The Fitzgerald Ruse

by Mark de Castrique

  Derrick’s jaw dropped. “She must have been in her nineties.” He turned to me. “Who would kill an old lady?”

  Maybe he thought I was more familiar with the seamy side of the world. “We don’t know,” I said. “The police are investigating. We’re following through on our leads in an effort to assist them. But we need your help.”

  Derrick leaned forward. “What do you want to know?”

  “Ethel said she worked here during the summer of 1935,” Nakayla said. “When F. Scott Fitzgerald had a room.”

  “He was in and out that summer, and the summer of 1936 as well. He usually had room 441 or 443. He liked the fourth floor.”

  “Ethel Barkley said she worked the fourth floor.”

  Derrick shrugged. “She could have picked that information up anywhere.”

  I interrupted Nakayla’s questioning. “Ethel had an autographed copy of The Great Gatsby. It was inscribed ‘To Ethel—my palmist-in-training. May your future always be bright.’”

  “Palmist-in-training?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She told us she learned to read palms from Laura Guthrie Hearne, who entertained the guests with her fortune-telling.”

  Derrick reflexively glanced at his own palms. “That’s certainly possible. At that point, the Grove Park Inn had begun taking a more active role in providing diversions for the guests.”

  “It hadn’t always been that way?” Nakayla asked.

  “No. Grove’s son-in-law, Fred Seely, was the real brain behind the operation of the inn. He and Grove modeled it after the Old Faithful Inn in Yellowstone National Park. None of the plans submitted by architects pleased Grove or Seely. Finally, Seely drew up his own sketch, using boulders instead of logs. He stunned everyone by promising he could build it in a year. They broke ground on July 9, 1912 and opened for business July 13, 1913.”

  “He missed by four days,” I said.

  “And you can be sure Seely wasn’t happy about it. He was a tough taskmaster. The first two general managers quit after working only one year each. He laid down the law to everyone, including the guests.”

  “Would he and Fitzgerald have locked horns?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes. If Seely had still been in charge. He envisioned the inn as a place for wealthy people to enjoy rest and relaxation, peace and quiet. If guests got too loud in the Great Hall, a printed card was delivered asking them to be more subdued. Children were discouraged, dogs forbidden, no alcohol was served, and you couldn’t run water in your room after ten-thirty.”

  “Not exactly the kind of place I’d expect to find the Father of the Jazz Age,” I said.

  “Things had loosened up by 1935. Seely and Grove had had a falling out. When Grove died in 1927, Seely was excluded from the will and any operations of the inn. Fortunately, he’d purchased Biltmore Industries from Edith Vanderbilt, George’s widow, years before, so he set up shop right across the street. The buildings are still there.”

  “Must have been a bitter pill,” I said.

  Derrick smiled. “Seely kept a hand in the game. The heirs sold the inn shortly after Grove’s death, and Seely worked as a consultant for the new owners. His austere philosophy had to give way to a more accommodating atmosphere.” Derrick scratched the side of his face as he thought for a second. “Of course, Fitzgerald still taxed management’s patience. He had the bellboys sneak in beer, which he considered a concession to cutting back on hard liquor. He had a very public affair with a married woman who was here caring for her sister, and people came to his room at all hours of the night.”

  Derrick’s depiction matched what Ethel had told me. “Did he become involved in the local community?”

  “No. But I think he was courteous to local writers and admirers. Thomas Wolfe didn’t return to Asheville till 1937, so Fitzgerald had the literary stage all to himself.”

  “Did he hold court with his admirers?”

  Derrick shook his head. “Not really. Famous figures of the early twentieth century frequently came to the inn. Harry Houdini, Henry Ford, Al Jolson, Will Rogers, and almost every U.S. President. Fitzgerald was at the low point of his career. He’d even been given a literary obituary by the New York Post.”

  “How’d he afford to stay?”

  “Friends with money. And he was selling the occasional magazine story, although he wrote very little while he was here.” Derrick glanced at his watch. “Do you have time to see his rooms? One of them might be vacant.”

