by Gwen Mayo
“It’s better than a sentimental tragedy,” Teddy sighed. “Yes, I would love to escape for the evening.”
They entered a raucously loud and crowded hotel lobby. A knot of people blocked the entrance to the dining room. Cornelia looked closer and saw that the steps were blocked by a hungry pack of reporters. Those loathsome creatures surrounded the Stevens family, jockeying for the spot closest to the widow. The ones who couldn’t get close enough to be heard above the noise fired loud, injurious questions at Mrs. Stevens.
She caught a glimpse of the new widow when Mac shoved a burly reporter hard enough to topple him and several cohorts to the floor. Mrs. Stevens wore unrelieved black. Her hat was draped in layers of black mesh heavy enough to block her own vision. Still, it gave her a buffer from the vultures. Her son edged her down the stairs, and the girls were flanking her on each side. The older one, Evelyn, spotted Cornelia and gave her a poisonous look. Then she pointed at the three of them and said something to the closest member of the Fourth Estate. The reporter turned in their direction.
Cornelia extended her arm to stop her companions. “Get back in the lift now,” she said in an urgent tone. “Go up a floor. Get off and walk to the other lift. I’ll get the car and wait for you at the far door.”
Teddy and the professor immediately retreated to the elevator doors.
Cornelia charged across the lobby, intent on beating the pack to the exit. The reporter from the Evening Independent, the only female in the bunch, broke from the group and made a beeline for Teddy. As she did so, a man followed and grabbed her by the waist. It was Mitch.
“Grant!” the woman hissed. “Let go of me.” She kicked backwards with her sharp heels and freed herself—but the brass elevator doors had already closed. The reporter had to content herself with unleashing her anger on Mitch.
“Serves him right,” Cornelia muttered. She wasn’t ready to forgive him for leading that woman to Teddy’s door. Mitch was smart enough to know better.
Cornelia awoke later than usual. The image of the yacht crashing into the pier kept invading her dreams. Ansel wasn’t at the helm, though; Teddy was. She turned over to look for her companion. After they’d returned from the play, Teddy had downed half the contents of a Ball jar by herself. Judging from the wadded pile of blankets, it hadn’t been enough to keep her from an equally restless night.
She sat up and patted the pile in the area where Teddy’s shoulder was most likely to be. “Time to get up.”
A moan was the answer, followed by, “Why?”
Cornelia sighed as she opened the curtains to let in the morning sun. “Because Uncle is probably already dressed and waiting to have breakfast with us.” She could picture her uncle moving from one of his clocks to the next as if that would make Teddy get dressed any sooner. Between his obsession with punctuality and hers with alcohol, Cornelia couldn’t win. She was always defending one of them to the other.
“You go. I’m certain he doesn’t want to be seen with me today.”
“Well, I want to see you, so get up.”
“It’s so awful,” Teddy whined.
“It is awful,” Cornelia agreed, “but the gossip will be worse if we go downstairs without you.”
“You know how to hurt a girl!” The pile of blankets sat up and parted, revealing Teddy. Her close-cropped curls had gone awry during the night and resembled a herd of silver buffalo preparing to jump off the left side of her head.
Cornelia didn’t hide her smile. “You should go get freshened up. I would suggest starting with your new hairdo.”
“I dread going down there,” Teddy said. She reached for her robe.
“We can’t eat every meal out,” Cornelia said. “Our hotel suite is on the American plan. All our meals are included in the price of the room. Each time we eat elsewhere, we are wasting Uncle Percival’s money."
Teddy approached the mirror and stopped. “'Freshen up’ was rather an understatement, don’t you think? My appearance needs major renovations.”
They were later than usual to the dining room, but they were still serving breakfast. Percival pointed to a table near the French doors, but Teddy pleaded that they sit elsewhere.
“My eyes are still strained from the theater; they’re not ready for full sunlight. Perhaps a nice dark corner …”
The professor indicated the newspaper he’d picked up from the front desk. “I planned to look at the real estate ads this morning. There might be some prospects we could visit later when your eyes have, er, recovered.”
Cornelia suggested a nearby table. “Perhaps that would be a good spot. It has decent light, and Teddy could sit facing away from the windows.”
They accepted the compromise and persuaded the maître d’ to seat them at their compromise table. The attendant came for their breakfast order and offered them coffee. Teddy asked for tea and toast, her usual breakfast the morning after the night before. She normally liked an ice pack as well, but the room was a little formal for that.
“What about the Eggs Benedict?” Percival asked.
“The theater also affects her stomach,” Cornelia said. “I’ll take the eggs and bacon.”
“But the dish was invented as a remedy for ‘theater stomach,’” the professor protested. “What could be milder than ham and eggs on toast?”
“I don’t think I could look at that without getting sick,” Teddy said.
The professor had no argument for that. “The same as my niece,” he told the waiter. Once the young man was gone, he added, “Let’s not do the theater tonight, ladies. I would like to be able to order what I please without fear of creating another spectacle in the dining room.”
He placed the Saint Petersburg Times face down on the table and sorted through the sections. When he found the real estate section, he folded the sheets until only the ads were exposed.
