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 pressed herself back against the shop door, her hands held out in front of her.

  The shadow stopped. “That’s nice, Annie.” She felt the words rather than heard them.

  “No. Please. Please don’t,” she whispered.

  And then the shadow was upon her. She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice wouldn’t come. She began to choke. She put her hands to her neck. She knew then that she was dying. Her throat was a gaping hole. She gurgled, unable to get the words out. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound as she sank slowly to the ground.

  The shadow gave a low laugh as it gently drew the blade down her face, laying her cheek open to the bone.

  “Pretty Annie,” the shadow whispered as the knifepoint pierced her chest. She tipped forward, landing on her face between the shadow’s feet. “Goodnight, Annie. Sleep tight,” he said, and then began to strip the clothes from her body.

  Chapter 2

  It was a cold day in late May. Spring, the weatherman had said many times over the past several weeks, had sprung, and summer was just around the corner. But you wouldn’t have known it. It was one of those rainy days when it’s good to be at home in front of a log fire with a glass of scotch whisky and some good company; I had both.

  My name is Harry Starke. I’m a private investigator based in Chattanooga. You may have heard of me. I’ve been in the news several times lately, sometimes for things that were not very flattering, but that’s the way it is in my business. Most of us PIs have reputations akin to that of sleazy used car dealers. Most, but not me, thank heaven. I do very well. Have ever since I decided I’d had enough of the political infighting and turned in my resignation to the Chattanooga PD more than ten years ago. Since then, as the song says, “I’ve done it my way.”

  These days I live on the East Brow of Lookout Mountain. I used to have a condo on the river, not far from the golf club, but after Mary Hartwell took it upon herself to try to kill me­­—she shot out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the process­­—it just wasn’t the same. So I sold the condo and moved up to the crest of Chattanooga’s Mount Olympus, up among the gods…. Well, the city’s movers and shakers.

  It’s a quiet world up there on the mountain, a world where old money still reigns supreme among those they regard as the nouveau riche. It’s also a world where the ghosts of America’s Civil War still walk the heights, perhaps reliving, in their own ethereal way, the horrors of the Battle Among the Clouds.

  The homes on the mountain are, for the most part, of a bygone age: old world, and very expensive. My new home is no exception.

  I’ll turn forty-four in a few weeks, and lately have become more than a little aware of my own mortality. I was still fit and healthy, standing six foot two in my socks and weighing in at 220 pounds. I still worked out for an hour every day, a ritual made easy by the fact I now had my own in-house gym, but the years were beginning to catch up, although I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but myself. My mind was as sharp as ever, but my reactions were just a little bit slower, and that bothered me a lot. Three times during the past two years my chosen profession had brought the grim reaper knocking on my door. It was the Hartwell affair that finally brought it home to me with a bang—literally. And not just one bang, but several of them. The erstwhile Ms. Hartwell had opened up on my home with an AR15 assault rifle. If it hadn’t been for my quick reactions, Amanda would have died that day…. But that was last June, almost a year ago, and I decided it was time to move on, and here I am.

  My new home is an old place, built in the 1930s on almost two acres of Tennessee’s most expensive real estate. A rambling, five-bedroom rancher complete with a pool and seemingly endless rock gardens, among which tiny pathways meander down the slopes for more than a hundred yards. I spent a fortune buying the place, and another bringing it into the twenty-first century, but it was worth it.

  Anyway, it was a Friday afternoon, raining, and up here among the clouds the view was… well, misty. It was quiet times at my office, so I’d taken the afternoon off. Amanda wasn’t working that night either, so we’d been out to lunch, and were relaxing, enjoying the solitude, feeling no pain. She had her knees up on the sofa and both hands wrapped around a glass of red. Me? I was sipping contentedly on three fingers of what I consider to be the nectar of the gods: twelve-year-old Laphroaig, Scotland’s best, and my favorite. All was well with the world. At least, I thought it was.

