Murder at the Million Dollar Pier

by Gwen Mayo

  “That woman killed my father!” Evelyn pointed at Teddy.

  Teddy, arms and knees covered with sand, sat up on her heels. Her face was flushed from a combination of physical exertion and the start of a sunburn. “I did not,” she snapped.

  Evelyn turned and buried her face in Arthur’s shoulder. He took up the refrain. “You were a nurse. I’m certain you knew the perfect poison to use on Mr. Stevens.”

  Behind Arthur, a young woman scribbled furiously in a small notebook. She was partially hidden by the Prettyman truck, but Cornelia recognized the reporter who’d followed Mitch to their hotel.

  Many of the would-be homeowners had stopped digging and were watching the show. The land agent approached the two families, an appalled expression on his face. “Ladies! Please, no more—”

  The professor’s voice boomed, drowning him out. “That’s slander, young man. Watch what you say about my fiancée.”

  Sweet Jesus, Cornelia thought. Her uncle was digging this hole of lies deeper and deeper under them. Didn’t he care that the woman with Evelyn was a reporter? Clearly, the Stevens family had chummed up with the sneaky little troublemaker. She would love to smack that smug expression off Arthur’s face, but that would only add to the trouble.

  “Why are you hounding us?” Evelyn asked. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and pressed it to damp eyes. “Can’t you leave us alone?”

  “My dear girl,” Percival said gently, “we aren’t hounding you. Rather the opposite; we believed getting away from the hotel would spare your family some rancor. I brought my bride-to-be here to find a future home.”

  “Bride-to-be?” Arthur sneered. “You must be older than Moses. She’s taking advantage of you, you old coot.”

  Cornelia started to speak, but her uncle spoke up.

  “I’d part the Red Sea for her,” the professor said. “But I’ll settle for parting your hair with my cane if you insult her again.”

  Prettyman stepped between the two families. “Gentlemen, ladies, this is not the place to settle your differences. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “I fully agree, and shall bid you adieu,” the professor said, taking Teddy by the arm. “Come, dear.”

  “They started it,” Teddy muttered as she was led to the car.

  Cornelia handed the land agent’s shovel back to him and followed. “Well, that was a bust,” she said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, Uncle Percival.”

  “I wouldn’t have purchased land from that man anyway,” the old man replied. “Based on his plats, some of those lots were underwater. I believe that ‘land agent’ in Florida may just be another term for ‘crook.’”

  After their return to the hotel, the trio took dinner in their room. No one felt sociable or had a desire to run into the Stevens family again. The professor turned in right after dinner. He claimed that he planned to get up early. Cornelia could see the dark circles under his eyes.

  Teddy went downstairs to hear the Paul Whiteman orchestra, over Cornelia’s protests. She insisted that either she was going to dance her troubles away or drink them away. Given the options, Cornelia relented, but not before warning her of the risk of running into one of the Stevens family members.

  “Mrs. Stevens is in mourning. She’s not going to be out dancing.”

  “Young Violet or Evelyn might,” Cornelia countered. “Evelyn would probably bring Arthur with her.”

  Teddy pondered for a moment. “If you’re so worried about me running into one of the children, you should come along. You could dance your distress away, too.”

  Cornelia simply wasn’t up to it. The afternoon’s confrontation had renewed her disgust with humanity in general, and the Stevens family in particular. Teddy had promised Uncle Percival that she wouldn’t resort to liquor again, but Cornelia began seriously thinking about raiding her companion’s stash.

  When Teddy had gone, she decided that she must put worry aside. She picked up the Willa Cather book she was reading and forced herself to concentrate on it. Cornelia normally derived great pleasure from reading, but the memory of what happened in Oldsmar kept nipping at her nerves. Why in the world would Evelyn Stevens show up there? Arthur had a business in Oldsmar, but would he really bring his grieving fiancée to a land sale? She was sure Evelyn was trying to pin her father’s murder on Teddy. Would Arthur be party to an orchestrated scene like that? Perhaps he hoped it would distract Evelyn from her grief. Men were sometimes uncomfortable with women’s tears.

