Murder at Harbor Village Read online

  MURDER AT HARBOR VILLAGE

  Barry tried to follow me onto the porch and set up a little howl when I closed the door with him still inside.

  “My grandson,” I said to the chief.

  He nodded. “I understand you’ll be working here, Ms. Mack, and I wonder if you can help us. We need to identify this woman.”

  “Dolly Webb didn’t know her?”

  “She didn’t look. Some people are squeamish.”

  “I’d be glad to help.” I didn’t want to be considered squeamish. “But I haven’t met many people here yet.”

  “Just come take a look.”

  I agreed. “Let me tell Stephanie where I’m going.”

  Chief Boozer talked while we walked. “I’m thinking she’s too young to live here. Might be a staff member. Or somebody’s daughter.”

  That gave me a jolt. Having a daughter of my own, I’d have to try to help.

  “Or maybe she lives nearby,” the chief went on. “The office staff isn’t here yet and people in that back building are busy with dressing and breakfast. All their residents are accounted for, they say.”

  We crossed the parking lot, sand and gravel crunching with our steps. There was yellow crime scene tape around the pool now.

  I was imagining what a body would look like after a drowning…

  Books by G.P. Gardner

  Murder at Harbor Village

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Murder at Harbor Village

  G.P. Gardner

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  MURDER AT HARBOR VILLAGE

  Books by G.P. Gardner

  Murder at Harbor Village

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Gail Gardner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: November 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0899-2

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0899-X

  First Print Edition: November 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0900-5

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0900-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the Thursday lunch group—Bud, Jon, and Diane—who provided ideas and answers and constant encouragement. And thanks to my wonderful agent, Dawn Dowdle, and to editor John Scognamiglio and the staff at Kensington.

  Chapter 1

  Sucker punched. That was the way I described my first few hours in Fairhope.

  I drove down from Atlanta on a Wednesday, planning to stay three nights and get some serious thinking done. It was late June, hot and sunny. School was out and the Fourth of July was coming up, so there was a line of traffic on the interstate near the beach exits, but the old highway from Bay Minette to Spanish Fort was wide open.

  I found the motel right away, a Holiday Express out on the four-lane. By the time I’d unloaded the car and made multiple trips across the asphalt parking lot, I was drenched with perspiration, so I showered and changed into cropped white pants and a striped pullover. Just like that, I was transformed from wrinkled, apprehensive college professor to relaxed tourist.

  “Where do you recommend for dinner?” I asked at the desk.

  “What do you like to eat? Seafood?” The clerk was college age with a flop of dark hair and tiny gold ear studs. He pulled out a list of restaurants and highlighted a couple of choices then marked locations on a map of town and handed it to me with a copy of the weekly newspaper.

  “I see I asked the right person.” I stacked the items he’d given me.

  “There’s an art walk Friday night and a concert and fireworks on the Fourth, if it doesn’t rain.”

  I thanked him and walked out to the car, where I sat with the door open, fanning myself with the newspaper while I studied the map.

  I thought of Fairhope as a village, although technically it was too large for the word, but it had a village vibe—a schizophrenic variety of shops, old and new, mixed up with scads of people. There were flowers everywhere, even hanging from the lampposts, and benches tucked in wherever there was room. People of all ages sat on the benches or jogged with baby strollers or walked little dogs fresh from the groomer.

  I whipped into a just-vacated parking space in front of a deli, plunked myself down on one of the benches and called my daughter, Stephanie, in Birmingham.

  “You have got to see this place, honey. It’s St. Mary Mead come to life. Without the stone walls.”

  “Mom,” she whined, meaning I should get a grip and hurry on up to Birmingham. “I’ll bet it’s hot. How’s the bay? I heard it’s so full of duck poop you can’t swim.”

  “Haven’t seen it yet. And you know I don’t swim. But the town…you are going to love the town.”

  As anyone could have guessed from that conversation, she didn’t want me moving to Fairhope. Not that I’d even considered it before she got all huffy on the subject.

  I set out on a quick tour of downtown, walking off the day’s fatigue. I found a bookstore, a coffee shop, a couple of breakfast places, a couple of banks, clothing boutiques, a town clock, art galleries, consignment shops and candy stores and at least a dozen people who smiled and spoke as if they knew me.

  I found my car again and was smiling even before I rounded a curve and saw Mobile Bay, with the sun suspended low in the cloud-filled sky, reflecting off the water. I probably gasped, but there was no one else in the car to hear.

