Murder at Harbor Village

by GP Gardner

  Guests were beginning to take seats when I looked out the window and saw Nelson Fisher feeding the koi in the fishpond. I walked out to chat with him for a few minutes. He didn’t look at me but told me the names of each fish, and I admired them. I asked him about lawn mowers, and he really warmed up. I even mentioned Travis’ name, but Nelson didn’t seem to remember him.

  The forum was standing room only, and there wasn’t a cookie left at the end. Mr. Levine and his committee, as well as Carla and Lizzie, were showered with praise and appreciation, and I got to meet the mayor and all the council members and challengers. Maybe I would vote after all.

  It was a successful night, but later than I expected when we finally locked the doors.

  Riley Meddors was waiting outside, to walk back to the apartment with me.

  “Did you notice that Dolly stayed to the very end,” he asked. “The latest she’s been out in years, I’ll bet. Maybe she’ll stay up to see us on the ten o’clock news.”

  “I wonder if I can stay awake to see it.”

  “Mexican Trains tomorrow night.” He waited on the sidewalk for me to get inside and lock the door.

  Tinkerbelle was waiting, meowing. I petted her and topped off her food dish, rinsed out the water dish and refilled it. Stephanie left a message while I was in the shower and called back a few minutes later.

  “Mom, it was awful. There was this woman, Michelle somebody. She stayed at the house last night. The cops came in before the service started and led her out by the arm, and then Lee’s sister started crying and collapsing all over the place, and Dad had to take her out. And Boyd and I had to stand with Debra—that’s Lee’s daughter, you know—and shake hands with all these people I’d never met. Guess who was there. Rick Perry! You know, the governor of Texas.”

  “Former governor.”

  Stephanie ignored me. “I still can’t believe it. And you know what? The Bushes live not far away. Meanwhile, Birmingham has no celebrities! We’re going to stay another night, did I tell you? Debra is wonderful, and we want to get to know her better. She’s Lee’s daughter, did I already say that? She’s my age exactly and lives in New York, and she’s lost both her parents now. Do you realize she’s my stepsister?” She squealed, like a stepsister was the most thrilling thing in the world.

  “Technically, I guess I’m probably her closest relative now, and neither of us has a real sister. Or brother. She’s going back to New York tomorrow, and we decided to stay another night, too.”

  “That’s nice of you, sweetie.” Tired as I was, I could still suppress a giggle. “I’m sure your father appreciates your being there. And our political forum was a great success.”

  “Your what? Oh yes, I was just about to ask.”

  “Right. Standing room only. Well, g’night, sweetie.”

  “Bye, Mom. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  I managed to brush Tinkerbelle thoroughly while I analyzed Stephanie’s gush of words. Michelle had been at the memorial service, and Jamie had collapsed when the cops escorted Michelle out. But why were the police focusing on Michelle instead of Jamie? They must know something I didn’t. They wouldn’t just attack the weakest link, would they?

  I was asleep in no time. And I needed no Sudoku sleep aids after the day I’d just had.

  Chapter 16

  My first task Friday morning was to get Stewart to show me how to write up a work order so he could change all the outside locks in the office wing.

  “Can you get to it today? I’d like to get it done before the weekend. And that opening between the lobby and the office area will have to be secured, too.” I was talking to myself as much as to him.

  “We’ve got some decorative iron doors that Ms. Ferrell had me take down last year. They do look kind of like a prison. She didn’t like everybody calling this the big house.”

  “Can they be locked?”

  He nodded. “I can change the locks on them, too.”

  “Do they look really bad?”

  Stewart shrugged and nodded yes. “They could be painted. Or we could add something decorative. A cutout giraffe peeking over the top? I can do it in a nice wood.”

  “Okay.” I knew how Barry would love a giraffe. “I don’t think anything is ever locked in Assisted Living, except the drug cart. Why don’t you change the lock on Ivy’s back office so she can leave the cart there when she wants to? That office is going to need your decorating touch, Stewart.”