  The outside door of the suite slammed shut. The door to their room flew open. Teddy stomped in, clutching a newspaper in her hand. She was flushed and gasping for air.

  “What’s wrong?” Cornelia jumped to her feet, alarmed.

  “That Hornbuckle woman!” Teddy flung the newspaper down on a bed. “She worked fast. I wish Mitch had throttled her; I’d like to.”

  Cornelia picked up the offending object, the newest edition of the Evening Independent. Behind her, Teddy yanked off her shoes and flung them into the wardrobe.

  “‘Disgraced Socialite Prime Suspect in Murder,’” she read aloud. “What in the world?”

  “That’s only the headline,” her companion snapped. She ripped off her bandeau and slammed it on the dresser. She almost followed suit with her pearls, but thought better of it. “That insufferable witch! Everyone was pointing at me and whispering!”

  The article was on the front page, unusual for a society column. Cornelia read further:

  City police have been looking for the mystery woman who was seen climbing into the Stevens’ family yacht last Saturday. She was described as being of tall stature, slender, and wearing a drop waist turquoise dress embroidered with butterflies. Her cloche hat was dark blue or navy, and witnesses believe her hair was light blonde or silver. The woman may have used a cane for assistance while climbing onto the Nittany Nob.

  Bobby’s characterization of the ‘mystery woman’ was certainly more detailed than Mitch’s. Probably because she was a society columnist. The part about the cane was interesting; that bit hadn’t been included in the Times article. Had she put that in to further incriminate Teddy, or had Mitch omitted the detail to protect her?

  The subject of her train of thought interrupted her. “Did you see the part about my past in Pennsylvania yet?”

  “I hadn’t gotten that far.” She looked at the article again:

  According to sources in Erie, Miss Lawless was engaged to marry Ansel Stevens in 1883. Announcements were made and gifts sent, but shortly before the wedding Miss Lawless left him for the lights of New York—and the charms of another young man. Stevens broke the engagement with cause, one that would have embarrassed the Lawless family if he had sued for breach of promise.

  It would take the warm breezes and palm trees of Florida to bring the two together again in explosive fashion. Since her arrival in Saint Petersburg, Miss Lawless has publicly assaulted Stevens twice and has hounded his family. Local police have taken a strong interest in her whereabouts the day before the ill-fated yacht race, given the witness accounts from the marina.

  Anger—and fear for Teddy—swelled inside her. “This woman should be sued for libel. And her newspaper, too!”

  Today, Theodora Lawless and her new fiancé, Percival Pettijohn, were digging for gold in Tampa Shores, or at least Miss Lawless was. An unpleasant confrontation ensued when Oldsmar nursery owner Arthur Downs showed up with his fiancée, the stylish Evelyn Stevens. They confronted the gold-digger, and Professor Pettijohn gallantly rose to her defense, creating a scene. The northerners were asked to leave the premises.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” Cornelia said. “Uncle Percival didn’t think of the consequences when he said you were engaged. He’s doubled the scandal.” She considered sharing her belief that Bobby Hornbuckle was being used by the family, but that would only fuel Teddy’s anger.

  “That’s not making me feel better.” Teddy grabbed one of the bottles of Coca-Cola she’d purchased, th
en opened the case with the Ball jars.

  “Remember what you promised Uncle Percival,” Cornelia reminded her.

  “I remember, but I need something.” She filled a glass halfway with the soda, then topped it off with the pale liquid from the jar. “This day has been awful.”

  “Well, if you’re going to do it anyway,” Cornelia said, “give me some. I’ve had a bad day, too.”

  Teddy mixed a second drink, more soda than booze, and handed it to Cornelia, who took a deep draught.

