Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

  Silently I counted the gongs. Surreptitiously, I looked around at the other guests. Across the table from me sat a fiftyish-looking woman whose lips moved silently as she also counted. She had one of those severe hairstyles—hair pulled back into a bun—and she wore thick, dark-framed glasses. Later I learned her name was Tonya Borders, Roger’s longtime lawyer. She looked like a woman who had forgotten how to smile. But then, I reasoned, maybe the poor woman had nothing to smile about.

  The clock finished chiming.

  Our eyes automatically turned toward the open door, which was only feet from Roger’s office. This was the moment for his appearance—just as the clock struck its eighth and final gong.

  Roger didn’t come into the room.

  For several seconds, no one spoke a word, but all of us turned toward Amanda as if on cue.

  “Where is Roger?” she asked no one in particular. “He is never late.” She rang the small bell beside her plate.

  A tall, rail-thin woman in a maid’s uniform appeared immediately. She carried a soup tureen. “Where is Mr. Harden?” Amanda asked.

  “I do not know, mum. I’ll go check on him.”

  Her name was Elaine Wright, and she had been with the Hardens for about four years. Elaine turned back into the kitchen with the soup. We could hear her set it on the stove, and seconds later, she crossed the room and left by the other door. She wore a type of backless shoe that made every footstep echo through the dining room. She knocked on the door of Roger’s study.

  A few seconds later, we heard her knock again. More like pounding this time. “Mr. Harden? Are you in there, sir?” Her tone was a notch below panicked.

  “Sir? I’m coming in now.” Apparently, she then opened the office door.

  She screamed.

  Two

  After Mrs. Wright’s scream, we all hurried out of the dining room, rushed into the hall, and turned left. Elaine Wright stood at the door and pointed. “Mr. Harden—he is—he is—something has happened to Mr. Harden!”

  Burton pushed past her and entered the office and the rest of us followed.

  Roger lay on his back on the floor behind his desk. A pool of blood stained his face and his shirt, and blood had dripped onto the floor.

  Burton squatted then pressed two fingers to Roger’s neck. “No pulse,” he said. “I’m no expert, but I’d say that looks as if he’s been shot.” He pointed to what was obviously a gunshot wound in his temple.

  Amanda brushed past me. She didn’t kneel—not in those form-fitting silk pants—but she bent over, and it was obvious she was genuinely shocked. “Shot? Who would want to do that?” She turned around and stared at us. “Who would—who would want to kill him? Why would any of you—”

  Although all of us had hurried toward the office, I was the last one to enter. Just then Simon walked into the house with our luggage. I turned around and heard the thump of our suitcases. He raced past me and pushed several people out of the way. “No! No!”

  The next few minutes remain jumbled in my mind while we tried to adjust to the shock of Roger’s death. Somebody screamed, and I heard wails of “It can’t be! It can’t be!”

  “He was my best friend, my best friend,” moaned a balding man in glasses. He put his right hand under his glasses to wipe his eyes. I couldn’t be sure, because I couldn’t see clearly from where I stood, but I don’t think he actually shed tears even though he made a big show of wiping his face.

  There was so much noise and talking and groaning, I don’t remember anything else distinctly until Simon hurried out of the office and down the hallway. Seconds later he returned with two dark blankets. “Go,” he said and covered the body without moving it. It was only an impression I had, but the gentleness with which he covered Harden’s body appeared more genuine and heartfelt than any other response I had observed.

  The one exception was Jason Harden. I wasn’t sure, but he seemed to show genuine grief. He made no noise, but tears slid silently down his cheeks.

  Burton took over and quietly got us all back into the dining room. I don’t remember how he did that, but he had obviously taken charge.

  I stood by the door and didn’t move until everyone was gone. Simon remained by Roger’s body. He came out last.

  “Lock door,” he said and pulled a key from his pocket. He turned and put the key into the lock.

  The others whispered to each other, but I heard more than one person say, “Why? Everybody loved Roger Harden.”

