The Harry Starke Series Books 4 -6: The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set 2 (The Harry Starke Novels - The Boxed Sets)

by Blair Howard

  “Ed Gray? You mean the cardiologist?”

  “Yes. I was with Henry Strange and Larry, having a few drinks. She came in around… oh, seven thirty or so. He joined her a few minutes later. Come to think of it, I’ve seen them together several times. Never thought anything of it, though.”

  “Do you have any idea what they might have been talking about?”

  “Good Lord, no. I may be a nosy lawyer, but I don’t eavesdrop on private conversations. It was… serious, though, I think. Neither one of them looked very happy.”

  “Isn’t Ed Gray married?” Amanda asked.

  “Why yes.” He looked at her. “I suppose he is.”

  “How well did you know her? Could they have been having an affair?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know her well. Just enough to say hello, in passing. I wouldn’t know if they were having an affair. How would I?”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “That I don’t know. I wasn’t taking much notice of them. They could have, I suppose.”

  “What about Regis Hartwell. Did you know him?”

  “Better than his wife. I had some dealings with him, bank business, and I played golf with him a couple of times. Other than that…. Well, I liked him?”

  “If I wanted to get the inside information, who would I talk to?”

  “Hmmm.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I suppose Ben and Joan Loftis would be your best bet. They were close. Played golf and tennis together. Met here three, sometimes four times a week, and were always here for Sunday lunch. I know Ben well. Play with him two or three times a month. Nice fella. Haven’t had much to do with Joan, but she seems nice enough. I’ll introduce you, if you like.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Are they here now?”

  He looked around. “They’re at the bar. Give me a minute. I’ll go get them.” And he did. He brought them over and made the introductions.

  He was right about them being a nice couple. Both of them were about thirty-five. Average, well-to-do people with no edge about them.

  I ordered drinks for everyone. I felt a little awkward, not knowing them, and such a social setting was really not the place to conduct an interview, but what the hell. I plunged right in.

  “I’m afraid I had an ulterior motive for wanting to meet you both. I hope you don’t mind. I’m investigating the death of Angela Hartwell, and I understand you were good friends. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” I said it to Ben, who was seated to the left of my father, but I could tell I had taken them both by surprise.

  “Well… yes, actually,” Ben said. “Joan was one of Angela’s best friends, but you’re a private investigator. Aren’t the police handling the investigation?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve been brought in as a consultant.” I took out my wallet and gave him my card, and one of Kate’s. “I understand your reluctance to talk to me, but if you would like to call Lieutenant Gazzara—her number is on the card—she’ll explain the situation.”

  “No… no, no. There’s no need for that. I know who you are, Mr. Starke. Hell, who around here doesn’t?” He handed back Kate’s card and pocketed mine. “You’ve built quite a reputation for yourself, second only to that of August, here. We’ll be glad to help, won’t we Joan.”

  “If it will help you get the bastard who killed Angela, yes of course,” Joan said. It was a voice that could have cut diamonds. “Ask away.”

  Whew. I think I know who wears the pants in this family, I thought, then said, “Thank you, both of you. I appreciate it. If you don’t mind, I’d like to record our conversation. Is that okay?”

  They looked at each other. She shrugged, and he said, “Sure.”

  Amanda took a small digital recorder from her clutch and handed it to me. I turned it on, recorded the time, date, and those present, and then I hid it from prying eyes beside the floral centerpiece.

  “Let’s begin with last Wednesday evening,” I said. “Angela was here. Were you also here?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “I need a verbal answer please,” I said, smiling at them.

  “Oh,” Ben said. “Er… no. We were not here.”

  “She was seen between seven and eight o’clock with Dr. Ed Gray. Do either of you know him?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s also a good friend of ours.”

  “Would you have any idea what the two of them might have been doing here, alone together?”

  “Not what you’re thinking,” Joan said angrily. “Ed is happily married, and Angela wasn’t like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what I mean. She doesn’t… didn’t fool around. Ever.”

