealership on Rossville Boulevard. His cars were cheap, and he toted the note. Revenue was small but steady, and his business was very profitable, mostly because no one ever defaulted on a loan. People who tried it got their legs broken, or worse.”

  She took a sip of her yellow drink, then continued.

  “Jack started the company more than thirty years ago, selling singles out of his garage. He toted the note even then. You know the saying, right? ‘From little acorns….’ Anyway, he made the move to Rossville Boulevard and business improved, and then he died, in a car wreck. He was only fifty-two. Ruth was twenty-five and fresh out of university, and she took over the business. She met James Fletcher while she was at Stamford and married him a year after her father died. The marriage lasted about six months. Since then the dealership’s grown into a group of companies that include a high-end used car dealership, a used boat brokerage, a real estate company, and a finance company—it makes loans only within the company, to its customers.” She took another sip of her drink.

  “Ruth has two sisters, twins, Rachel and Rebekah. They were still in college when their father died in 2002. They were twenty-one. They both graduated a year later with degrees in finance from the University of Georgia. Rachel runs the real estate and finance companies; Rebekah runs the dealership and the boat brokerage. Ruth oversees it all.”

  “How the hell do you know all that,” I asked.

  She smiled. “I told you: Charlie’s had them in his sights for years. He does good work. You know that.”

  I did indeed. “Pit Bull Charlie Grove,” I said, dryly. How is that nasty little son of a bitch?”

  She chuckled. “He doesn’t like you, either. He likes me, though. He’s fine.”

  “Look,” I said, taking her hand, and glancing surreptitiously down to see if there was blood under her fingernails. There wasn’t. “We came here for a nice night out. Let’s forget about it, and about Ruth, and about my father. We have the whole weekend ahead of us. Let’s enjoy it.”

  “Fine with me. But the next time you look at another woman like that, Harry Starke, there will be blood under my fingernails.”

  Damn, the woman never misses a trick.

  We left the club early. Well, earlier than usual. I’d had enough of the noise—and the constant attention we both were getting. Besides, I couldn’t get Angela Hartwell out of my head. The few times I remembered seeing her, talking to her, I’d been impressed with her vitality, but that had been before her husband died. I’d seen her only a couple of times since, and those just in passing. Somehow, though, all of the visions of the past, the vitality, the energy, the quiet beauty, and finally the sadness, had all been replaced by the image of that pale body lying face-up in the shallow waters of the Tennessee. It was depressing as hell, and I just wanted to go home.

  Chapter 6

  We arrived back at my condo on Lakeshore Lane a little after eleven.

  “Hey, let me do it,” Amanda said, taking the bottle of Laphroaig and the Waterford glass from my hands. She poured a generous three fingers into the glass and dropped in a single ice cube. I took it from her and touched her lips with mine, then took a sip, put my head back, closed my eyes, and savored the slow burn as it slid down my throat.

  I opened my eyes. She was laughing at me.

  “I’ve never seen anyone enjoy a drink like you do,” she said.

  “Ah, but you see, it’s not a drink. It’s an… an out-of-body, unworldly experience. One that very few can understand. A taste for exquisite scotch whiskey has to be c
ultivated and refined. To have such a taste is to be able to experience one of the finer things in life. Do you realize that it took the Scotts more than 400 years to perfect it?”

  “No, I didn’t, and I hate the nasty stuff. How you can guzzle it the way you do beats me.”

  “Nasty stuff? C’mere.” I put the glass down, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to me. She was giggling like a little girl. Two minutes later, she wasn’t. Two minutes later, she was gasping for breath, and I was doing the grinning, that and sipping on the nectar of the gods.

  I poured her a glass of Niersteiner, took her hand, and guided her gently over to the sofa in front of the big windows.

  "Isn't she beautiful?"

  "She? Who are you talking about?" Amanda looked at me, her eyes scrunched up.

  "The river. Isn't she beautiful? She's like a beautiful woman: mysterious, moody, vibrant, unpredictable, sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm, sometimes deadly, always secretive. Like you, Amanda."