Cornelia was puzzled. The elderly professor believed in precision, punctuality, and a proper sequence in everything. In all the years she’d known him, her uncle had read the newspaper in precise order, from the front page to the classifieds. The front page. Of course, the old dear was protecting Teddy. Ansel’s death would be the lead story.
The same thing must have occurred to Teddy at the same time; she eyed the newspaper. “Why did you start from the back, professor?”
“I decided I should go directly to the real estate section to save time,” Percival said. “We’ll also want to cross-reference the locations with a map of the county.”
Her brows wrinkled. “It’s upside down. What are you not showing me?”
“We don’t need to trouble ourselves with the news right away,” he dissembled. “This is supposed to be a vacation.”
She reached for the stack of newsprint; he laid a hand atop it.
“Let me see,” Teddy demanded. “It’s about his death, isn’t it? Did you read about it already?”
“Not the entire article. It was continued on page three.” He met her eyes. “Do you really want to see?”
She sighed. “Yes. Otherwise, I’ll be thinking about it all day.”
The professor relinquished the Times. She drew the front section out and flipped it over. The server returned with Teddy’s tea. He placed it beside her plate, where it was ignored.
“‘Tragic end to yacht race; prominent developer dead. Murder?’ Hmm, why murder?”
Yes, why? Cornelia waited for more. She noticed that her uncle was no longer reading the classifieds. With her uncle’s gift for quick memorization, he had to know at least some of the article’s contents.
Teddy studied the article further, then read aloud: “'Stevens’ son, Nimrod’—oh, dear, Mac hates people using his first name—'states that during the race, his father fell ill and collapsed at the helm. He attempted to render aid, but to no avail. The Stevens vessel, the Nittany Nob, crashed into the new city pier, which is still under construction. Mr. Stevens was rescued by workers and rushed to the Mound Park Hospital, where he subsequently died. The Saint Petersburg
police are investigating the death as suspicious for reasons that they are not making public at this time.’ Well, that’s not fair.”
"I'm sure Mitch felt the same way. Or did someone else write the article after all?"
"Oh, he wrote it. He even used some of the information I gave him. Maybe he was simply interested in getting details about Ansel."
"That female reporter disagreed, and so do I," Cornelia replied. "He smelled a scoop and followed it to you."
Their food arrived, and she tucked into it, as did the professor. The eggs were done to perfection, and the bacon was crispy. These disappeared rapidly, while Teddy’s toast grew cold.
“Oh, dear, the police have been questioning Mac,” Teddy said, turning to page three. “As the only son, he stands to inherit the business. If they knew him like we do, they wouldn’t bother. The boy was always a straight arrow.”
“An arrow is dangerous under the proper circumstances,” Cornelia replied, but she, too, had trouble picturing Mac as a murderer. “What about Violet’s young man?”
“He’s mentioned,” Teddy said. “He lives on his boat and might have gained access to Ansel’s vessel when they were both in the same marina. The police didn’t question him at the time because no one realized it was murder yet.”
“He works in construction, but lives on his boat?” Uncle Percival commented. “That’s an interesting way to travel from job site to job site.”
“Look!” Teddy’s voice went up an octave. She covered her mouth and flushed. “I’m in here,” she whispered.
Cornelia took the article away and read:
The police have also questioned Miss Theodora Lawless, who is visiting Saint Petersburg with her family. Miss Lawless is alleged to have publicly assaulted Mr. Stevens because of a personal dispute.
“That’s not too bad,” she reassured her companion.
“Assaulted,” Teddy said. “It sounds so harsh. It was just a slap.”
“Well, there was the kicking incident as well.”
“My foot slipped.”
“It must have been the wax on the floor.”
“Ladies,” Uncle Percival said, “engaging as the article is, I think it is best put into the past, now that it’s been read. There are several prospective homes we should visit this morning. Once we are further from the Stevens family, matters will have a chance to calm down.”
The professor reached for his paper. “As for the article, we can’t hold that against Mr. Grant. Reporting crime news is his job.”
Both women glared at him.
His ears turned red, but he didn’t retract his comment. He took the wire of his hearing device out of his ear, cleared his throat, and turned back to the classified section. “There is a house in Roser Park that’s available for the remainder of the season. That might be a good place to start our search. I’ll contact the agent and arrange a time to view the property.”
Cornelia wasn’t going to let him weasel out of it that easily, but further discussion was going to wait until he could hear every word.
chapter ten
Behind the wheel of her Dodge Brothers sedan, Cornelia’s clenched jaw began to relax. In the back seat, a subdued Teddy gazed out the window. She doubted that the stately old live oaks dripping with Spanish moss were giving her comfort. At least they were away from reporters, whispers, and accusations on the drive through suburban streets.
She wasn’t sure why her uncle wanted to go house-hunting today. Perhaps the expense of staying in a lavish hotel was behind his desire to rent a house. She doubted that, though. He was so happy with his excellent view of pier construction.