  She coughed and almost spit it back into the glass. “You said you had leftover rum from our visit to Homosassa.”

  “Never waste good rum on a bad night.”

  “You’re right; Mr. Scroggins’ product is probably a better pairing with this miserable day.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The drive to the airfield was made in uncomfortable silence. Cornelia feared it was a mistake to intrude upon Mac after yesterday’s heated exchange with his sister. Telling Uncle Percival that they should stay in their suite, though, was worse than trying to keep Teddy from excessive drinking. She was almost looking forward to returning to Colorado. Twelve to eighteen-hour shifts in a hospital operating room were less exhausting than spending her leave with the two of them.

  She shifted down to make the turn onto Tyrone Boulevard. The Dodge Brothers sedan glided onto the long open stretch of road, and she pressed the accelerator. Unlike the tourists’ areas of Saint Petersburg, Tyrone Boulevard was a mix of residential and business areas, dotted with clusters of old live oaks and the occasional bay or banyan tree.

  The tranquility of driving along in early morning quiet allowed her mind to relax. She forgot about everything except the rumble of the engine and the pleasure of being behind the wheel of her sedan. It’s too bad that I have to stop, she thought with a mental sigh, as she turned left onto the access road to the airfield.

  A young man in greasy overalls greeted her at the gate. She rolled down the window. Smoke from the engine of a nearby jenny and stench of burning castor oil made her stomach churn. Cornelia fought back the bile. She’d never understood how the airmen got used to the scent.

  “Can I help you?” the young man asked. “You folks lost?”

  “Not lost. I’m looking for Mac Stevens. He is supposed to have a warehouse or workshop around here.”

  “Gosh. Not on the field.” He waved at the acres of fresh mown grass. “We ain’t even got a hanger built yet. She’s coming along fine, though. The best airfield this side of the bay.”

  The pride in his voice made Cornelia smile. She wasn’t sure what he did at the airfield, but he had the flying bug as much as any of the young airmen she’d known. He would find a way to soar above the clouds. “There must be someplace near the field that men work on their planes.”

  He looked her over as he considered the matter.

  Cornelia tried to look less intimidating. It was too bad Teddy was sleeping it off this morning. Her natural charm would have had the information by now.

  Professor Pettijohn pointed to the camera and tripod in the back seat. “Mr. Stevens invited us to film his aeroplane. We’re already late. Are you sure you can’t help us?”

  “Shucks, mister, I’m sure he won’t mind. Go back that way until you see an open field to your right. There’s a couple of old warehouses hidden behind a stand of trees. You can’t miss his. ‘Stevens and Wells’ is painted across the front in letters about two yards tall.”

  “Much obliged,” the professor said, as Cornelia turned around and headed back the way they’d come.

  Mac was surprised when he opened the door to his office and saw Cornelia standing there with the motion picture equipment. The shock disappeared, replaced by confusion.

  “Nurse Pettijohn? After what happened yesterday, I didn’t expect you would want to have anything to do with me or my family.”

  Cornelia looked him in the eye. “Do you think Theodora murdered your father?”

  He was taken aback by the question. “No, of course not.”

  Professor Pettijohn smiled. “Good. Then we’ll consider that a closed subject and move on to what we came to see.”

  “Uncle Percival, please. Show a little restraint.” Cornelia placed a hand on Mac’s arm. “Allow me to at least offer our condolences. Whatever else he was, Ansel was your father. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Mac replied. “I didn’t like Father very much, but I did love him. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean. Our loved ones are not always easy to like. Differences build up into walls that keep us apart.”

  “It is ironic. Father always wanted me to be like him. I didn’t realize until he was gone that we were too much alike in all the wrong ways.”

  “I would say you took after him in the right ways,” Professor Pettijohn said. “You grew up to be a strong, independent, and hard-working young man. Those are not flaws; they are the building blocks of success.”

