Murder at the Million Dollar Pier Read online
MURDER
AT THE
MILLION DOLLAR PIER
A Three Snowbirds Mystery
GWEN MAYO
AND
SARAH E. GLENN
Murder at the Million Dollar Pier
A Three Snowbirds Mystery
Copyright© 2019
Gwen Mayo and Sarah E. Glenn
Edited by Sarah E. Glenn
Cover designed by Patty G. Henderson
at Boulevard Photografica
Published by
Mystery and Horror, LLC
Clearwater, FL
ISBN: 978-1-949281-06-4
Printed with the permission of the authors. All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotes used by reviewers.
This is a work of fiction. Historical persons and events depicted in this book are carefully researched. The authors have tried to remain true to the known facts, but our primary concern is in telling a compelling story. Any resemblance to any actual person living or dead, or to any known event or location is included only where it is relative to the setting and history.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE BEES’ KNEES
AUTHORS’ NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
OTHER BOOKS
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to Christy Mayo McMillen. When I think of strong, courageous women doing whatever is necessary to take care of others, I think of you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first person I need to thank for her support is Kathy Glenn. She is always the first to purchase copies, get our book into her local library, and generally acts as our number one cheerleader.
We need to thank the staff of the Vinoy for providing us with information about and access to the hotel. Thank you, St. Petersburg, for preserving the many unique features of the city that make it a wonderful setting for a book. During the writing of Murder at the Million Dollar Pier we have explored the parks and historic buildings, dug through library archives, and read copies of the 1926 St Petersburg Times and The Evening Independent newspapers.
As always, we want to thank our Sisters in Crime for their support, assistance, and wide range of knowledge. Whenever we needed an answer, one of you was there to help us find it. Over the years, Sarah and I have belonged to several chapters and found wonderful friends in each of them. A special thank you goes to Cheryl Hollon, author of the Webb’s Glass Shop Mysteries, for taking time out of her busy schedule to read and review the book.
There are always people that I forget to mention in this section of the book. To all of you, I am sorry. I tend to remember who answered questions, provided help, or listened to me whine after the book goes to press. So, THANK YOU and please accept my humble apology for failing to include your name.
Chapter One
“Teddy! Put that jar away before you get us arrested.” Cornelia looked back to see if the sheriff’s car they had just passed was turning around.
“I have my prescription with me,” Teddy cheerfully replied.
“That’s for a bottle of medicinal alcohol, not Mr. Scroggins’ hooch. What happens when they find out you have a whole suitcase full of illegal booze?”
“It’s not full—anymore.”
If she had not been driving, Cornelia would have planted her face in her palms. “You’re incorrigible.”
The belly laughs from the rear of the Dodge Brothers Touring Sedan didn’t help. Her uncle was laughing so hard that his face, above the snowy beard, was beet red and tears had formed in the corners of his eyes. Her traveling companions were impossible, both of them.
She sighed, shifted the gears of the car, and turned onto the paved road.
The road into the heart of Saint Petersburg was broad and lined with restaurants and stores. “Civilization at last!” Teddy sighed, silver curls glinting in the afternoon light. “We’ve left the jungle.”
“I must say,” Cornelia replied, “that even I am glad to be back on paved roads. It’s easier on the tires.”
“And one’s backside,” Uncle Percival added from the back seat, jammed between suitcases. “Makes it difficult to nap.”
Cornelia shifted to a gear better suited to city traffic. “No more need to nap or trade off driving, Uncle. We’ve arrived.”
The conversation died when Cornelia turned off Central Avenue onto the street that paralleled the waterfront. A wide ribbon of grass bordered a yacht basin filled with pleasure craft. Their tall masts reached for the heavens. Beyond, they could see an expanse of brilliant waters in shades of turquoise, green, and blue sparkling in the sunlight. Tampa Bay was even more beautiful than when she first saw it some thirty years before, en route to San Juan. The car ahead of them lingered for a better look at the toys of the wealthy, and Cornelia veered around it. The view of the bay opened before them, and the pale shades of shallow water gave way to dark blue under an azure sky dotted with cotton ball clouds. At least a dozen sailboats glided along the horizon. Cornelia couldn’t help smiling as she breathed in the salty sea air.
“Look at the palm trees lining the road,” Teddy said. “So stately.”
“I thought you were happy to be leaving the jungle,” Cornelia teased. “We’ve seen plenty of palms for the past couple of weeks. They grow all along the highway.”
“But these are decorative palms. There’s a difference.”
“If you say so, dear.”
“There’s the Pier,” Cornelia’s uncle announced, with excitement in his voice. “I can hardly wait to walk it. Do you think we have time to speak to the workers?”
The women in the front seat didn’t reply. They were staring at the enormous hotel facing the water. Its brilliant pink wings opened from a rosy façade with columns and frescos.