It was hard to stay mad at her uncle; the old dear was right. Mitch was a crime reporter. The Stevens murder had enough sensational features to make headlines for weeks. He would be a fool to ignore Teddy’s involvement. The idea of Teddy being a suspect tightened the muscles in her neck again to painful levels. Perhaps she shouldn’t have slapped him in public or kicked him in the ankle. But after what he did, that Stevens creature deserved much worse treatment.
“Where are we headed?” Cornelia asked her uncle.
The old man handed her a sketched map with the route from the hotel to their destination marked.
Cornelia’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t this a little too far out of the city, Uncle?”
“I think you’ll approve when you see the neighborhood. Brick streets, trolley service, and electric street lights. It’s also within blocks of Mound Park Hospital.”
She glanced at Teddy again. “You make it sound like a modern utopia.”
“I think that’s what Mr. Roser had in mind. Locating enough paving brick for eighty blocks of his development is quite an accomplishment, not to mention a considerable expense.”
She chuckled. “What makes you think he didn’t do that to sell more houses?”
Professor Pettijohn shook his head. “When did you become such a cynic? You had such high-minded ideals when you were young.”
“When I was a girl, we didn’t have men on every street corner hawking property day and night.”
“I see your point, Corny. These Florida land deals never stop. Not that I have room to complain.” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at himself. “I was never much inclined to take time off when I could be productive.”
Cornelia wasn’t laughing. “I don’t feel comfortable about these Florida land deals. The prices are insane. People buy and sell land in the same day. Eventually, there will be nobody left to buy.”
“I agree; that’s why I decided to rent instead of buy a home this winter. The rent may cost as much as buying a house in Kentucky, but it isn’t as crazy as the home prices.”
She smiled at him.
“If it makes you feel any better, Corny, the Rosers moved here from Ohio long before the land boom. All of the houses in that neighborhood are over a decade old.”
“Have you been reading up on all the local developers? You seem to know a lot about this one.”
“How could I not know about Charles Roser? He invented my favorite treat, Fig Newtons. Made his fortune from the recipe.”
Cornelia stopped to let a gaggle of children cross the street. “Really, Uncle?”
“Yes, really. He and his wife sold their factory and the recipe. They moved from their small town in Ohio to Saint Petersburg.”
Once the road cleared, Cornelia handed the map back to her uncle. “What made him decide to become a developer? That seems like a big leap from running a bakery.”
“He made a couple of hotel investments, but didn’t go beyond that for a while. His wife liked the warm climate, but she missed the kind of community they left behind. He set out to create one.”
“You can’t create a small town by building houses at the edge of a city.”
“Maybe not, but I think the Rosers came close. They bought a few small parcels of land and built houses and small shops. Then he donated land for neighborhood parks and a public school. He also built a home for nurses near the hospital and contributed funds to build a hospital for coloreds. I’m looking forward to seeing how his vision turned out.”
“I guess you’ll get your chance soon enough. Right, Teddy?”
At the sound of her name Teddy turned to look up front. “What?”
“We were talking about Roser Park.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t paying attention.”
The professor turned in his seat. “Never mind. It wasn’t important. If you’d like, we can forgo looking at houses until another time.”
Teddy forced a smile. “You’re so sweet. Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn’t dream of having you miss an appointment on my account.”
His face reddened to the point that his snowy beard glowed pale pink.
Cornelia turned onto Roser Park Drive and motored through a canopy of green above dark red streets and walkways. The neighborhood was indeed as beautiful as her uncle made it seem. Houses varied in style from Mediterranean to Bungalow.
Cornelia had to admit the Rosers had come close to creating a small town feel in their neighborhood. The area was also hillier than she expected. Many of the homes had retaining walls next to the walkways and were perched atop landscaped slopes with flights of stone steps leading to their doors. She couldn’t picture her uncle making that climb.
Arthur spent the night at the Vinoy, sleeping on the couch. He called the assistant manager of his nursery the following morning to let him know that he would not be coming in. He could still remember how difficult it was when his parents passed away. It was more important that he be with Evelyn and the family than to go to work. She was going to be his wife, and by extension the Stevens were his family now.
Once or twice, he regretted his decision to stay. He didn’t know what to say to Evelyn. She had to be so hurt. Then the police showed up. Detective Knaggs was civil, but the morning was spent in further interviews—a waste of time, in his opinion. Nobody had anything useful to say. Afterwards, Evelyn volunteered to contact the staff of both Stevens offices about the death: the office here, and the one in Erie. Arthur offered to escort her downstairs to make those calls.
“Bring your jacket,” she said, draping her own over her arm.
After several calls, during which his fiancée assured more than one employee that they still had jobs, Evelyn gave the phone back to the concierge. She exited the double doors and descended the marble stairs, Arthur at her well-shaped heels. He glanced idly at the palm trees planted in front of the hotel. They looked good now, but in a few decades, they would be tall enough to obscure part of the view. Perhaps seeing palms and water together was part of the intent.
At first, he believed that Evelyn was seeking sunshine and fresh air to clear her head. She’d been devoted to her father, and his death must have been a terrible blow. He remembered how shocked he’d been when his father dropped stone dead between two rows of dwarf lemon trees. Mother was already gone, and there were no other relatives to help him with arrangements. He hadn’t known what to do.