  “What reason would anyone have to kill dear Roger?” one of the women asked.

  Once we had returned to the dining room, we stood around awkwardly. No one seemed to want to sit at the table.

  “If he was shot, surely one of you heard the noise,” Burton said. He pointed to me. “Julie and I arrived with Simon less than a minute before the clock began to chime. The rest of you were here.” He turned to Mrs. Wright and asked, “Is there anyone else on the island?”

  “Just the eleven of you, as well as Simon and me.”

  “His body is still warm, so it must have happened recently.”

  They began to stare at each other, raise eyebrows, and make quiet protestations as if they didn’t want poor Roger to hear them discuss details.

  “I would never hurt Roger.” I don’t remember who said that, but it was one of the men.

  Burton turned to the maid and said, “Uh, sorry, I don’t know your name, but—”

  “My name is Elaine Wright.”

  “Okay, Elaine, please—”

  “Mrs. Wright, if you please.”

  “Sorry. Mrs. Wright, will you call the police?”

  “I shall use the extension in the kitchen.” She left the dining room.

  “While we wait, I wonder if anyone has any information about Roger that would shed light on this.”

  “Everybody loved Roger Harden,” said a woman in her mid-thirties who identified herself as Paulette White. She was overdressed in a black poufy dress and overjeweled with three strands of pearls. Her bouffant hair seemed as if it had been glued to her scalp. “No one would ever want to harm him. Why, he’s such a kind man, and he’s done so much good for the community, and—”

  “The phone is out again,” Mrs. Wright announced from the doorway.

  “How long has it been out?” Burton asked. “Do you have any idea?”

  “Phone rang two hours ago,” Simon said.

  “Yes, that is correct,” the maid answered. “It rang just a couple of minutes before or after 6:00. I was clearing up the last of the tea dishes. By the time I reached the kitchen, Mr. Harden had picked up the phone in his office.”

  “Did you overhear what Mr. Harden said?” Burton asked.

  “Certainly not,” she replied. “I would not do such a thing.” She stared at Burton as if she dared him to challenge her.

  “If I offended you, I apologize,” Burton said. “I assume you heard his voice when he first spoke to the other person.”

  “It was a man on the other end, and he said, ‘All right.’ Then Mr. Harden said something to the effect that it was not an appropriate time to call. I hung up the phone in the kitchen.”

  “So that means he must have been killed some time after 6:15.”

  “He was alive at 7:00,” said a man with a deep voice. He was paunchy, probably about sixty, with blotchy skin. He might have been handsome once, but that could only have been before his second birthday. He had a bulbous nose, large ears, and deep-set brown eyes. He wore those old-fashioned tortoise-colored glasses that made him look as if he had worn the same pair since about 1970.

  “And who are you?” Burton asked. “I don’t know any of you except Jason and Amanda.”

  “My name is Wayne Holmestead,” he said in a low, deep voice that probably scared employees. “I have known that kind, generous, and wonderful man for nearly forty years.”

  “You were good friends, then?”

  “Good friends? We were extremely close. I am—I was—also Roger’s partner in real esta
te and especially along the coastal area from Savannah to the Florida line. He owned a number of businesses, as you probably know.” Wayne paused to remove his glasses and rub his eyes. He wore an expensive navy pinstriped suit with a vest. Everything about him said either that he had a lot of money or he wanted us to think he did. He was balding and carried a football-sized paunch. “He’s—he was—my best friend for more than twenty years. I loved him like—like a brother—perhaps more than a brother.”

  He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I stood close enough to see that there were no tears.

  “He was my best friend,” Wayne said in what was supposed to sound like a blubbery voice.

  “Probably your only friend,” Jason said and stared at him. “Besides that, you weren’t his friend.” Jason was twenty, but as I stared at the peach fuzz on his cheeks, I would have lowered his age by at least three years. Like his mother, Jason had that excellent bone structure and those high cheekbones that would keep him looking young long after he had said good-bye to middle life.