  He smiled and looked around my office, which he’d improved so dramatically. “I’ll put it on the list, right after Patti. So, a giraffe cutout and maybe some vines or flowers for the gate, right?”

  Speaking of flowers, there were arrangements on Patti’s desk and in the lobby. She was busy printing and labeling photographs from the forum. My neighbor Ann and another resident were helping put names with the pictures. Ann knitted while standing, her working yarn looped out of a big pocket.

  Ann saw me observing. “Why don’t you take up knitting, Cleo? It’s so relaxing.”

  “That’s what I planned to do in retirement. Will you help me?”

  “Of course. Did you know we’re going to be on the news? Today at noon. I know they interviewed Jim Bergen, maybe some others.”

  Patti’s head snapped around and her curls jiggled. “Can we get a TV for the lobby? People could stop by after lunch and watch local news and socialize a little.”

  “Sure,” I laughed. “But not by noon. I like your glasses.” They were round and bright yellow, the color of a school bus.

  I hadn’t seen Jim since the forum. I wondered what was going on in Houston and in Chief Boozer’s world, but I had my own work to do and shifted my attention to it.

  Emily had prepared checks refunding deposits to the Ukrainian students. I signed all eight and the students showed up soon afterward, giving out hugs and thanks. Hunter was with them. His girlfriend made a pretty speech, saying they hoped to see us again next year.

  In between visitors, I was summarizing the findings from yesterday’s apartment inventory, checking our list of vacancies against Cynthia’s key box. It felt good to be doing ordinary, routine tasks.

  The final tally corresponded with Emily’s report. There were seven units to follow up on, probably all rented off the books. I listed the apartment numbers and planned to visit the residents over the weekend. They’d need to meet our requirements and sign official leases or else move out soon.

  Stewart had twenty-four units that needed attention of some sort. It might be cleaning or painting or new carpet, a broken window replaced or lesser projects like batteries for beeping smoke alarms. There were two drippy sinks and one cracked fiberglass shower that would have to be replaced.

  “We’ve been tiling them when the fiberglass breaks down,” he said.

  “I don’t expect you to get to all these immediately.” I gave him the list.

  “You heard about a doorknob falling apart for Patti? I’ve already replaced it and told the residents I’d come back and check anything else that’s not working right. Maybe we’ll do that in each building. Handyman house calls. Don’t you like the sound of that?”

  Eighteen units were vacant and ready for immediate rental, and most of those were upstairs in the two L-shaped buildings. There must be some reason these units didn’t appeal to our target market, but I wasn’t sure what we could do about it.

  A couple of quick calculations showed we were close to the corporate average of seventy-nine percent occupancy, counting the units rented off the books and, until now, contributing nothing to our income.

  I had discovered a discrepancy in the employee count, too. The official roster included not just Nelson Fisher, who was still on the payroll even though he no longer worked, and the two people in PT, Tiko and Cassidy, who rented their space from Harbor Village but ran their own operation.

  Just as Travis had suspected,
HR told me Nelson Fisher’s paycheck was being deposited to the Ferrell & Associates account. Riley’s warning to be skeptical of the financial data was proving to be spot on.

  Patti wandered in, and I dropped the vacancy problem on her. “Eighteen vacancies, and twelve are on the second floor of the two-story, L-shaped buildings. Any ideas what we do about them?”

  She tilted her head left and then right, lips pursed while she thought. “How about this. Screen those second-floor walkways and furnish them like your screened porch. Wicker chairs and tables, all-weather rugs, a ceiling fan. Add wind chimes and a string of twinkle lights.” She gazed upward, sweeping her hands around, as if she were actually seeing the finished project. “Get a few plants, in beautiful pots. That creates a gathering place, not just a bare walkway. And put out birdfeeders and flowers where people can see them. Maybe a bright blue ceramic birdbath and some pink-and-white cleomes, some red salvia.” She snapped out of it and looked at me. “The hummingbirds are passing through right now. Get some life in this place.”