  I wasn’t sure how that would help our investigation, but I was curious to glimpse where Ethel and Fitzgerald had met so many years ago.

  Nakayla rose quickly. “That would be great, if it’s no trouble.”

  Derrick waved a hand to one side. “No problem, unless they’re occupied. We’ll check the front desk.”

  He led us out of the classroom and up a long flight of stairs. We passed through a narrow door and stepped into a wide corridor. Rounding a corner to the right, we entered the Great Hall of the Grove Park Inn, virtually unchanged since its grand opening over ninety-four years ago.

  The space had to be over a hundred feet long. Guests entering through the main entrance found themselves between two incredible stone fireplaces running the width of the opposite walls. In a few months, trunk-sized logs would blaze on the massive andirons and the sweet scent of wood smoke would mingle with the multitude of aromas generated by the inn’s extravagant buffet.

  Nowhere did the influence of the magnificent lodges of the Rockies appear more clearly than in this room, although the terrace off the rear didn’t overlook jagged peaks and harsh bluffs. Instead patrons gazed at the ancient, rounded Appalachian hills shaped by eons of wind and rain and covered with a thick growth of hardwoods and evergreens. A hint of pink tinted the wisps of clouds, promising richer colors as evening neared. The view from the Sunset Terrace would be beautiful for my beer with Hewitt Donaldson.

  “Wait here while I check with the front desk,” Derrick said. “If one of Fitzgerald’s rooms is available, we’ll take the elevator.” He pointed to the closest fireplace where a shaft had been built into its side.

  Nakayla grinned. “I’ve always wanted to ride in that.”

  “If we get stuck, at least we’ll be toasty.” I walked over to a placard mounted on an easel that had been positioned where arriving guests could see it.

  The banner across the top read: “The Fitzgerald—Sumptuous condominiums just steps from the Grove Park Inn Resort and Spa.” Beneath the type, an artist’s rendering showed an elegant beige stucco building adjacent to the inn and sharing the same spectacular view.

  I tapped the word “Fitzgerald” with my finger. “The guy who was the bad boy when he stayed here is now a marketing brand name.”

  “And he’d finally have enough money to be The Great Gatsby,” Nakayla said.

  “How old was he when he died?”

  “Forty-four.”

  “So much for his lifeline. But Ethel said the fortune-teller charged him only a dollar.” I looked at my palm. “He should have paid more.”

  Nakayla took my hand and traced a path from below my wrist to the tip of my middle finger. “That’s the lifeline I wish for you. But my magic’s only good if you stay in Asheville. Fitzgerald had a heart attack in Hollywood. He shouldn’t have left.”

  Hollywood. The place William Dudley Pelley worked before coming here to launch his fascist movement. What a time—the heart of The Great Depression with its politics of the New Deal, Communism, and Fascism all vying for loyalties. What had Fitzgerald found here amid the turbulence shaking the nation and the turmoil racking his personal life? Maybe the timelessness of the mountains or the strength of these stones that created both a shelter and a statement from a bygone age. A place where Jay Gatsby would have been at home.

  I looked across the vast hall. Some people moved quickly, some strolled, and some sat in small groups or alone. For a moment I could see F. Scott Fitzgerald among them: a participant and an observer. And yet the scene would have
been so different in his time. The cluster of businesswomen waiting for a table on the terrace would have disappeared, relegated to being escorted by their husbands. The black couple at the bar would have been washing glasses, not drinking from them. Nakayla and I couldn’t have walked across the room holding hands without drawing icy stares or overt hostility.

  Some things from the past were best buried.

  “We’re in luck.” Derrick held up a magnetic keycard. “441 checked out this morning.” He pressed the CALL button set in the stones.

  As we entered, I asked, “Why’s the elevator in the fireplace?”

  “It saves space. And the rocks insulate the sound of the motor.”

  Nakayla laughed. “So you can ride the elevator after ten-thirty at night but not flush your commode.”