  “Harry, I need to talk to you about something,” Amanda said. “I’ve had some news. Good news, I suppose, but… well, you might not think so.”

  Amanda is the love of my life, an inordinately beautiful woman, tall, strawberry blonde, with an amazing personality, a crazy sense of humor, and a huge soft heart. She was one of the stars at Channel 7 TV; the camera loved her, and so did her audience.

  I say she’s the love of my life, but that’s a recent thing. There was a time when I… well, hated her guts would not have been too strong a way of putting it. But that’s all in the past. Funny how life plays tricks on us. Now she spends more time at my place than she does hers.

  I looked at her quizzically. “So tell me about it.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I may have to leave Chattanooga, for good.”

  She was damned right. I didn’t like it.

  “Go on....”

  “My grandmother died a couple of days ago. Her funeral is on Sunday. I’ll have to go. She’s the only living relative I had, other than a distant cousin, who’s at least four times removed and lives in Australia. Anyway, it seems I’ve inherited, among other things… well, a hotel. In Maine.”

  Okay, this is not good. I stared at her, speechless.

  “Harry, talk to me.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to say? You just dropped a bomb. You’re planning on leaving. How do I respond to that?”

  “It might not happen. If it does, you could….”

  “I could what, come with you?” I wasn’t so much angry as I was hurt. Don’t ask me to explain; I can’t. “I have a company to run. Almost a dozen people rely on me for their livings. I can’t just up and leave. Damn.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?” she said. “I didn’t even know the old biddy owned a hotel, much less one in Maine. I have to go see her lawyers in Atlanta. I’d like it if you came with me.”

  “You know I will. When?”

  “Well, as I said, the funeral is on Sunday. I need to be there for that. If you come with me, we could stay the night in Atlanta, and then go see the lawyer on Monday. Can we do that? The quicker, the better, and the sooner we’ll know something…. Look, Harry, I don’t want to go live in Maine. I don’t want to leave my job at Channel 7, and I hate the cold. I know my grandmother didn’t live up there. She lived in Macon. She must have had a manager run the place. Maybe… well, maybe that’s the answer. If it worked for her, maybe it could work just as well for me.”

  I sighed, shook my head. She was right. I didn’t like it, but there was nothing I could do about it except play along and see what happened.

  “Go ahead,” I told her, “give ‘em a call. See if you can set something up.”

  She dug around inside her clutch, pulled out a folded letter and her iPhone. Punched in the number and put the phone on the table, on speaker. Then we waited. Someone picked up on the second ring.

  “Duckworthy and Donald law offices. How can I help you?”

  If I hadn’t been so damned upset, I would have burst out laughing. “If they put that around the other way, it would be Donald Duckworthy,” I whispered in Amanda’s ear. She elbowed me in the ribs.

  “I’d like to make an appointment to see—” she looked at the letter—“Mr. Duckworthy, please. Monday morning if possible.”

  “One moment please. I’ll check if Mr. Duckworthy can see you then.”

  He could, and an appointment was set for eleven o’clock that Monday.

  “You’re not really thinking of
moving to Maine, are you?” I asked. Hell, she can’t be. She has a good life here. Success, popularity, and me. Me!

  “I don’t know. I might have to. I might…. Harry, I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what the meeting with Duckworthy brings. I don’t want to go and live in Maine. I told you, I hate the cold, and it’s cold up there all the time.”

  I didn’t answer. I just sat and stared out into the gloom. The weather suited my mood perfectly. I got up and poured myself another three fingers of Laphroaig.

  Amanda stretched out her glass. “Would you get me a refill too?” I did, and then returned to my seat beside her, but I was antsy. I couldn’t sit still. I got up again and went outside, stood under the patio cover, and watched the mist swirling over the city below. It’s very rare I feel out of control of any situation, but this…. I had no idea how to handle it, or even what to say to her. She was obviously upset, probably more so than me. I went back inside and rejoined her on the sofa.

  “Do you have any idea at all what your grandmother had in mind?” I asked. “She must have spoken to you about her wishes.”