  And I wasn’t the only one who appreciated the scenery. At the rose garden beside the water, pedestrians zigzagged in all directions, ignoring crosswalks. I parked again and headed for the pier, following the sidewalk that circled the fountain. A gust of wind hit the tower of water and gave me and a few shrieking kids an unexpected misting. A few feet farther and I stopped to lean over low boxwood hedges for a close-up sniff of a few perfect rose blooms. Talk about clichés!

  The
wind picked up at the pier, a quarter-mile long concrete span stretching out into the bay. Halfway out, the seafood restaurant provided a brief windbreak, and I rearranged my windblown hair while I admired the sailboats tied up in the little marina.

  “Here, let me make room for you.” A tiny, white-haired woman slid to the middle of her bench.

  I thanked her and sat down.

  “Looks like the sailboats are going in.” She pointed to a flock of small boats half a mile away. “Are you a regular?”

  I gave her a blank look.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “My first visit. I read about it in an article on retirement hot spots.”

  She held out a delicate, bony hand. “I’m Nita Bergen.”

  “Cleo Mack.”

  “And have you found a house yet, Cleo?”

  I laughed at this. And then I said the strangest thing: “Not yet.”

  I wound up telling Nita Bergen my life story…the condensed version ending with the topic I had come to Fairhope to consider. “I’m not even fifty yet and they’ve just offered me early retirement.”

  She was so sympathetic. “Oh, my dear. That’s such a big decision. And you didn’t expect it?”

  “The problem is, I have to decide right away. Before the fall semester begins. And there’s a nice cash bonus if I accept, but it’s a one-time-only offer. No pressure there.”

  “Oh, my dear!” She was an excellent listener, picking up every nuance and asking frequent questions.

  Eventually I apologized for talking so much. “How rude of me. I haven’t learned anything about you. Have you always lived here?”

  She shook her head, every silver hair in place, in spite of the wind. “I was born in Virginia, lived there all my life, and retired from the government. But my husband had connections here and he always talked about coming back. I would say ‘Al-a-bam-a?’ and turn up my nose. But one summer we drove here from South Florida, and as soon as I saw those big oaks, with ferns growing on their branches, and the Spanish moss and flowers and the nicest people anywhere…” She threw her hands up. “What could I say?”

  I nodded, having just experienced almost the same reaction. “And was it the right decision?”

  She nodded emphatically. “I love Fairhope. And you will, too.”

  I laughed and tried, too late, to apply the brakes a little. “I haven’t really made the decision yet.”

  “I know a good realtor.”

  We sat on the bench while the sun sank in the western sky. Nita introduced me to half a dozen people walking on the pier and, when it was just the two of us, we talked. At last the molten, glowing mass reached the horizon and people stopped all around us to watch. After the briefest interval, no more than a couple of minutes, the sun dropped out of sight. And the crowd actually applauded!

  “Wait,” Nita said softly, patting my hand to keep me in place on the bench. Her gaze had shifted upward, to the sky above us. “Just watch now.”

  Almost immediately, the sky lit up, the clouds turning coral and pink and gold, with a few streaks of purple. Gradually, the glow swelled and expanded to fill half the sky. I’d never seen anything like it, and tears filled my eyes.

  Nita seemed pleased with the sky and with my reaction. “I thought it might be good today. The clouds have to be just right. And it won’t last long. Keep watching.”

  Sure enough, after about a minute, the colors began to fade. Dark crept up around us, and even the air changed, cooling perceptibly as the breeze became more persistent.

  “Doesn’t it make you think of a cathedral? A sky cathedral.”

  The big show was over and the flow of pedestrians ebbed toward shore. Nita removed her sweater from her shoulders, draped it over one arm and picked up her handbag, ready to depart.

  I dropped my sunglasses into my bag. “How is this restaurant?”

  “Oh, you haven’t eaten? And it’s so late already!” She was silent a moment. “We come here sometimes, but always at lunch. I can stay if you want company, but I’ll have to call Jim.”

  The restaurant was crowded and cold. Nita worried that I didn’t have a sweater, but I lied that I was warm enough. I ordered shrimp and grits, served with Conecuh sausage and sweet peppers. It arrived quickly, considering the crowd, with a cup of hot tea and tiramisu for Nita. She cut the dessert into halves and then sliced one half into two parts.

  “You’ll want to try this, and I’ll take some home for Jim.” She pushed one of the small pieces onto the edge of my plate and took a bite of the other one. “How can you retire at such a young age? You won’t be eligible for Social Security for years.”

  We talked while I ate, and she shared my focus on practical things like income, housing and insurance.

  “Are you married? Do you have family there?”

  I shook my head. “No husband, and my only daughter’s in Birmingham. She thinks I should move there, but I’m not so sure. I don’t want to be too close, if you know what I mean.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Too bad we sold our home last year. You could’ve stayed with us until you found a house. But there’s no guest room in the apartment.”

