I thought about her being at Travis’s home in Houston and panicked. “I hope nobody’s there hearing you,” I hissed into the phone.
She giggled again. “You mean Dad? No, he’s not here. But I’ll tell him you asked about him.”
I was wide-awake after that, thinking I was too young to be changing roles with my child. And too old to manage the intricacies of romance, dang it. I got a warm terry robe from the closet and padded barefoot to the computer. There was email, none of it particularly interesting. A Washington Post article about Russian hacking. I wasn’t ready for doom and gloom yet. I quizzed YouTube for “Midnight Sun” and clicked on a vocal rendition that happened to sound much like the vocalist I’d heard earlier in the evening. Lyrics by Johnny Mercer, the site said. It seemed that I liked a lot of his music. I ought to learn more about him. Maybe go to that famous murder house he’d owned in Savannah.
Patti’s photograph chips lay beside the computer. I left the music playing and plugged in one of the little black chips, downloaded the photos from the chip to my computer, and repeated the process with the second chip. Then I looked through dozens of images from Handleman’s first lecture. Patti hadn’t been there the first two nights, before her truce with the speaker, but Emily had done a good job filling in as official photographer. I queued up the photographs and clicked through the lineup. There were good shots of a lot of Harbor Villagers, including quite a few men I barely recognized, but at least half the people weren’t our residents. I selected several of the best images, thinking Patti could decide if they deserved to be featured somewhere.
Terry Wozniak was in the mix, wearing a bright-yellow shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a hand-knit wool vest, this one in a colorful pattern. I wondered who made his vests, since he didn’t seem to have a wife. But I didn’t add his photo to my selections. “Midnight Sun” ended and I clicked to play it again.
Another photo included Wozniak in a little group gathered around Travis and Handleman. Travis looked annoyed, almost angry. Then there was a photo of me standing beside Wozniak, our backs to the camera. I looked as broad as a barn and Wozniak looked like he had his arm around me. It had to be some trick of perspective, but I dragged that photo to the trash anyway.
And there was Devon Wheat—my first glimpse of him alive, and he looked even younger than he had the next day as a corpse. He’d been a short, slight man with blond hair, broad features, and what’s known as a deer-in-the-headlights look.
Tears came to my eyes as the YouTube vocalist sang about stars forgetting to shine. Lord, I didn’t want that song ruined by association with Devon Wheat. I grabbed the mouse and clicked pause, then stared at Wheat’s image. He was beside Travis in one photograph, both of them frowning at someone out of camera range. He’d had another twenty-four hours to live, more or less. So sad. Maybe I really was a little drunk.
I moved to the photographs from the second lecture and looked for Wheat. This would’ve been Wednesday night, the night he was murdered.
I found Travis, looking like a movie star, a plastic cup in his hand. And there was Wozniak, bending someone’s ear, hand raised to emphasize a point. Jim and Nita and Dolly were lined up and smiling, three kids out after bedtime. And then Riley, staring past the camera and wearing an unusually stern expression. What had he been looking at?
I clicked the music on again and got my mood back.
No Devon Wheat in the Wednesday night photos. Out riding his bicycle, probably. Should’ve been at the lecture.
I waited for the song to end before I shut down the computer and then went through the apartment, checking doors and lights. When I came back through the living room, Ann’s green folder was lying on the coffee table. I took it to bed with me.
There was an elegant simplicity to the ownership structure devised for Royale Court. There were five equal shares, one for each of the five Slump siblings with their vowel initials: Ann, Evie, Irene, Olivia, and Usher. Each of the five was granted a voting membership on the management board. Upon the demise or incapacity of any member, his or her board seat and the attached vote disappeared. Which meant that, with Irene already dead, control now resided in the hands of the four surviving siblings. A handwritten note from Ann explained that Prissy worked in the knit shop and received both a salary and a share of the income generated by the complex but had no vote in business decisions. I wondered what had happened to Irene. I didn’t think Ann had said.
Usher received a salary to act as manager of the complex, and in that capacity, he had the authority to enter into contracts on behalf of Royale Court. He had received a small raise every April for six years and now earned a mere $32,000 per year, in addition to his share of any profits. That seemed like a low salary for a shopping center manager, especially in light of his benefits, which were itemized and minimal. Maybe that explained why he didn’t take the job seriously.
Ann and Evie had apparently never married. Usher held medical proxy and power of attorney for them, and he was listed as personal representative (executor) on their wills. Ann’s and Evie’s heirs were their surviving siblings or the issue of such siblings, which meant Prissy would receive Irene’s share of their estates. Another note listed Olivia’s heirs as her husband and children. Usher was listed, too. He was single, with two former wives and two children, all living in New York. I looked for more information about him, but that was it. No explanation for his unusual behavior, no mention of substance abuse. He was sixteen years younger than Ann.
I wasn’t sure why Ann wanted me to know all this. She was looking for someone to trust, I supposed, which social workers were always advising seniors to do. Or it might mean she’d lost confidence in her brother. I could certainly understand that.
I put all the papers back into the folder, put it on the bedside table, and turned the light off. When I slid down into the bed, my feet bumped against the cat.