  “That’s just it. She didn’t. Never has. I truly think she thought she was going to live forever. I do know she was a wealthy old bird. The house she lived in must be worth… oh, I don’t know, maybe a couple of million. A lot, for sure. Granddad made a lot of money. He was a stock broker.” She paused, thought for a moment, and then said, “Wow. I suppose I’m suddenly quite well off. Now you can’t say I want you only for your money.” She smiled half-heartedly as she said it, but there was little humor in her voice.

  “I never thought that, and you know it. Hell, Amanda. It’s been only eighteen months or so; I was just getting used to having you around. Now I have to lose you?”

  “No, silly. Of course not. We’ll work it out somehow. I can always sell it all, can’t I?”

  One would think the answer to that question would be simple. I hoped it was. But that weekend turned out to be one of the longest of my life.

  Chapter 3

  It was a quiet funeral. Just Amanda, a half dozen of the old girl’s friends, a Catholic priest, and me. Fortunately, it was a nice day for it, though really it’s never a nice day for a funeral.

  It was quick, too, over with in less than thirty minutes. One of the friends, a white-haired lady who had to be on the wrong side of ninety, handed Amanda a small leather clutch and a note, hugged her, told her how sorry she was, and said goodbye. She left us still standing beside the open grave.

  The clutch contained a single house key and a short note. The note was from Duckworthy, and explained that the key was to her grandmother’s home and she was welcome to go take a look around while she was in Macon.

  Amanda had been right. The old girl had lived in one of those big old houses, columns and all, on High Street. Not quite antebellum, but very desirable.

  Must be worth a dollar or two, I thought as we mounted the front steps. And I was right. Not only was the house worth a fortune, so were the furnishings and antiques inside. We stayed just long enough for Amanda to walk it through, pick up some personal items, mostly family photographs, including several of a young couple I assumed to be her parents, and several more that I could tell were of her grandmother. One she lingered over in particular was of a smartly dressed lady, perhaps in her early sixties, and a young girl I recognized as Amanda. She couldn’t have been more than six years old, but there was no mistaking who it was. She wiped her eyes with her fingers, turned, and walked to the front door. I could tell she was in no mood to linger, so we didn’t.

  -----

  Duckworthy and Donald had a suite of offices in a high-rise on West Peachtree Street in Atlanta. Easy enough to get to after a couple hours’ drive. Fortunately, we missed the early morning rush-hour traffic and arrived in the D&D reception area some fifteen minutes early.

  Somehow I’d gotten the idea that this would be an old world law firm: a bunch of doddery old men dressed in old fashioned suits­­—pipe smokers, perhaps. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Gordon Duckworthy was younger than me. Not by much, but enough, and he was wearing a suit that must have set him back at least five grand. That, the $500 shirt, the equally expensive tie, and the flashy gold Rolex watch put me in mind of my father. He was the only other person I knew who dressed like that.

  They’re both lawyers. I wonder if they know each other, I thought whimsically.

  I also wondered what the hell this meeting must have been costing the estate of the late Marjorie Tyler, Amanda’s dear departed grandmother.

  “Good morning, Ms. Cole,” Duckworthy said briskly, offering his hand and a smile Joe Biden would have been proud of. “Please come on in and take a seat…. And you are?” he said, looking at me and holding out his hand again.

  “Harry Starke,” I said. His grip was strong.

  “And?” He was still hanging on to my hand.

  “And nothing,” I said, taking it back. “Just Harry Starke.”

  “Yes, of course, but why are you here with Ms. Cole?”

  I was beginning not to like this guy. “Why don’t you ask her?” I said.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Ms. Cole?”

  “Mr. Starke is my close friend and advisor. I asked him to accompany me today. Please, Mr. Duckworthy. Can we get on with it? We both need to get back to Chattanooga.”

  I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he wasn’t happy with me being there, so I grinned my “suck it up and get on with it” grin and sat down next to Amanda.

