Tarte Tatin Murder Page 2

  Several club members looked in his direction and leaned together to whisper gleeful disapproval of his condition.

  “Mr. Brady, I think you need to rest after your morning in the sun. Is there someone you can call to pick you up? You don't look like you feel well enough to be driving.” It was the young man who'd greeted Ashley on her arrival. She was impressed by his tact in pretending to believe Charlie was suffering from overexposure to the sun rather than obvious booze consumption.

  “’Course I do! Plentya friends—just pick one out and they'll be here! Now, where's that danged phone gotten to this time?” Charlie fumbled in his pockets, turning them out, but his phone was clearly missing. “Know I had it—'mergency call. Where's the 'mergency?”

  “Uncle Charlie, let me get hold of Ryan; I'm sure he'll know of someone who can drive you home,” Ashley said, texting Ryan as she spoke.

  “No rush—gotta take care of the 'mergency first.” Charlie continued patting his pockets. “Where's that stupid phone? Hate those things—never leave you alone.”

  “Uncle Charlie's crocked—needs a ride. Who 2 call?”

  When Ryan replied that he'd be right there, Ashley took Charlie’s arm, steering him towards the bar. “Ryan's on his way. Why don't we wait for him here?” She signaled the bartender for coffee and asked, “How was your game? Did you do well?”

  “Didn't finish, but it wouldn'ta mattered. Danged Oliver was beating me badly and being a horse's behind about it. I coulda killed him for rubbing my nose in it.” Charlie continued grumbling under his breath.

  “Why did you quit before you finished? Were you losing that badly?”

  “Don't remember; had a 'mergency in the clubhouse.” He looked at her blearily and reached for his flask. “'Mergency-only flask; came to fix the 'mergency, so it's the right place for it!” As he tipped the flask to swig the whiskey, Ashley noticed that it was still full enough that the contents sloshed down his shirt front. She wondered how he'd managed to get so drunk without emptying the flask. She might even has thought it was from the sun if not for the fumes rolling off him, the odor so strong that it was almost visible.

  She tried to get him to drink the hot, black coffee Stacey brought over, but he was having none of it. He looked at the mug blearily and then pushed it away, hefting his flask once again.

  “Stupid bar dry this morning; what good's a bar without booze? Good thing I have plenty friends to help,” Charlie mumbled as he patted his “friend” and lifted it to his mouth again.

  “Uncle Charlie, why don't we step out on the terrace for a little fresh air?” Ashley tried to guide him back toward the French doors, hoping to keep him from creating any more of a scene and giving the busybodies more grist for the gossip mill.

  He refused to budge. “Got nothing left to do out there today, and it's too danged hot for anything human to move around. I'm staying right here. Not going back out there to sweat or to listen to that blowhard Green bragging about his golf score.”

  After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than ten minutes, Ryan walked in, looking hot and cross. He glanced around until he saw them and then stomped over to where they sat.

  “Uncle Charlie, what are you thinking? You're stinking drunk at an important public event. What's gotten into you lately? I don't think I've even seen you tipsy before, much less falling down drunk.” Despite his obvious annoyance, Ryan clearly was worried about his favorite uncle.

  “And what's going on outside?” he asked Ashley. “I haven't seen that many police cars in one place since the Memorial Day parade, and there's an ambulance out there, too. Someone get too hot or throw their clubs through a window because they lost a round?”

  “Police cars? Really? I haven't heard anything,” Ashley answered. “It must not have been too serious; we didn't hear any sirens—didn't even know they were out there! No one has said anything in here, either, and there hasn't been any kind of a fuss that I noticed. Come to think of it, that is kind of strange.”

  “Well, let me get good-time Charlie here to the car, so I can pour him into bed. Man, is he going to have a sore head in the morning! And it looks like he's sporting a pretty good sunburn, too. I think I'll make sure to avoid him for a couple of days, until he remembers who he is again.”

  “Make sure he drinks plenty of water before he sleeps,” Ashley suggested, “and leave a bottle of water next to his bed. That will help the hangover some, anyway. Do you want some help getting him home?”