  Derrick shrugged. “Our elevator’s in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not; our commodes aren’t.”

  “For being in the fireplace?” Nakayla asked.

  “This one has three doors.” Derrick swept his hand in an arc in front of him. “We came in the center, and there’s a door to either side. Which one opens depends upon the floor. We’re going to the left for the fourth.”

  Fitzgerald’s room had a brass plaque on the door proclaiming its special heritage. Derrick keyed the lock and allowed Nakayla and me to enter ahead of him. I first noticed that the short entry hall had wooden dresser drawers built into the plaster wall. The room wasn’t large and contained twin beds with slat headboards, a desk, and two wooden armchairs under a single window. Between the desk and the chairs stood an armoire, which I suspected housed a TV and cable box. On the wall hung photographs of Fitzgerald and various historical perspectives on his career and time in Asheville.

  I ran my hand along the surface of the small desk. “Is this the same furniture?”

  “The desk, chairs, headboards, and even the bathtub were in this room when Fitzgerald lived here.”

  “Didn’t he also use 443?” Nakayla asked.

  “Yes.” Derrick walked to a door beside the desk. “It’s adjoining. Occasionally he’d have them both as a suite, but this one was his favorite.”

  I bent between the chairs and looked out the window. “His favorite? He’s facing the parking lot.”

  Derrick smiled. “Exactly. He’d sit here, and, while writing, he’d check out the young women entering the hotel. He’d note down those he’d want to meet later.”

  Nakayla spun around, taking it all in. “Amazing that you’ve been able to preserve everything.”

  “We did patch the bullet hole in the ceiling.”

  I looked up at the unblemished surface. “Fitzgerald had a gunfight?”

  “No. The story is he discharged his handgun in a moment of passion.”

  “Gives new meaning to Mae West’s question: ‘Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?’”

  Nakayla winced. “Really, Sam.”

  Derrick politely let my remark pass and changed the subject. “Most of the Mission Arts and Crafts throughout the inn are originals. The grandfather clock in the Sammons Wing has been appraised at over a million dollars. Unlike the Biltmore House, we don’t keep our treasures roped off.”

  “You must have one hell of a security team.”

  Derrick smiled. “Every employee. That’s why I teach a class on the history. I want them to appreciate what we have.”

  “Fitzgerald didn’t create any literary treasures in this room?” I asked.

  “No. On top of all his other troubles, he severely dislocated his shoulder while diving at Beaver Lake. He was forced to wear a cast and couldn’t type. He tried dictating his stories, but it didn’t work out too well.”

  I turned to Nakayla. “Do you know the lake?”

  “Yes. It’s not too far.”

  “Our guests used to swim there,” Derrick said. “But there’s no swimming allowed now.”

  I paced the room a final time, as if some clue might have escaped detection for over seventy years. “So, Fitzgerald’s stay wasn’t productive.”

  “Not in a literary sense,” Derrick said. “In 1935 he came here for his health because he thought he’d contracted tuberculosis. The next year he returned when Zelda was admitted to Highland Hospital. I don’t think he seriously resumed his writing until he went to Hollywood.”

  “Nothing was written here?” Nakayla asked.

  “I’m not a Fitzgerald scholar. Maybe a few short stories. Like I said, he was in pretty bad shape.”

  He headed for the door, but I side-stepped in front of him. “Do you know if he had anything to do with William Dudley Pelley?”

  “Who?”

  “A guy who lived in Asheville during the 1930s. He founded The Silver Shirts.”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I’ve never heard the name in connection with Fitzgerald.”

  “We know they were interested in him. The Silver Shirts was an organization of fascists and Nazi sympathizers.”

  Derrick shook his head. “Are you sure about the year?”

  “Yes,” Nakayla said. “I found the date from several sources in the Pack Library.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know of any Nazis that were here. Not at that time.”

  “Not at that time” caught my ear. “Were there Nazis here earlier?”