  “Won’t that draw squirrels?”

  “People love squirrels. Get one of those whirly things that holds corn. Let the squirrels ride it.”

  “I’m impressed, Patti. We can give residents a social setting, something they miss by being isolated at the far end of the complex. And it gives other people a reason to walk up there, to see what’s going on. We could have a cookout up there some night. You have a knack for this sort of thing, you know. Why don’t you close the door so we can talk a minute?”

  Her natural exuberance ratcheted up a notch. She jerked a chair up to my desk, sat and almost vibrated with pent-up enthusiasm.

  “What do you think your ideal job would be?”

  “Rental agent,” she answered immediately.

  Not the answer I’d hoped for, but it reminded me again of how similar she was to Stephanie.

  “So you’d like dealing with the legal aspects of leases and taking the classes and tests and continuing education to get a real estate license. Keeping the key box secure and organized and up-to-date, keeping up with all the available units, knowing which ones are coming available and matching them up with prospective residents?”

  “Cynthia didn’t do all that. She never did much of anything.”

  “But Cynthia may be on her way to prison. You don’t want to use her as your model.”

  Patti recoiled in shock, eyes wide. “Are you kidding me? Prison?”

  I was surprised, too; I thought she knew. “You’ve heard of embezzlement? That’s what the diversion of rental income is.”

  “Oh no! Prison? Cynthia?” She flopped forward and leaned on her elbows. “What if she gives the money back?”

  “Maybe the judge will reduce her sentence, but it’s out of our hands. Now, back to your ideal job. What part of the rental agent’s duties appeals to you?”

  “Prison. Oh my gosh.” She swallowed hard. “Well, maybe that last part, about talking to new residents. Getting to know them and introducing them to everybody.” Her sparkle began to return.

  “What you’re describing sounds more like the Resident Services position.”

  “Okay.” She did a double take. “But that’s you, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’re leaving! Oh no.” She shrieked and covered her face with both hands.

  “Relax. I’m thinking I may be stuck with the director’s job for a while.” I immediately felt guilty for implying I didn’t love this job.

  Patti peeked through her fingers. “Resident Services? Would I get this office?”

  I laughed. “No, you’d stay right out front, accessible to all your admirers. But I think we can spruce things up a bit out there. Did you choose a paint color yet?”

  “No, but I will. I love this!” She clapped her hands. “When is it going to happen? Can I tell people? I’ve been so afraid I’d have to go back to driving and miss all the excitement.”

  Travis phoned as I was about to go to lunch. “I just got out of a meeting with your detectives.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s moving back there. I’ll be there tonight.”

  “What about Jamie and Michelle?”

  “Jamie and Michelle are returning voluntarily and cooperating with law enforcement. Translation—they’re trying to save their butts.”

  “What’re we talking about? Embezzlement or murder?”

  “Jamie admits to skimming off some rent money but says the idea came from the Quarles woman.”

  “What about Lee? Does anyone know who killed her?”

  “Officer Montgomery doesn’t talk, you know. One of the detectives does and tells me they’re tightening the noose. You want to have a late dinner tonight?”

  “Tonight? No. I’ve got plans. Sorry.” I didn’t admit they included dominoes.

  Jim Bergen met me in the lobby. “Are you having lunch here? I thought I’d join you while Nita gets her hair done. We can compare notes.”

  “I don’t know much.” I slowed my gait to match his and gave him a summary of Travis’s information. “Somebody from the police department went to Houston and Jamie and Michelle consented to come back here.”

  He knew more than I did. “That’s Henry and Clark, the detectives. And Mary Montgomery flew out last night to escort the females back. I guess they’ll get here today.”

  “Are Jamie and Michelle under arrest?”