  “So what were they doing, do you think?”

  “I have no doubt,” Joan said, “that they were talking about Regis, and how he died. Ed is a cardiologist, you know.”

  “I did know, but why would they be talking about his death?”

  “One,” Ben said, “Regis died of a heart attack. Two, she made no secret of the fact that she thought he’d been murdered.”

  Oh boy. Here we go. I sat way back, leaning against the leather upholstery of the window seat.

  “You’re serious, right?” I said.

  “Hell yes he’s serious,” Joan said, “and he’s not alone. Regis was only thirty-eight, in peak physical condition. Mr. Starke, Regis Hartwell finished in the top 100 in the Boston Marathon three times.”

  I was stunned. “Did you know about this?” I asked, as I looked at my father.

  “Oh, I’d heard rumors,” he said, “but I discounted them. In my business you hear that kind of stuff all the time. There’s never anything to it. And… well, she was very upset.”

  I looked at Joan and Ben. “Was there any other reason why she might have felt that her husband’s death was unnatural?”

  “Several,” Joan said, a hard edge to her voice. “Regis thought someone was stealing money from his company. He was also determined to sell the company, the banks—that little skink Ralph, his brother, was having a conniption fit over it.”

  “Stealing? How? Who?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “They kept it quiet. Those kinds of rumors weren’t good for the bank or the sale. I only knew because Angela told me.”

  I nodded. That’s a new one. I wondered if it was true. If it was….

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me about Ralph.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “He hated Regis, because their father left the company to him and not them both. Smart man, old Chester Hartwell. Knew his sons well. Ralph is a slimy little bastard. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was him that was stealing from the company. Look, there’s nothing more we can tell you,” she said, getting to her feet. “We loved the Hartwells as though they were family. I loved Angela like a sister. You get whoever did this to her, please.”

  She turned away from the table and walked back into the bar. Ben wished us a subdued good afternoon, then followed her. We three sat looking after them.

  “Well, now,” August said brightly. “I think that calls for another drink, don’t you?”

  I did, and so did Amanda. He went to the bar to fetch them. I saw him talking for a moment to Ben Loftis, his hand on his shoulder. Sympathizing, I shouldn’t wonder.

  “What do you think, Harry?” Amanda asked.

  “I think that maybe Angela was right, that Regis might well have been murdered. If so, this is not at all what I wanted. I don’t have the resources to handle multiple murder investigations. Well, I guess I’ll have to do what I can. Angela suffered a very nasty death, and someone is going to pay for it. I’ll talk to Kate on Monday and see if I can get some help.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  I looked at her, quizzically. “How?”

  “Oh come on, Harry. I’m an investigative journalist. It’s what I do, remember? I talk to people. Interview them. Ask questions. I’m a member here. I know just about everyone. I knew Angela, and I knew all
of her friends—some of them not so well, granted, but I know who they are. I can help you. Yes?”

  Damn. Why didn’t I think of that? I nodded. “Yes. Let’s do it. But first we need to think it through. And then I need to talk to Ed Gray and Ralph. We’ll talk more when we get home, okay?”

  She gave me one of those smiles that sent shivers down my spine and said, “I don’t think we’ll be doing a whole lot of talking. Maybe tomorrow.”

  August brought the drinks and sat down.

  “Are we going to eat?” he said.

  “Yes, of course,” Amanda answered. “I’m starving.”

  We ordered. I had a chicken Caesar salad, Amanda had a club sandwich, and dear old Dad had a small ribeye steak, rare, with red potatoes and asparagus. We ate, for the most part, in silence. My head was full of questions I had no answers to.

  When we finished eating it was close to one thirty, and August said his goodbyes and left for the locker room, saying something about another nine holes.

  “Sit down for a minute, Joe,” I said to the waiter, when he came to see if we wanted more drinks.

