Murder at Harbor Village

Book 1: Cleo Mack Mystery

by G.P. Gardner

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; General Fiction

Synopsis

Young retiree Cleo Mack is trading in academia for a second act in Harbor Village, a community for active seniors in coastal Alabama. But someone in this picture-perfect coastal town is burning the candle at both ends...

It's love at first sight when Cleo arrives in Fairhope, Alabama, after taking early retirement from her longtime position as professor of social work. Touted as "the nicest town in the world," Fairhope is home to an eclectic community of retirees. Harbor Village boasts classes in painting, pottery, and photography, not to mention being a buyer's market for husbands. It seems an ideal place to make new friends and rediscover life. Until a dead body is found in the pool.

When the victim turns out to be the unpopular director of senior living, Cleo is named acting director. Now she must rely on her well-honed people skills to uncover a killer in a place where short-term memory isn't what it used to be, and age is just a number. And if Cleo keeps snooping around, her number may soon be up....

Release date: November 13, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

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.

At first I didn’t know what I was seeing, then I realized that what I’d thought was a knot on the tree was actually a camera, encased in a plastic cover. A webcam. I looked where it was aimed, at the rose garden in the park down below. The camera emitted faint clicks as it panned right to left, slowly and erratically.

I walked back to my bench and got there in time to hear my phone ringing.

Nita was calling. “I’m just letting you know my friend Vickie is making a list of homes and condos for you to see. You can stop at her office this afternoon and pick it up, or she can drop it off here and you can get it tonight. I hope you’ll come play dominoes with us. We have a little group that gets together every week and one of us can’t be here tonight. And we always send out for sandwiches.”

I said I’d love to come, and got directions. And then I switched the phone to voice mail and spent the next ninety minutes sitting on a too-low, too-hard wooden bench, brushing off an occasional ant and completing a retirement planning form the HR office had given me.

When I finished, I was happy but hungry. The webcam was moving around again as I walked past it, heading back to the car. It made me think of a lizard’s eye, and I wondered if it followed me as I walked.

As I approached the car, I noticed a sign for a restaurant, a block down the street. I dropped my folder in the car, clicked the doors locked again and kept walking.

The restaurant was in an old house, with a street-side wooden deck that held eight or ten tables, separated by arrangements of potted shrubs and herbs. Inside, there were more tables, all occupied, and a line of people waiting at a takeout counter. I was about to get in line when a woman, sitting alone at a table for four, waved in my direction and motioned me over.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked when I was close enough to hear her. “If not, you can join me.”

“Cleo Mack.” I pulled out the chair across from her and stuck out my hand. “You’re so kind. I’m beginning to think this is the nicest town in the world.”

“Jamie Barnes.” She had a killer grip and an impersonal smile. She was thirty-something, I guessed, sporty looking, with shockingly white teeth and straight, shoulder-length hair streaked in shades of gold. Her sleeveless white shirt exposed well-muscled, suntanned arms. “I take it you’re a visitor.”

“My second day in town. Do you live here?”

The server, in a rush, dropped off a basket of breadsticks and chanted the day’s specials. Jamie was eating a salad with a piece of fish and drinking red wine. I decided on the quinoa salad the server recommended, with iced tea.

“I moved here from New Orleans, and before that, Pensacola, and before that, Tampa. I’ve moved around some, but I seem to be stuck on the Gulf Coast.” Jamie tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and took a sip of wine. “I’m an RN, but I work in administration mostly. What about you?”

“Social work. I teach and chair my university department, in Atlanta.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me more. You have friends here?”

“No. I drove down to do some thinking. Seems I’ve unexpectedly become eligible to retire, and it’s thrown me for a loop.”

“Why does nothing like that ever happen to me? Are you going to do it?”

Moment of truth. I hesitated and then nodded, answering my own question, as much as hers. “Yes, I think I will.”

As soon as I said it, a smile ignited in my chest and blossomed all the way to my cheeks; I was going to retire! I laughed and felt almost giddy. “I may need a part-time job, but I should be able to dig something up. Teach a course or two, maybe, or consult.”

The server brought my lunch and refilled my glass. The salad had a tangy, citrusy dressing that was quite tasty, or maybe I was just hungry; after all, it was three hours past my usual lunchtime. I ate quickly, listening to Jamie or answering the questions she posed.