My dreams were about a maze of hotel corridors, tender kisses, and a blue glass bowl.
Chapter 16
I woke up at the usual time Sunday, rolled onto my stomach, and pulled the covers up to my ears. Thirty minutes later, I woke for the second time, with Tinkerbelle sitting on my shoulder, purring and reaching one paw out occasionally to pat my cheek.
I got up then but took revenge on the cat by delaying my first trip to the kitchen until I had dressed. She darted toward the kitchen every time I moved in that direction, hurrying me along. When I finally got to her food dish, I found the entire bottom of the bowl exposed, a true feline emergency. I poured in half a cup of dry food and she purred while she crunched. I put on coffee and went to open the blinds.
Ann Slump was sitting on my screened porch, crying.
I opened the door and stuck my head out, and she jumped with surprise and wiped her cheeks.
“You okay?”
“Yup.”
It was chilly and there was a mound of wet tissues on the table. Ann added another one to the stack.
“Be right back,” I said.
I went to the bathroom for a box of tissues and to the bedroom for a cardigan and then returned to the kitchen and poured two cups of decaf and took them out to the porch with me. If I’d spent the night with Riley, I’d be waltzing in here about now, still wearing my fancy dress, and finding Ann crying on the porch. Lucky me.
“I came to tell you what Usher’s done,” Ann said. “But the blinds were closed and I thought I’d wait. Didn’t know you slept late on Sundays.”
It was barely seven, and judging by the tissues, she’d been waiting quite a while.
I put the coffee cups on the corner table, turned the heron light on, and pulled a chair closer. “Has something happened?”
“No.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Not really. Well, yes, I guess it has. I found out Usher has sold Royale Court out from under me.”
Now she really cried. I took a sip of coffee, then held the steaming
cup under my chin and inhaled while Ann sniffled and blew her nose.
“How could he do that?” I asked.
She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes.
A Carolina Wren landed on the fence, looked at us, and flew away.
After a minute, she blew her nose again. “I don’t understand it.”
I detected traces of anger.
“Everything he has came from Royale Court. Our whole life is in those shops.”
“I looked at your folder last night. Did the owners vote to sell?”
She shook her head. “None of us knew a thing. I called Olivia in England. He’s signed papers and he’s got the money, he says. Part of it, anyway. But he won’t admit it’s sold.”
This was going to take some time, and probably some skills I didn’t have. “Let’s call your lawyer.”
She stuck her hands into the opposite sleeves of her sweater. “I tried already. He’s in England, too. For Anastasia.”
“Anastasia?”
She nodded. “You know. Ballet. He’s addicted. Won’t be back until Friday.”
Oh, of course. Fairhope lawyers went to London for a week of ballet! I should’ve known!
I took a sip of coffee and slid down into the cocoon of my sweater. I had a sudden image of Usher, blathering away at breakfast yesterday. Where was he now? Had Ann’s distress been building all night?
“I’ve had my cry.” She slapped her thigh in what I took to be a shifting of mental gears. “I need to do something, but I’ve got to figure out what. That’s why I’m here.”
I waited, but she didn’t seem to have any more to say. “What do you want to do, Ann? Swear out a warrant? Theft by taking, or something like that? I’m sure it’s a felony. Fraud? Your attorney could file some action to have the sale vacated, I suppose. Or do you want to protect him? Haven’t you been thinking about selling?”
She didn’t answer right away, but the tears seemed to be gone. “I’ve considered all those. If I could wring his neck, I would. Now I’m back to worrying about him. This Devon Wheat business…we still don’t know. Have you learned anything? Do they know who did it? What if Usher’s involved somehow? I need you to help me.” She sighed.
I sat quietly, trying to think. It’d been twenty years since I’d had even a trace of a hangover. Did Usher kill Devon Wheat?
Ann watched me. “I’ve got leftovers if you want to eat. I’ll tell you the whole thing.”
I got up. I was curious about what else there was to tell. And I was curious about what she thought I could do.
I took the coffee cups and tissue box inside and Ann cleaned up the used ones. I got the carafe from the kitchen and her green folder from the table beside my bed. Tinkerbelle was curled up in the folds of the quilt and duvet and didn’t even raise her head. That cat knew how to do off days.
We went to Ann’s apartment, which yesterday had been all cozy and comfortable. Today it was warm but sad, filled with anxiety and depression. The curtains and blinds were open, letting in the morning sun, but the light looked pale and sickly.
“Let’s get the drama out of the way and then enjoy the food. Okay?”
Ann went to her chair at the window and I sat on the couch and pulled a yellow afghan across my legs.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”
It was a brief story. Usher had committed to sell Royale Court.
“Weeks ago. Agreed to a price, agreed to finance the deal. The buyer’s already making payments.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.” I shook my head in disbelief.
Ann threw her hands in the air. “He’s the manager. He can negotiate contracts.”
Paper rained down. She’d been shredding a tissue, ripping off strips and twisting them into tight little pills. They’d flown into the air with her gesture. While she talked, she gathered them up and stuffed them into her sweater pocket.