  "Hah, so you say." She sipped her wine and stared out into the darkness.

  "I do say. You are all of those things and more." I put my arm around her; she laid her head on my shoulder. I could tell she was mulling it over.

  "You make her sound like a mistress."

  "In many ways, that’s exactly what she is. I fell in love with her the day I bought this place. I had the old windows replaced with these floor-to-ceiling units, so I could better connect with her. She's always here, waiting for me, sometimes sleeping, sometimes angry, always... alive. Look at her now. What does she say to you?"

  "She tells me you're one creepy son of a bitch," she laughed.

  "Ah, you don't get it...."

  "Oh, but I do. I understand completely. And I envy you. She's everything you could want in a lover, and then some. I could be jealous, Harry."

  “Jealous? You? Hah! You, my darling, have nothing to be jealous about. At this very moment, you hold my heart tightly in your cold and clammy little hands.” And she did.

  “That’s not true, Harry. You’re your own man; always have been, always will be. Nobody will ever tie you down.”

  I thought about that. Maybe she was right. I was forty-three years old, a confirmed bachelor, and I had no desire to change my status, as they say on Facebook.

  She had her feet drawn up onto the sofa, her head on my chest, her hands clasped around the glass. I said nothing.

  “Harry?”

  “What?”

  “Oh… nothing.”

  “Come on. Out with it.”

  “No, some other time. Let’s go to bed.”

  And we did.

  Chapter 7

  I awoke early the following morning, Saturday. I hadn’t slept a whole lot. Amanda? She’d slept like a dead dog, barely moving the entire night. I got up twice, wandered around the living room, went back to bed, and finally gave it up. Angela Hartwell had me by the shorts and wouldn’t let go.

  I made coffee, Dark Italian Roast which, like good scotch whiskey, is an acquired taste. I took a cup into the bedroom and placed it on the nightstand beside Amanda and looked down at her.

  Wow.

  I shook her gently. She opened one eye to squint at me. Then she rolled over, with her back toward me, and said, “Go away!”

  I slipped my hand under the cover and pinched her bottom. She sat up with a squeal, laughing. It was going to be a wonderful day—or so I thought.

  We sat together at the breakfast bar in my kitchen. She’d made pancakes. I’d made more coffee.

  “What’s up, Harry?” she asked. “You’re very quiet. Can I help?”

  Most women, when they ask that question, don’t want to know the answer. Not so with Amanda. I’d known her less than a year, but she already knew almost as much about me as I knew myself. She could tell when I had something on my mind. Not only that, she was a newshound, an investigative reporter, and yes, she sure as hell could help.

  “It’s this Angela Hartwell thing Kate dumped in my lap,” I told her. “I have a feeling it’s going to get away from me. I thought at first it would be simple, a few questions, and then it would be done. But….” I reached for my jacket. I’d laid it over one of the bar stools when we came home the night before. I fished the list of questions out of my wallet and handed it to her. She unfolded it, read it, looked up at me, her eyes wide—then she read it again. Finally, she put it down and picked up her coffee.

  “See what I mean?” I asked. “I have almost nothing.”

  She nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  Dumb as it sounds, I wasn’t expecting that reaction, and I had to think about it.

  “Well, you’re a member of the club. You must have known her, and her husband Regis, right?”

  “I did, but not well. They moved in different circles. He was a financier. Me? I’m just a working girl with my membership paid for by the station, a perk with benefits, if you know what I mean.” I did.

  “What did you know about them?”

  She sat for a moment, sipping her coffee with both hands wrapped around the mug, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed, thinking.

  “She went to GPS, I think.”

  Girl’s Preparatory School, or GPS, is an upscale high school for girls in Chattanooga. It costs the world to send your kid there, but it sets them up for a life of privilege.

  “His folks were old money. Lived up on Stonehenge. They sent him and his younger brother, Ralph, to Baylor.”

  Hmmm, Baylor, huh?

  Baylor is another upscale school in Chattanooga, and a rival to my own school, McCallie.