“Is that the Vinoy?” Teddy asked, never caught without words for long. “It’s marvelous.”
Uncle Percival shifted his view. “It is an impressive structure, although I think the local builders are overly enamored with flamingo colors. I’ve never seen so much pink.”
“I love it,” Teddy asserted.
“Of course you do,” Cornelia said.
Their friend Mitch, a reporter with the Saint Petersburg Times, had told them that a meal at the Vinoy would cost him a week’s pay. Cornelia believed it; the scrollwork and carved details on the front entrance alone told her the hotel was not intended for ordinary travelers. In her experience, graceful lines and beautiful architecture amounted to a pretty penny on the final bill.
She pulled into the circular drive, and a uniformed valet rushed to the side of her car. His eyebrows rose when he saw a woman at the wheel. The surprised look vanished in an instant.
Cornelia was impressed with how fast his smile returned.
“Welcome to the Vino
y, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“My uncle”—she indicated the elderly man in the back—“has booked rooms for a few days.”
The valet eyed the embroidered curtains Teddy had added to the rear passenger windows. Hardly standard issue. “Very good, ma’am. We’ll handle your vehicle and luggage while you register.”
Cornelia climbed out of the Dodge and handed it over to the young man. Her first deed was straightening her suit jacket—an ingrained habit after decades with the military—followed by donning her broad-brimmed hat.
On the other side of the vehicle, a bellboy assisted Teddy and her uncle to the curb. He and the valet began emptying the back seat of its luggage. This was no easy task; between Teddy’s steamer trunk and her uncle’s camera equipment, it had been difficult for Cornelia to squeeze a single carpetbag in for herself. Her clothes were probably crushed again; she made a mental note to inquire about laundry service at the front desk.
The valet was standing at her side, looking expectant. She reached into her bag and gave him the tip he openly expected. He glanced at the change she’d given him before thanking her.
He looks disappointed, she thought. He’s probably used to wads of bills from the swells and swank businessmen. Well, she’d given him a fair price for what he’d done. It was the bellboy who was going to deserve the bigger tip.
The line of registrants stretched out the double doors and down the stairs. If it was this busy on a Wednesday, the weekend would be frightful. They were in for a long wait.
Her uncle repeated his name for the concierge, more loudly this time. The echoing chatter in the lobby would challenge any ear. “No, I’m not part of the group from Portland. Professor Percival Pettijohn, retired. I engaged a suite with an adjoining room for my nieces.”
The young man flipped through the pages of hotel reservations. “Certainly, sir, but it may take me a moment to sift through the state of Maine. Oh, there you are. You were supposed to arrive last week. It says here that you were delayed.”
Being jailed on suspicion of murder counts as a delay, I suppose, Cornelia mused. She had enjoyed bird-watching in Homosassa, but there were moments in their visit she could have done without.
“Indeed we were,” Uncle Percival replied, without losing the twinkle in his smile. “You were so kind to accommodate the change on short notice. I hope you can still grant us the suite arrangement. If not, we need two rooms close together.”
“Of course, sir.” He checked the reservation. “Yes, they have you listed with a bay view suite, and an adjoining room with a private bath for your nieces.”
Technically, Teddy wasn’t a niece, but the claim made traveling arrangements easier. Cornelia glanced around the lobby, with its vaulted ceiling, large cypress wood beams, and heavy chandeliers. A beautiful place, but how much was this stay costing her uncle?
Her gaze returned to ground level, and she saw that Teddy was speaking with two attractive young women. Both had bobbed hair and wore the long strands of beads currently in fashion. Their dresses were the latest style, with long waists and skirts shorter than the ones the French girls wore during the Great War.
As usual, Teddy was already making friends. Or was she on the search for a swell party? Honestly, the woman was a dowsing rod for booze.
When Uncle Percival was ready to go to their rooms, though, Teddy was all a-chatter about the short hairstyles and the hotel salon instead.
Their room was enormous; large enough for two full sized beds, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a private bath. There was even a space with two chairs by the window, which overlooked a spacious lawn. In the distance, the azure waters beckoned.
Teddy had the bellboy arrange their suitcases on the luggage racks before dismissing him. She tipped him well for his trouble. Once he was gone, she plopped on one of the mattresses and grinned.
“Big beds, plump pillows, a lovely view, and we don’t have to share the bath,” she said. “This is the life!”
Cornelia removed her jacket and began hanging things in the wardrobe. “It definitely beats the nurse quarters in the Philippines, but I’m worried about the cost. Uncle’s money isn’t endless.”
“No, but I don’t think you need to fret. I’ve noticed that your uncle always keeps a close eye on his finances. This was supposed to be his birthday treat, remember? Although it’s an odd one—visiting a pier that’s still under construction doesn’t sound like fun.”