  “I can’t, Mr. Starke. I’m working.”

  “Yeah, you can. The place is about empty. I’ll square it with Doug. Sit.”

  He did.

  “Were you working on Wednesday night?” I asked.

  “Wednesday? Yes, I was here till they locked the doors. It was quiet, not much going on.”

  “Did you see Angela Hartwell?”

  “Yes, she came in early, around five o’clock. Stayed for a few minutes and then left. She talked to Doug. She came back later, at around seven, I think it was. She left again sometime after eight. I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “While she was here the second time, she talked to Ed Gray, right?”

  He nodded. “For maybe thirty minutes. I served drinks to them twice. She also had a few words with Ralph and Mary Hartwell. They were at the far end of the bar.”

  “Did you hear what they were talking about, her and Ed Gray, by chance?”

  “I don’t make a habit of listening in on member’s conversations. It’s not proper.”

  I smiled at him. It was an old-fashioned way of looking at things, but hey. It was nice to know some people have the right idea.

  “They left about eight thirty, right?”

  “She did. He left a few minutes after, maybe five minutes.”

  So, they could have met up again outside. “Now, Joe. This is important. Did she talk to anyone else while she was here?”

  He thought for a minute, then said, “She said hello to several of the members. Exchanged pleasantries and so on. That’s about it.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “I did.”

  “Was she alone? Did anyone follow her?”

  “She was alone, and no I didn’t see anyone follow her.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it.” I handed him my card. “If you think of anything, please call me.” He said he would, then went back to his duties. He got about halfway to the bar then hesitated, and seemed about to turn, but didn’t.

  I rose and followed him to the bar.

  “Joe,” I said. “It seemed to me that you might have thought of something. What was it?”

  He shook his head, “Nothing really. I just remembered that when Mrs. Hartwell was walking out into the lobby, I saw her stop and exchange a few words with Ms. Archer.”

  “Ruth Archer?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did they talk for long? Where they friendly with each other, angry, what?”

  “I’d say friendly, from what I could see—which wasn’t much. Mrs. Hartwell had her back to me. Ms. Archer was smiling.”

  I nodded, thanked him, and returned to the table.

  “Anything?” Amanda asked.

  “No. Not really. She bumped into Ruth Archer on the way is all.”

  “I don’t like that woman.”

  I smiled at her. “Of course you don’t.” She let it go.

  Well,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I know less now than when we arrived. What was she doing with Ed Gray, I wonder?”

  “There’s only one way to find out. I need to talk to him, and to Ralph. Wouldn’t hurt to have a word with Doug, the bartender, either.”

  We stopped by the bar on the way out. He was cleaning up.

  “Hey, Doug,” I said.

  “Hello, Mr. Starke. What can I do for you? More drinks?”

  “No, thanks. I have a question, if you don’t mind.”

  “About Angela Hartwell? Joe said you talked to him.”

  “About her, yeah. Joe tells me she stopped by around five o’clock on Wednesday, and that she spoke to you. Do you mind telling me what the conversation was about?”

  “It wasn’t a conversation. She was looking for Dr. Gray. I told her I hadn’t seen him. She said she’d be back later, and then she left. That’s it.”

  I nodded, thanked him, and then we left, too.

  Chapter 8

  I hadn’t been at my desk more than ten minutes that Monday morning when my iPhone rang. I looked at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Harry Starke,” I said.

  “Hello, Mr. Starke. This is Ruth Archer. Do you have a minute?”

  Ruth Archer. Wow. I pictured the woman I’d met at the club just a few days ago. The goddess.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Archer?”

  “I’m not really sure. I have a bit of a problem. I think I’m being stalked.” Oh yeah?

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Oh, it’s just a feeling. It may be nothing, but… well, you know.”

  Yeah, I did know. “Tell you what. If you give me your address, I’ll send someone over to talk to you.”