  “No. But in the early forties, the government used the Grove Park Inn as a holding spot for Nazi diplomats. Just till they could be deported. There were guards on the grounds, but no barbed wire. To put it politely, they were unwanted guests.”

  I cut my eyes to Nakayla and saw her nod. In the 1940s, Ethel Barkley and her husband had lived only a few blocks away from the American-based brain trust of Hitler’s Nazi patry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hewitt Donaldson stepped onto the terrace. He squinted against the setting sun and scanned the tables. I rose from my chair and gave enough of a wave to attract his attention.

  He nodded without smiling and headed toward me. His suit had collected a day’s worth of wrinkles. The ponytail was gone and his gray hair now fell around his shoulders in disheveled strands. To judge by appearances, Asheville’s most flamboyant defense attorney had not had a good day in court. But then since I’d last seen him, his aunt had been murdered.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” He pulled out the opposite chair and glanced around as if to make sure no one he knew was sitting within earshot. “Where’s your partner?”

  “In the lobby. She thought you might want to see just me.”

  After our meeting with Derrick Swing, Nakayla had convinced me she’d be more valuable watching for who might be following us.

  “No, she’s welcome to sit in.” He swiveled and looked back into the Great Hall.

  “She ran into a friend,” I lied. “Maybe we’ll see her later.”

  Donaldson summoned a waiter and we both ordered Sam Adams. As soon as we were alone, he scooted closer to the table. “What the hell happened to my aunt?”

  “She was killed by someone posing as a flower deliveryman.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Don’t give me we don’t know,” he snapped. “What do you think?”

  I was getting a taste of what Donaldson’s cross-examinations must be like.

  “I regret to say she might have been murdered because I tried to help her.”

  He stared at me, letting his silence push for further explanation.

  “She was my client. I went to her apartment twice and I retrieved her lockbox.”

  “Lockbox?”

  His question told me the police hadn’t shared that information. I gave him the summary of my experience at the bank and the lockbox’s disappearance from our office.

  “You think that’s why they broke in?”

  “Maybe. But they bugged our phones. I think that’s what they were doing when the guard discovered them. The lockbox might have been their reason, as well, or just something that looked valuable. Once they saw the contents, they must ha
ve figured your aunt either knew something that they wanted kept quiet or they thought she had more information. The problem is neither the police nor I have a handle on the motive.”

  Donaldson thought for a moment. Then he took a long sip of beer and set the glass on the table with a thud. He smiled, and that made me more nervous than when he was badgering me. “All right. I expect I’ll be summoned to police headquarters for questioning as to any enemies a ninety-year-old woman might have made. I spoke with Aunt Ethel’s son Terry. He’s driving up from Charlotte and may wish to see you.”

  “Fine.” I used the break in his questions to interject my own. “Is your cousin the sole heir?”

  Donaldson laughed. “Right to the point. You’re a man after my own heart.”

  “I’m not after your heart, but someone might be after your aunt’s five million dollars.”

  He flushed. I wondered if the bank manager had told me a closely guarded family secret.

  His voice dropped to a low growl. “I want no part of Aunt Ethel’s estate or anything in the lockbox.”

  “Wouldn’t it go to her son? I thought he was her only surviving child.”

  “Terry will get her personal assets—except for certain funds stipulated to be split between us. So the police will have to consider that I had nearly two-and-a-half million reasons to kill her.”

  “But I take it you’re a successful attorney. Why kill her now?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’ve got a terminal illness and I’m afraid she’ll outlive me. Maybe I got nervous when she hired you to get the lockbox. I can read your face. You’re already thinking through those possibilities, aren’t you?”

  Hewitt Donaldson wasn’t a man to bluff against in a poker game.

  “Why don’t you want your share of the money?”

  “I don’t like what it represents.”

  “Money’s money,” I said. “It’s what you do with it that’s important.”

  He twisted in his chair and crossed his legs. A light evening breeze set his long hair dancing against his collar. “Sometimes money brings its past with it. I may be a lawyer, but I have a few shreds of decency that our so-called justice system hasn’t stripped away.”