“We gave him authority, as manager, so he could sign contracts for yard work or a new roof, routine things. Not to sell us out. He tried to convince me nothing’s really changed and the actual date of transfer isn’t set. But there’s nothing left to decide.”
The payments were accumulating in an escrow account controlled by a Birmingham business brokerage.
I wondered if it was the man Stephanie knew.
“As soon as Evie and I are out of the way, dead or demented, whichever comes first, he’ll get Olivia to sign off. She’d do it today if her husband gave the word. And just like that…” She snapped her fingers. “It’s a done deal. When twenty percent of the sales price is in escrow, ownership transfers to the buyer. He can charge us any rent he likes and pay off the balance with our money. It’s the craziest thing I ever heard.”
It didn’t sound unreasonable to me, but I had no experience with such things. “Is that a common way of selling commercial property?”
Ann shrugged. “I created commercial property. I didn’t buy and sell it.”
I remembered what Riley had told us yesterday about Henry George Colony leases and bills of sale. “Is Royale Court on Colony property?”
Ann nodded. “Yes. He took care of that, too. Signed an agreement to transfer the lease at the date of sale. The agreement’s already recorded.”
“Recorded where?”
“Wherever they record things. The courthouse? The Colony office? I don’t know. Maybe both places. I feel so violated.”
“Yes, I can understand that.”
“Betrayed by both of them. All three, actually.”
“Usher and…who? Olivia? Evie?”
“Olivia knew nothing about it. I can’t speak for her husband. I wouldn’t put anything past him. But Prissy knew and didn’t say a word to me. She’s decided she wants to retire and move to Highlands where her bridesmaids live. And Devon Wheat.”
“Devon Wheat? He’s not moving to Highlands. What does he have to do with it?”
She gave me a startled look. “Didn’t I say? He’s the buyer.”
I was stunned, but Ann didn’t seem to notice.
“And now he’s dead and Usher’s got us tied up in it. There’s a sales agreement recorded for Royale Court, which would have to be undone before we could sell to anybody else if we wanted to. And here I sit twiddling my thumbs. No business, no money, no buyer, no lawyer. Might as well say no brother. And no sister right now. Evie’s getting a cold so she’s staying in bed all day. Maybe I’ll go over and get exposed. Maybe it’s the flu and will kill us all.”
Maybe she’d already caught the drama bug from Stephanie and Patti. And I was no help. I felt like she’d dropped a ton of bricks on me. I reached over and patted her arm.
The anger was gone, replaced by confusion and sadness. We sat quietly for several minutes and then we had breakfast.
Ann had prepared a big bowl of fruit—melon, halved strawberries, pears, blueberries, and an orange yogurt sauce. She nuked the sausage and egg casserole left over from the day before and made some hot and buttery toast. Ann cranked out good food, even when her world was collapsing.
While she worked, I set the table for two and told her the highlights of the Saturday night gala.
“I saw your photograph,” she said.
“My photograph?”
“You made the front page. You haven’t seen it?” She sent me to the coffee table for the Sunday newspaper and we sat down and applied ourselves to the feast.
Ann refolded the newspaper and propped it against the vase of asters. There I was in living color, standing beside Reg Handleman, with the Best in Show prize bowl on a table in front of us.
“It’s a beautiful bowl,” I said. “I would’ve expected silver, but maybe that’s out of style.”
“We’ve got lots of artists here. They probably wanted a prize made locally.”
“Why do you suppose they put me in the pap
er? Why not the judges or the winning cars? Or people who actually worked to put on the show.”
It was nice to see Ann smile. “I guess Harbor Village has some clout.”
I smiled, too, but shook my head. “We don’t have a real PR person. Just Patti, among all her other duties.”
She smiled even bigger. “I’m sure she did it.”
I knew in my bones she was right, but the pieces took a minute to fall into place. I nodded finally. “She knows all the newspaper people and feeds them announcements and human interest stories. I wonder why she didn’t warn me.”
“There’s probably some editor who had the final say. But it’s a pretty picture. I almost didn’t recognize you.” We giggled at the implication.
We ate without much appetite and went back to the softer seats, where I pulled the yellow afghan across my lap again.
Ann noticed. “Is it warm enough in here?”
“Perfect. I just like snuggling.”
“Too bad you don’t have someone to snuggle with. I think my brother has turned me against men.”
“It must’ve happened a long time ago.” I smiled, getting back at her.
“I was engaged once,” she said. “Did I ever tell you?”
“No. What happened?”
“My daddy thought he wasn’t dependable. He was probably right.”
She sat in her glider rocker, put her feet on the ottoman, and handed me the folded newspaper. “You can have this, but you’ll probably want more copies. There’s a box in Royale Court if you’ve got quarters. If not, the drugstore has them.”
“I need one for Stephanie. And one for corporate, to show them Harbor Village is involved in community life.” That last came out in a poor imitation of Travis’s voice. I put the paper on the coffee table in front of me, on top of Ann’s green folder.
“Where’s Usher?” I didn’t really want to know. It was just something to say.
“I sent him home. I don’t want to see him for a while.”
“Where does he live?”
She gave me another look, like I should’ve known. “Royale Court. Over the T-shirt shop.”
Murder at Royale Court Page 23