  “That was absolutely uncalled for!” Holmestead said loudly. He stared at the boy and pulled his vest down over his paunch. “You have no right to talk to me like that.”

  “I do when I know what I’m saying. You hated him.”

  “Look who says such words,” Wayne said. “I wonder if I could count the times I heard you scream, ‘I hate you! I hate you!’ and now you try to accuse me of not—”

  “I know what I know!”

  “Tell us what you know,” Burton said. He turned and draped his arm around Jason’s shoulder. It was obvious they knew each other well.

  “I heard him just before teatime. I wanted to talk to Dad—and yeah, we had problems in the past.” He stared at Burton. “You know about—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But—but he and I—well, we got everything straightened out. Uh, well, sort of.” He smiled at Burton. “You were the biggest reason—and I guess that’s why Dad wanted you to be here tonight. He wanted to thank you. At least, I assume that’s why.”

  “It seems rather easy for you to talk like that, Jason,” Wayne said, “but I know he planned to cut you out of his will. You would receive absolutely nothing. Not a penny.” He lifted his chin as if to say, “See, I’ve bested you on that.”

  “That was true three weeks ago, but we got our differences straightened out,” Jason said. “Besides, that’s got nothing to do with me. I heard how you talked to him and I heard the names you called him—”

  “How dare you attempt to sully my name with such—”

  Burton put up his hand. “Let Jason tell us what he knows, and then you can speak.”

  “I was outside Dad’s office door, and Mr. Holmestead said, ‘You’re a despicable tyrant. Everyone thinks you’re a man of compassion. You can’t do this to me! You can’t!’ That’s when Dad looked up, saw me, and said we’d talk after dinner. So I left.”

  “I said no such thing!”

  “Sure you did. You also swore at him—words my mother doesn’t want me to use.”

  “You have a powerful imagination.”

  “Then ask Simon. He stood at the hall closet. He was supposed to be adding clothes hangers and making space, but he listened. I know he did.”

  Everyone turned and stared at Simon, who had moved toward the back of the group.

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s get back to the timing,” I interrupted. “Can’t we narrow this down? Wayne, you saw him at seven o’clock, you say. How did you know it was seven?”

  “The evening news had barely started. I spotted Roger on the steps and started to talk to him, but he waved me away, went into his office, and closed the door.”

  “I saw Wayne when he entered the room,” said Paulette White, the woman dressed in black.

  “Yes, I saw them at the door as I started to descend the staircase.” We had to stop then and listen to the speaker tell us all about himself. Dr. Jeffery Mark Dunn taught biology and other first-year science courses at Clayton University on Atlanta’s Southside. I knew who he was. In fact, years ago I had signed up for one of his courses, but he was so boring and monotoned, I knew I’d never stay awake.

  I dropped the class after the first day. He still wore the same cheap toupee. It was solid black, and the hair that stuck out below was gray. His glasses were now a little thicker, but the voice hadn’t changed. He was tall and extremely thin—I guessed about six four—with sharp, bony features. He looked even skinnier than he had when I tried his class eight years earlier.

  I probably ought to thank Dr. Dunn. Until I sampled his class, I had planned to go into medicine. He was the major reason I changed my mind. I’m now a psychologist. I’ve received my doctoral degree from Georgia State, and I’m in private practice.

  For the next half hour, Burton made everyone sit down and tell us what he or she was doing before coming to the table. Just as we started the informal interrogation, Jason said he was hungry, but Mrs. Wright refused to serve anyone. “I am far too upset to think about food. It is in the kitchen. You may help yourself if you choose.” She stared down Amanda’s stern gaze. “I cannot—I cannot.” Crying, she sat down in a corner of the room.

  Most of them said they didn’t want anything to eat. I think they lied because they assumed that it was the right thing to say. Roger, the man they all claimed to love, had just been murdered. As I gazed around the room, I figured that most of them would move toward the kitchen within minutes.

  One by one we all sat down at the table. Lenny, the short, slightly rotund, carrot-headed man, pulled his chair back against the wall and balanced it on two legs.