“And you’ll move to Fairhope?”

“I think so. I like what I’ve seen, and I need a bit of an adventure.”

“You’re not looking for a husband, I hope. It’s a buyer’s market here. You want a husband, you buy one.”

I shook my head. “I’m out of the marriage market. I had a bad one and a good one and quit while I was winning.”

“Same here. Now I’m in a relationship that’s outlasted the marriages.”

Um-hum, my urban self said, want to bet that partner’s female?

Jamie was smiling, looking toward the water. “That’s Mobile across the bay. I guess you know that.”

I looked, but the far horizon was a featureless, lavender haze, not unlike my future.

Jamie had shifted to telling me about her work. “Ever hear of Harbor Health Service? Based in Houston. We own nursing homes and independent or assisted living facilities all over the South. The facility here is Harbor Village. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

I didn’t think so.

“You should stop by. We’re out on the four-lane. We have apartments and condos for independent living, and we just expanded our Assisted Living unit. No nursing home, but you’d be surprised how many people get by with assisted living if the services are enhanced and personalized. And every little enhancement increases revenue.” She arched her eyebrows and laughed, apparently sharing an insider joke with me.

I needed to pay closer attention. “And how do you decide to transfer a resident to a skilled nursing facility?” It was a question such places wrestled with, I knew.

She shrugged. “Our policy is pretty flexible. Officially, it’s when the activities of daily living require more than one aide. I see you know the issues. Is your specialization with seniors?”

“I have to stay up to date. I supervise interns at some facilities like yours.”

“Really? How long are you going to be in town?”

“Just one more day. I’m going to look at housing tomorrow and drive to Birmingham Saturday.”

A few minutes later we paid our checks and left. Jamie got into a BMW two-seat convertible parked beside the deck, and I walked back to my car on the bluff. I wasn’t sure I liked Jamie Barnes much, but it didn’t seem important, since I never expected to see her again.

With the financial planning done, I was feeling more like a tourist. Or a prospective resident. I picked up a box of chocolates made at one of the little candy shops and then drove slowly through some residential neighborhoods. Houses on the north bluff were large and imposing. South of the pier, the elevation dropped, the streets were shadier and the houses more modest and charming, surrounded by live oaks, palm trees, big-leafed fatsia and elephant ears and chaste trees in shades of white and blue and purple. Near the water, streamers of gray Spanish moss swung from the trees.

There were only a few houses with “For Sale” signs, but when I saw one, I pulled over and checked the size and interior photos and price, using the real estate app on my phone. Nothing was cheap, certainly not the little blue cottage with a picket fence and screened front porch, and not even the plain-Jane red brick ranch house with jalousie windows, straight out of the sixties. I began to wonder where ordinary people lived in this town.

I crisscrossed the area, angling gradually back toward my motel. When I got there, I showered and dressed for dominoes with Nita and friends. I put on a peach-colored linen shirt with black pants and ballet flats, checked my reflection in the mirror, picked up the box of chocolates and went to the lobby.

The same gangly clerk was on duty again, and I noticed his nametag said Hunter. He was chatting with a family with three little kids. When they moved away from the desk, he greeted me. “Hi there. Enjoying your visit?”

I nodded. “I wonder about people who grow up here. Wasn’t the rest of the world a letdown for you?”

He laughed. “I didn’t grow up here. And I don’t live here now. Robertsdale is twelve miles away and a different world. And the other side of the bay—I go to the University of South Alabama now—is a different universe.”

I showed him the directions Nita had given me and he pointed north. “Go past the shopping center and it’ll be on your left. There’s a big display at the entrance, wooden pilings and ropes and carved pelicans. Harbor Village, the sign says. It’s for old people.”

“Oh. I’ve heard of Harbor Village, but I didn’t realize my friend lived there.”

He was blushing and stammering, waving his hands like he was under attack by bees. “I didn’t mean to say old people. I meant seniors. Retirees! It’s a nice place, really. Lots of their family members stay here. Don’t tell anybody I said old people. I’ll be fired.”

I grinned at him and went out to the car.

I had no trouble finding Harbor Village. There was a carved wood sign, with pelicans and posts, and a banner beneath saying It Takes a Village. The place made a good first impression, with a wide street, a grassy median with flowers and palm trees, and an abundanc. . .