“It’s the engineer in him,” Cornelia said, smiling at last. “He’s retired from teaching, but not from his curiosity. You’re right about his views on money, though—no one in our family was ever frivolous. My late grandfather may roust from the grave and tan Uncle Percy’s backside for wasting so much money on one hotel stay.”
“I intend to be frivolous enough to make up for the two of you,” Teddy said. “When you’re visiting the pier with your uncle, I’m going to go make myself beautiful at the salon.”
“You’re already beautiful. What makes you think I’m going to follow my uncle to the pier instead of going to the salon with you?”
“Easy,” she replied. “He’s going to expect you to lug that tripod around so he can film the construction. If he spent his time studying people instead of projects, he’d be another Cecil B. DeMille.”
They dressed for dinner. The professor wore a more formal jacket and tie than he usually chose, and Cornelia donned her black silk gown. It was getting a lot of use on this trip; tomorrow, she would have it properly laundered.
Teddy, of course, was the flashy one. Her evening dress was embroidered voile over an aquamarine slip. She had foregone her usual bandeau for a rhinestone-studded comb at one temple.
“I shall be the envy of everyone tonight,” Uncle Percival said. “A beautiful woman on each arm.”
“They’ll think you’re a real sugar daddy,” Teddy replied. “We’ll need to beat the shebas off you.”
Cornelia smiled at the mental picture. Her uncle was charming, but no ladies’ man.
Her father told her that Percival had been engaged once, but when she’d asked what happened, he’d shrugged and said his brother never told him. As they waited for the elevator, she remembered all the tragic reasons she’d conjured to explain why Uncle Percival never married. Most of them were worthy of the worst sort of radio drama. At some point, she’d concluded that his intended must have realized that his greatest devotion was reserved for the miracles of engineering. No woman wanted to be second fiddle to a chunk of metal.
The entrance to the dining room was broad, opening into a space filled with linen-covered tables. Open archways flanked each side. Dark-suited men sat with their jeweled companions, talking, laughing, and eating.
They were escorted to one of the tables and left to study the menu. Cornelia looked for an option that wouldn’t bankrupt her uncle and discovered there were no prices on her menu. “How are we supposed to know what this meal is costing?” she grumbled.
“Our stay is on the American plan, dear,” her uncle said. “Unless you want the meal delivered to your room, there are no additional charges.”
She frowned as she read through descriptions of entrees. Did rich people really care that their roasted turkey was from rice-fed birds? How would they even know the claim was true? She sighed, decided on the red snapper, and laid the menu aside.
Teddy was more interested in the deep red and blue murals on the walls than ordering dinner. “I think they’ve gone for a Roman theme,” she said. “Everywhere you look, there’s a new detail to enjoy.”
Their meal was excellent and, Cornelia suspected, very expensive. She was glad that she could get her fish sans Mornay sauce. It was tender, flaky, and baked to perfection.
The professor was so excited about the pier that he wouldn’t have noticed if his short ribs were replaced with sawdust. He spent most of the meal discussing his plans for visiting the construction site in the morning. The concierge hadn’t been sure whom to contact for permission, so the Professor had
tasked the youth to identify the construction company from their equipment. This evening, he would settle for examining the design from the mezzanine terrace through Cornelia’s field glasses. She wasn’t planning to use them, was she?
“Did the concierge find the right person?” Teddy asked.
“I don’t know,” the professor said. “He was off duty when I stopped by later.”
“So, your visit’s been delayed,” Cornelia said.
Uncle Percival reached for his water. “No, I intend to go down there tomorrow morning.”
“What if they say that you haven’t gone through proper channels?”
“I’ll tell them that I’m too old to go through proper channels. Bureaucracy is a curse on mankind. By the way, Cornelia, I’ll need you on camera duty. I must get this on film. I’m sure the engineering department at the university would be thrilled to see a project of this magnitude being constructed.”
Teddy laughed and started to say something to Cornelia—probably “I told you so”—when a strange voice broke in.
“Nurse Teddy! Is that you?”
A young man stood at the empty side of the table. He was blond and square-built. He looked familiar, but Cornelia had met many young men during the Great War.
Teddy immediately recognized him. “Mac! How delightful to see you!” She turned to Cornelia’s uncle. “Professor, this is Mac Stevens. He was a flying ace during the war. He spent some time in our hospital after a dogfight that sent a Fokker Eindecker down in flames.”
Now Cornelia remembered him. The haphazardly landed airplane, the bleeding young man, then, later, sitting beside him in the back of the ambulance. “You’re looking well, Mac.”
“Thank you, Miss Petticoat—Pettijohn. Sorry, I misspoke.”
“No, you didn’t,” Cornelia said. “You flyboys didn’t come up with that nickname. Soldiers were calling me the Iron Petticoat before you were born.”
“You make an impression, ma’am.”