  “I’m sorry if I came off a little… overprotective, shall we say? But you are now a very wealthy young lady, and well… well… I hope you understand my concern. So, as you said, let’s get on with it.” He sat on the opposite side of the table, took some papers from his briefcase, and then set it on the floor beside him.

  For several moments we watched him shuffle through the papers, setting some to one side next to a small banker’s box, others in front of him, and still others in the center of the table. Finally he looked up and smiled at us.

  “Sorry, just putting things in some semblance of order.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. And you left that until now because…?

  “Now then, Ms. Cole. You are the sole beneficiary of the late Mrs. Marjorie Tyler’s estate. I have looked after her affairs for the past ten years—no, sorry, eleven years. She was, as I understand it, your grandmother. Is that not so?”

  Amanda nodded. She was holding my hand under the table and I could tell she was becoming impatient. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Take it easy, girl, I thought at her. All in good time… I hope.

  “And your mother is….” He riffled through one of the stacks of papers. “Emma Cole?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And she is…?”

  “She’s dead, Mr. Duckworthy,” Amanda said flatly. “She died of breast cancer several years ago. My father is also dead. He drank himself to death. I am an only child. Now. Is that enough of my family history, or do you want it all?”

  “Er… no. That will do fine,” he said, making notes on a legal pad. “Ms. Cole. How much do you know about your grandmother?”

  “Not very much. In fact, I hardly knew her at all. Mother and I used to visit her when I was a child. I last saw her… oh, I don’t know. Four years ago perhaps.”

  “It may interest you to learn that she knew you very well. She followed your career with great interest.” He handed a photo album and a sheaf of newspaper clippings across the table. Amanda looked at them briefly, then back at Duckworthy, saying nothing. It was easy to see the man was becoming uncomfortable under her steely glare. I myself had experienced that look—only a couple of times, but I knew how he was feeling.

  “Yes… well,” he muttered, sorting through another of the stacks until he found what he was looking for: two sets of several sheets of paper, each of them stapled together. He kept one set for himself. The other he handed to Amanda.

>   “Please, Mr. Duckworthy. I would like copies for Mr. Starke too.”

  That rattled him even more, but he got up and went to get them made.

  “Why?” I whispered. “I could have shared yours.”

  “Principle, and control,” she whispered.

  I smiled. That’s my girl.

  He came back a few moments later. No longer smiling, he handed the papers to me and sat down again.

  “I asked how well you knew your grandmother because, as I said—” and now he was all business; any sign of affability was gone—“her estate is substantial. You did, I take it, have time to visit the house on High Street in Macon?”

  Amanda nodded.

  “Good. The house obviously needs some repairs. The slate roof is in excellent condition, but the exterior woodwork is in need of attention—mostly paint, I think. As it stands, the market value—and I have two estimates, so this figure is an average of the two­­—is a little less than $1.8 million. The contents are estimated to be worth in excess of $2.5 million. Her investment portfolio is currently valued at $4.7 million, mostly in blue chips, and produces an annual income of around $280,000, most of which has been, until now, reinvested. You can get the full details from a Mr. Henry Adams, her wealth management advisor at Suntrust Bank.” He looked up from the paper, first at Amanda, then at me. If he was expecting her to be shocked at the numbers, he was wrong. Maybe she was, but she wasn’t showing it.

  “The estate also includes several pieces of income-producing real property, including the hotel in Maine. The value of those is another $9.1 million. The hotel, by the way, is a bit of a dead horse. It’s not generating much income and… well, your grandmother thought it was haunted. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m sure you’ll be able to work things out.

  “There are also three bank accounts, one checking and two savings, each with a current balance of a little over $100,000. She had no debts. Her bills and expenses have all been paid. Any outstanding taxes on the bulk of the estate will be calculated during the probate process and duly paid. That being said, other than those outstanding taxes, the estate is free and clear; a total of just over $19 million. And one more thing.” He picked up the banker’s box and placed it in front of Amanda.