Murder at Royale Court Paperback by G.P. Gardner – June 4, 2019
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.0 Mb
Murder at Royale : Harbor Village is a vivacious retirement paradise known for its beachy locale and active senior scene. But ever since murder moved in, the idyllic coastal community is becoming a little less lively…
With the first annual antique car show cruising into the tranquil bayside oasis of Fairhope, Alabama, there are bumpy roads ahead for Harbor Village director Cleo Mack. As an automobile-themed lecture series gets off to a rough start, she finds herself balancing one too many responsibilities—and dodging advances from a shady event sponsor. It’s enough to make Cleo feel twice her age. But the festivities reach a real dead end when she discovers a body at the Royale Court shopping center…
When an innocent man lands in the hot seat for murder, Harbor Village residents look to Cleo to crack the case. Aided by an eclectic group of energetic seniors, Cleo races to identify the true culprit from a growing list of harmless Sunday drivers—before a killer revs up for another hit and run!
“Behind me, Wozniak made a grunt of annoyance. “You sound like a student.”
That didn’t seem fair! “Well, I just learned about it a minute ago, Mr. Wozniak. I’ll have to go back to the office and check my calendar.”
He rested his elbows on the counter, leaned so that his face came close to mine, and gave me an evil grin. “And what day you gonna check, hon? What month?”
“Oh. Well.” I smiled, embarrassed. “You’re right. I did sound like some students I’ve known. Sorry. I’m going to check the day you’re about to tell me.”
He was an okay guy, in a curmudgeonly way, just bored to death here, all by himself. Eager to talk and flirt with anybody who stopped by, and today that happened to be me.
Curmudgeons were my specialty these days, but in my former life, as a professor of social work, I’d known lots of students, too. It’d been just four months since I took early retirement and moved to Fairhope, Alabama, the most charming little village on the Gulf Coast. I’d planned to enjoy life, travel a little, take up a new hobby like painting or quilting, maybe find a part-time job. But things had worked out differently and here I was, Executive Director of Harbor Village, a sprawling community for active retirees that happened to be built on property belonging to the Henry George Utopian Tax Colony, which explained why I came to be in this office in the first place. ’Twas the season for property tax, and the Harbor Village tax bill—or rent bill, as it happened—had arrived with a bang.
“Monday nights.” Terry Wozniak plunked a bright yellow flyer on the linoleum countertop and slid it toward me. “Seven until nine, beginning the second week in January. The exam’s in March.”