  “I don’t know that I want a house.” I noted her inexplicable generosity to someone she’d just met. “I’m already envying my friends who don’t have to deal with lawns and leaks but just call the manager when an appliance quits.”

  “A condo? There aren’t many good apartments, but there are some condos on the bay. Let me call my realtor friend.”

  We swapped phone numbers, and I paid for our food, over her protests, then we walked to the parking lot together. Even with the breeze, the night air felt warm after the air-conditioning of the restaurant.

  I held her Buick’s door open, while she buckled up, then handed her the takeout box with Jim’s dessert. “Thanks for staying with me.”

  “I’m here most evenings. Unless it’s raining. But we’ll talk tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  I drove back through the enchanting little downtown to my motel, walked by the desk to tell the nice young clerk how much I’d enjoyed my dinner on the pier and went to my room. After brushing my teeth and changing into pajamas, I got out a book of Sudoku puzzles, swiveled the television toward the lounge chair with ottoman and fell sound asleep. Even Stephanie’s phone calls didn’t rouse me.

  Thursday morning I called her back.

  “Mom!” She was fired up. “I called you twice last night!”

  “I was in a noisy restaurant. Didn’t see your message until late. What’s up?”

  “I was calling to tell you to come here tomorrow. I can arrange to be off so we can look at houses and apartments all afternoon.”

  It was what I had expected, more of the same push she had started a week ago.

  “I don’t think so, honey. You’ll be tired at the end of the week, and you and Boyd need some time for the baby. Anyway, I get a special rate on the room if I stay three nights.”

  She sniffed. “Someone wants to pay you to quit working. How hard can the decision be?”

  I shifted to my professor voice. “As you know, it’s not just a matter of leaving my job, which I usually like. I have to figure out whether I’ll have enough money. Should I get a job, where will I live, how will I spend my time? It’s not always easy to make new friends at my age.” But I already had one here, didn’t I?

  “Well, I had another reason for calling. There’s a quilt show at the Fairhope Art Center and some of our Guild members have entries. I was hoping you could take photos of the display and send them to me.” She gave me the names of three individuals and I scribbled them down. “Susan has two entries, so be sure you get both of hers. And get all the prizewinners. If you’ll send the photos today, I can post them in the shop before tonight’s class. And you’ll be here Saturday? You promise?”

  “
Early afternoon.” I added the numeral 2 beside Susan’s name.

  I had breakfast at the oldest restaurant in town, according to its window sign. While I ate, the men at the next table talked about poetry. I tried to focus on my financial materials, but it was hard to ignore two old men talking about internal rhyme and Billy Collins, so I didn’t accomplish much.

  I was eager to get out and see more of the town. The restaurant manager invited me to come in again and gave me directions to the art center. I got there as it opened for the day. A chatty volunteer named CJ was working the front desk, and I told her about the errand Stephanie had given me.

  “She’ll want this listing of the entries.” CJ handed me a slick, colorful flyer. “It tells you if the item is for sale and what the price is. Do you quilt?”

  “No. But Stephanie co-owns a shop in Birmingham and has tried to get me interested. She thinks I need a retirement hobby.”

  CJ wanted to know all about Stephanie’s shop—where it was located, what type of sewing machines and sergers did it carry, was it participating in the row-by-row project, whatever that was.

  I shook my head. “I really don’t know much about it, but I can give you a card. Do you often have quilts on display here?” I searched in my shoulder bag for my wallet, where I kept a few of Stephanie’s business cards.

  “Once a year.” CJ gave a little pout. “It’s usually the three Ps. Painting, pottery, photography. We have classes.” She gave me a copy of the class schedule and a membership application. “And we can always use volunteers, if you’re interested.”

  I handed over Stephanie’s card and got out a ten-dollar bill to push into the Plexiglas donation box on the desk. Then I spent a pleasant hour looking at colorful quilts in intricate designs, ranging from king-sized to micro. I took a lot of photographs, including shots of the ribbons Susan had won, and e-mailed all of them to Stephanie.

  It was almost noon when I finally got to the bay. I parked on the bluff above the rose garden, where tall, skinny pines framed a military memorial and a gorgeous view of Mobile Bay. I walked across the grass and selected one of several benches with a panoramic view. The temperature was already pushing toward ninety, I guessed, and I could just make out a large ship, maybe a tanker, against the opposite shore. Closer by, a persistent movement in one of the trees kept drawing my attention, but I could see nothing there. A squirrel, I thought, but a squirrel should move around. Finally, I got up and walked closer, expecting to find an injured bird or a trapped butterfly.