  Mac’s voice cracked. “Not in his eyes. We were always at odds. I think that’s why the police have me pegged as his killer. They’ve questioned me three times now.”

  Cornelia had her doubts about the police having him pegged as the killer, given the newspaper reports, but she nodded. She wasn’t sure who was responsible for Ansel’s death. Her instincts told her that Mac was a good man, but in the right circumstances good people were as capable of murder as bad ones.

  “Young man, your father was blinded by his own desire to live on through you,” her uncle said. “That isn’t something a father has the right to ask of his son. Believe me, I know what it is to break with tradition. My father was a farmer, and his father before him was a farmer. I was an engineer.”

  He paced the floor as he spoke. “Father never understood that. The family farm was passed on to me because I was the eldest son. It made no practical sense. My younger brother was a born farmer; he managed his farm, and the one that I inherited, until the day he died. Now I lease the land out until I pass it on to the next generation. I hope that among my sister’s progeny I can find a farmer.”

  “I wish I believed that I could be a builder,” Mac said. “Or that one of my sisters had been born male. It would make my life easier. But enough about that. Let me show you around the shop.”

  Cornelia picked up the camera and followed the them into the warehouse. Along one wall was a long row of identical wooden crates, each stamped “CurtissOX5.” She set up the camera and panned down the row.

  “Those are the backbone of our business,” Mac said. “Kicker, or rather my partner, Yancy Wells, was an aircraft mechanic during the War. Before that, he worked for Curtiss building airplane engines. There were thousands of surplus engines made before the war ended. The government unloaded them cheap.”

  Cornelia smiled at the memory of the lanky mechanic nicknamed for his propensity to kick troublesome engines with the heel of his boot. Nobody ever figured out how his system worked, but engines no one else could start hummed after a good kick from Yancy.

  “So, you went into the aeroplane business,” the professor said.

  “That’s how it started. We had the idea of building our own planes, using the surplus engines, but a lot of other guys had the same idea. Some of them still go into planes, but here in Florida, boats are way more popular. We started modifying the engines for use in racing boats. Now we have customers willing to wait months to get one of our custom-designed boats. We’ve reached the point where Kicker spends all his time helping racers maintain the engines, while I produce new boats.”

  He uncovered the vessel he was working on, and the professor grinned. “I believe I had the pleasure of riding in one of your boats. A young man in Homosassa has one similar to this.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Kicker and I have been producing them for about eight years.”

  The professor peppered him with technical questions.

  Cornelia filmed for a little while l
onger, then left the camera on its tripod and had a seat on one of the crates while the two men climbed into the boat and examined the engine. She wished she had brought her book along. There was no telling how long her uncle would keep pestering Mac with his questions. Instead, she tried to piece together what she knew about the murder. Ansel had been poisoned by the sweatband in his cap, which sounded far-fetched, but had worked. Teddy’s motives had been made public by Miss Hornbuckle, but there were plenty of other motives to go around.

  It was no secret that Mac didn’t get along with his father. As the eldest, he stood to inherit the bulk of the business. Mac claimed he didn’t want the business, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t want the money. His share of the family fortune would build a lot of boats and airplanes. There was also plenty of opportunity: being on the boat with his father during the race gave him easy access. It was no wonder the police were hounding him. When they’d seen him striding towards the hotel the other day, was he coming from the marina?

  Then there were Violet and Harry; she couldn’t see one of them acting without the other. The picture of Ansel dragging his daughter away from Harry was indelible. Harry’s anger, the fear in Violet’s eyes, the way she mouthed the word “no” when Harry took a step toward her. If Ansel had found out about their secret meetings, they might have motive.

  Ansel’s objection to Harry’s courtship had led to that ill-fated race. Violet’s young man clearly found the way he treated his wife and family contemptable, based on what Teddy had told her. With Harry sleeping on his boat near the Nittany Nob, he had plenty of chances to poison anything in Ansel’s possession. But why would he, since he was already married to Violet?