  “I’m still thinking Jamie can wiggle out of this. Street smarts, you know.” He tapped his temple. Not only did he not seem to care about Michelle, he didn’t acknowledge she existed. Which was one reason the world needed social workers, I supposed—to look after the little guy, even when he, or she, wasn’t very loveable.

  A dozen people were already in the dining room, with more coming in behind us. I stopped at the long table and talked with residents about the candidate forum.

  “Who’s that handsome man with you,” someone joked. “I’ve seen him on TV.”

  Jim preened under all the attention.

  The steam table still had food in every tray, although not a lot, and Lizzie was smiling as she put more salad into the large bowl sitting in a bed of ice. We had a choice of thin, fried fish filets or grilled shrimp, and Jim took both. I got fish, green salad with tomatoes and two squares of polenta with corn and bits of red and green peppers visible through the grill marks.

  “Why do people complain about the food here,” I asked Jim. “Everything I have is good.”

  “It’s taken an upturn. Maybe Annie’s helping her.”

  Sure enough, Ann came out of the kitchen a few seconds later.

  “Nita doesn’t want any talk about murder tonight,” Jim warned, taking the corner booth. It offered two advantages—it was near the dessert table, and he could observe the entire room at once, even the entrance. “Some people like a little excitement, but not Nita. That’s just the way she’s always been.”

  “I see her point. I prefer a bit more boredom, myself.”

  He finished his shrimp before starting on the fish. “What do you call this?” He poked a fork into the polenta. “Tastes like mush but doesn’t look like it.”

  “Polenta. It’s Italian. I think Jamie and Michelle are both being charged. Isn’t that why Officer Montgomery went out there?”

  “That was yesterday’s news. Maybe you didn’t get today’s report. The fingerprint data came back, and Michelle’s prints are all over a wheelchair from the storage room. That girl’s looking at a murder charge.”

  My heart sank. “What about the lampshade? Did it have any prints?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know about prints, but the frame was bent, like she wrenched it off the lamp. Which is long gone, of course.”

  “You know about the video? Cynthia Quarles put a lamp-sized bundle in the pier dumpster Thursday night.”

  “Did she n
ow?”

  “I was hoping they could trace it.”

  “You ever been to a landfill?” He shook his head, looking like a shaggy white buffalo.

  After a moment of thought, I was shaking my head, too. “I don’t like it, Jim. Michelle’s a nursing assistant. Of course her fingerprints are on a wheelchair. But she doesn’t have enough initiative to conk anybody. She’s taking the blame for somebody else. And you know who.”

  It was his turn to resist conclusions. “There’s that phone, too. Don’t forget it, the one Dolly found. It belonged to Michelle and was found in the pool area. That says she was there.”

  “Okay.” I agreed reluctantly. I wasn’t arguing with facts. Michelle must’ve been at the pool. Maybe I felt a little sorry for her, but I just couldn’t see her as a murderer. Couldn’t someone else have left her phone at the pool, either by accident or intentionally?

  I asked Jim, “Any news about Cynthia Quarles?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “People like her…” He made his money sign again, rubbing thumb against fingers. “They get off. I expected Chief Boozer to meet us here. Must’ve got caught up in something.”

  “Cynthia Quarles may not be as rich as you think. She drives an inexpensive car.”

  “Have you seen her house?”

  I had not.

  I went back to the office a few minutes later and spent a lot of time calculating that each housekeeper had to clean seven units a day, not including the offices, ballroom, hallways, the lobby and whatever else they were responsible for. We needed to add another housekeeper now, before any more apartments were rented. I wrote a note and left it for Joyce.

  I didn’t see Chief Boozer all day, but I did leave the office a little early, just for a change of scenery. I drove down to the pier to admire the bay. It was already blue and glassy after the rain, with pelicans sitting on every post around the marina. The sky was too clear for a cathedral sunset, and there was no breeze. I took the walking trail and did a couple of slow laps then sat on a still-damp bench in the shade and watched a ship heading toward the harbor north of Mobile.