  “Do not do that,” Mrs. Wright said with no sign that she’d been crying.

  “Okeydokey,” he said and grinned. “You’re the boss.”

  “I am not the boss. I am merely an employee.”

  “Is there a Mr. Wright?”

  “When was the last time a woman dumped you?” she asked.

  “That’s irrelevant,” he said.

  “You are exactly right,” she said and turned her back to him.

  Lenny Goss stared at her before his face lit up. “Hey, that’s great. You’re a great comedian—straight face and all! You rock, mama!” He roared with laughter and turned to me. “Isn’t she a hoot?”

  “If you say so,” I said and tried to give him enough of a smile that he didn’t feel offended but not enough that he’d keep talking.

  Lenny had enough sense to shut up. He pulled a toothpick out of his jacket pocket and started to pick his teeth. He was about five feet five with elevated heels that brought him to about five seven. He was chubby—that’s the kindest word I can use—not quite obese, but he was well on his way. He had that awful carrot-red hair, pale green eyes, and skin pocked with acne scars from his teen years.

  “Please eat,” Amanda said. She sat at the table twisting a gold lace handkerchief that matched her outfit. As I watched her hands, I sensed that she tried to project a stronger image of the grieving widow than she felt.

  It also struck me that no one had walked over to her to express sympathy. Jason was seated next to her and patted her hand a few times. I wasn’t sure about his emotions. He had been volatile toward Wayne Holmestead, but now he seemed sad. Was that genuine? I wasn’t sure.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. I got up and walked toward the kitchen. My action seemed to give permission to the others. Jason followed me, and immediately behind him was Reginald Ford. I had met him once—briefly—at Roger’s house. If I remember correctly, he is the head of the largest construction firm along the Georgia coast.

  He wasn’t a particularly good-looking man, but he wasn’t ugly. About six feet tall. His prematurely white hair probably made him look older, but as I studied his face, I pegged him for mid- to late thirties. Reginald had an athletic build and wore a tailored shirt that emphasized his muscular arms. But there was something about him I didn’t like. I’ve learned to rely on my instincts,
and I felt he wasn’t a man I could trust.

  Next to him stood the bottled-blond with what I call a plastic smile. Maybe I think of her that way because she was so beautiful. She was probably one of those girls who never had to squeeze a pimple in her life. She wore thin, spiked Charles Jourdan shoes that made her nearly three inches taller than Reginald. She carried a sleek, cornflower blue Hermes shoulder bag that looked perfect with her Chanel suit. Her pale blue scarf probably cost her more than my entire wardrobe.

  “Your face looks slightly familiar,” I said, “But I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Everybody knows me,” she said and flashed her plastic smile. She posed with her right arm in the air as though she held a pointer in her hand.

  “The weather girl! Beth Wilson! That’s who you are!” Lenny said.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, twirled, and bowed slightly—just the way she performed at the end of each of her weathercasts. She had one of those naturally thin bodies most of us women hate because we know we can’t be like her.

  “Then you’ll want something to eat,” I said, unaware of my non sequitur until the words popped out of my mouth. Embarrassed, I turned and led the line back to the kitchen. I’m fairly thin—not Beth Wilson thin—yet when I get nervous, eating calms me down. After all, someone had just been killed. Or maybe I just use that as an excuse. Besides, I know that Mrs. Wright’s squid tastes like no one else on the planet can cook it. Okay, Roger insisted we call it calamari, but it’s still squid to me.

  Eventually we all sat down at the dining room table. The calamari was excellent and the vegetables tasted as if they had been cooked at a five-star hotel. The now-lukewarm fish consommé still rated better than at any restaurant I’ve visited. Amanda didn’t appear to have moved from her chair. Lenny had finished his soup, returned to the kitchen, and come back to the table with two bowls for himself.

  “You really like that consommé, do you?” I asked.

  Lenny had been so busy shoveling it into his mouth, it took two seconds for the message to get through.