  “They were bankers,” she continued. “They owned a string of Hartwell Community Banks, maybe more than that, I don’t really know. When his father died, Regis inherited everything. Ralph just got a trust fund. Regis sold the family home and moved to Mountain Shadows, and when he died the banks went to Ralph.”

  “I know most of the business stuff,” I said. “Tim did some digging. What do you know about Ralph Hartwell?”

  “I’ve never met him.”

  “I’m sensing a ‘but.’”

  “Well, there was a rumor going around just before Regis died that he was going to sell out to one of the big banks, and that Ralph tried to stop him—we covered the story—but… well, Regis died before the deal went through. That’s about all I know. Regis and Angela were nice people, quiet, very discreet, enjoyed life, whatever.”

  “So if the sale of the banks had gone through, Ralph would have gotten nothing. Regis would have banked the cash from the sale and his bro would have been out in the cold, right?”

  “That’s about the size of it. As it is, Ralph now owns and runs the company, and Angela inherited only the personal assets—but those were substantial. I’d guess her net worth must be somewhere in the region of… eight, maybe ten million.”

  “Who gets that? Any idea?”

  “They had no children, and her parents were killed in a car wreck when she was very young, so… the brother?”

  “That’s motive, Mandy. Real motive.”

  “Don’t you ever call me that. I’ve told you before. I hate it.”

  I grinned at her. “I know. I was just pulling your chain.”

  “Well don’t. It’s not couth.”

  I grinned at her. “Okay, Amanda,” I said. “So Ralph not only had a hell of a motive to kill Regis, he also had one to kill Angela. But unless she suspected him of her husband’s death, why would he? He doesn’t need the money, and to risk a second murder just to get his hands on a few million when he has hundreds of millions would just be stupid. Greed, maybe. That’s always a prime mover. But that’s a stretch. I need to talk to Ralph, and soon.”

  I looked at my watch. It was after ten. I needed a little time. Time to be quiet, to think. And then….

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s what I’d like to do….”

  We dressed casually that morning. I was in a blue and white striped golf shirt, lightweight golf slacks, and ECCO Golf Street shoes. Am
anda, as always, was dressed to kill: a pale blue slip of a sun dress and matching Ferragamo sandals with three-inch heels.

  We arrived at the club around eleven thirty. I’d called earlier and booked a table for lunch. I’d also called my father and asked him to join us. It was Saturday morning, and he had an early tee time, so he said he would. We were at my usual table in the bay window overlooking the ninth when he walked in.

  “Hello Amanda, Harry,” He looked at his watch. “Not late, am I?”

  He wasn’t late, and I said so. He sat down beside Amanda and waved at Doug, the bartender of the day, got his attention, then pointed to each of us and himself, indicating he wanted a round of drinks.

  The place was busy. I should have known better than to expect to be able to talk, but the club seemed to be the place I needed to be. It was where we found the body, if not the place where Angela died, and all of her friends were members. Amanda and I were members too, but we didn’t live there, as my father seemed to do. If there was anything or anybody worth knowing, he knew it.

  The drinks came—a Blue Moon beer for me, no orange slice, a vodka tonic for Amanda, and a gin and tonic for my Old Man.

  “Well, Harry,” he said. “I know you’ve better things to do than eat lunch with your dear old dad. What do you need?”

  “You make it sound like I never call you unless I need something, and that’s just not true. You know that.”

  “That I do. But not this time. What’s on your mind? I’ll help if I can.”

  “Well, you know Kate dumped this Angela Hartwell thing in my lap. And—”

  “Yes, of course,” he interrupted. “And how is the lovely lieutenant? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Jeez, he never had been very tactful. I glanced at Amanda. She wore an enigmatic smile.

  “She’s fine. Listen, Dad. Were you here on Wednesday evening between nine o’clock and midnight?”

  “No. I was here until about nine and then I left. Why d’you ask?”

  “Did you see Angela Hartwell?”

  He thought for a moment. “I did. At about seven thirty, maybe eight. She was sitting over there, talking to Ed Gray.”