  “Oh no. That won’t do at all. I want to talk to you. Look. I’m at the club. I was going to play. Why don’t you join me? We can talk on the course.”

  And there it was. I should have seen it coming. What the hell was she after? “I can’t, sorry. I’m swamped. It will have to be one of my investigators, or… well, that’s what it’ll have to be.”

  “Not good enough, Mr. Starke. Suppose the same thing happens to me that happened to Angela Hartwell. How would you feel then, knowing you might have been able to stop it?”

  Well, she had me there. It was bullshit, and I knew it, but what if…. Well, you get the picture. I had to find out what she was up to, and there was only one way to do that.

  “Okay. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, just to talk. Nothing more.

  She wasn’t in the bar when I arrived, so I took a seat at an empty table to wait. It was only for a couple of minutes.

  She was dressed for golf. She was wearing what I thought might be a skort. You know, it looks like a very short skirt, but they have shorts underneath. But when she came closer I saw that she was not wearing a skort. It was a pink tennis skirt, and it left little to the imagination. Everything else was pink too: socks, shoes, visor—everything but her shirt, and even the lining on that was pink. Who the hell does she think she is, Paula Creamer?

  Paula Creamer is one of the goddesses of the LPGA Tour, but this woman would have put Paula in the shade. She was almost as tall as me, had a figure half a million bucks couldn’t buy, and her legs? They were tanned, muscled, and… long.

  She flopped down on the seat opposite, exposing every inch of those legs to me. They were everywhere. Tall as she was, she had a job keeping them to herself, not that I was complaining.

  Good job Amanda isn’t here.

  “Good morning, Harry,” she said. “It’s so good of you to come out here at such short notice. Thank you.”

  I nodded. “What is it you want, Ms. Archer?”

  “Two things. One, I want to talk to you about my stalker. Second… I want to play with you. Golf, of course,” she said with a smile, when she saw the look on my face.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Oh but it is.
I’m going to make it worth your while. I’ll pay you for your time, and we’ll talk as we play. How much do you charge for your time, Harry?”

  “I charge $350 an hour, but I don’t have time. So forget it.” I actually charge $175 per hour, but what the hell.

  “Eighteen holes, say three hours. That would be $1,000, give or take. I’ll pay you $2,000 for the three hours. Come on. What do you say? It will be fun.”

  What the hell is she up to? Only one way to find out. “Okay,” I said, “but no fee. We’ll play. You’ll talk. That’s it.”

  “Fine. Go get changed. I can’t wait.”

  Hell, now neither can I.

  I called Jacque and told her to hold down the fort, that I would be back after lunch, and then I went to the locker room to change. I was already wearing the clothes for golf; all I had to do was change shoes and have the attendant take my clubs out to where she was waiting with the cart.

  “You want to loosen up a little?” she asked.

  I shook my head and got behind the wheel of the cart. Her clubs—pink bag, of course—and mine, were already strapped to the rear. We drove out to the first tee.

  “So,” she said, when we stepped onto the tee. “What would you like to play for?”

  “Stakes, do you mean? I thought this was to be a friendly game and a chat.”

  “That, too,” she said, “but let’s make it interesting. You name it.”

  “Look, lady, I’m not stupid. You have a two handicap; I have a nine. No, let’s keep it friendly.”

  She laughed. “You’re right, of course. Tell you what. I’ll play off the men’s tees; the same ones you play off, and I’ll give you… five shots. How’s that?”

  How’s that? You’re a hustler. That’s how’s that. I sighed. “Okay, $100. Match play.”

  That opened her eyes wide. “Match play. How unique. I like it. But $100? No. I tell you what. Let’s do it this way. If you win, I’ll give you $100. If I win….” There was a twinkle in her eye that I didn’t like. “You buy me dinner.”

  I looked at her. Amanda would have my guts if I went for it.

  “No,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t believe it. The great Harry Starke is scared of losing. Who would have thought it?” That did it.