  “Nah, if you'll help me get him moving, I can take it from there. I used to have to get my roommates settled after their binge-drinking parties. I know how to handle him.”

  Together, they got Charlie standing and walked him to the door. Charlie's car was parked in the first row, so Ryan took his uncle's keys, making Ashley raise an eyebrow.

  “I’ll come back later for my car,” Ryan explained. “I had to park on the street about two blocks from the entrance thanks to all the emergency vehicles blocking the entrance to the lot.” As they leaned Charlie against the back door so that Ryan could unlock the car, two uniformed sheriff's deputies approached them, looking grim.

  “One of you Charles Brady?” asked the pudgy, gray-haired deputy.

  “Yeah, that's me. Who wants to know?”

  “You were Oliver Green's golf partner today?”

  “Yeah, I got stuck with that loud-mouthed old fool. So what?” Charlie was reaching the belligerent drunk stage rapidly. “I shoulda killed him for being such a jerk. He had the nerve to ask me for money while lording it over me that he was beating me at golf, like that was such a big deal. “

  “You need to come with us, sir. Got some questions for you,” said the other deputy, a redhead who didn't look old enough to be out of high school, much less the police academy. He looked nervous, as if he didn't really know what to do if Charlie decided not to cooperate.

  “Sean, I know he's drunk, but I can get him home,” Ryan insisted, stepping in front of Charlie while keeping a hand on him to prevent him from toppling over. “He didn't cause any trouble; we got him outside without a scene. Surely you don't have to arrest him if I just get him away from here now.”

  “Son,” the older deputy responded, “this is a mite more serious than public intoxication. He's going to have to come to the station and answer some questions.”

  Charlie continued muttering, “Somebody ought to shut that guy up.”

  “Station? Questions? About what?” Ryan looked puzzled.

  The younger cop took Charlie's arm and started pulling him toward a patrol car. Ryan’s uncle tried to jerk away, stumbling and lurching as he overbalanced.

  “Hey, hands off, youngster—show some 'spect for your elders,” Charlie snarled. “Go way—don't wanna talk 'bout that jerk anymore. Never gonna spend time with him again.”

  The other deputy glanced over at his partner and Charlie, then turned back to answer Ryan. “It seems that someone did shut Oliver Green up—permanently. He's been murdered, and your uncle is our number one suspect. He's going to have a lot of explaining to do before he goes home again. You can meet us at the station if you want.”

  Stunned, Ashley and Ryan watched the deputies tuck Charlie into the patrol car. He was still fighting them and muttering about Green. Ryan called out, “Uncle, I'll meet you at the station,” just as the door slammed and the deputies drove away.

  He looked at Ashley, panic in his eyes. “I can't believe this! Ash, there's no way Uncle Charlie killed anyone. I know he's sozzled, but he's not a killer. In fact, I don't think he could stand up long enough to kill anyone. This looks bad, but I know him. I know he wouldn't kill someone, especially not over a golf game.”

  “Go to the station and find out what's going on. I'll pack up and call you when I get home. If you need me before then, call my cell. It's going to work out; it will be okay.” Ashley gave Ryan a little push toward the car and then hurried back inside to gather her belongings.

  CHAPTER 3

  Looking ba
ck to be sure she hadn't left anything behind on or under the tables, Ashley hit a solid wall of uniform. She looked up into a tanned face with a scruffy five o’clock shadow, and said, “Oof! Oh, Sheriff Mueller, I'm sorry! I guess I should have been watching where I’m going instead of where I've already been!”

  The sheriff chuckled. “No harm done! I should have been paying more attention, too. How have you been, Ashley?”

  “Busy, busy, busy—and that's just the way I like it!” After a second, Ashley's smile dimmed. “Sheriff, what happened out there today? Was it really murder? And do you really think Charlie Brady had anything to do with it?”

  The sheriff hesitated, looking over her head. “Well, I really shouldn't tell you anything about an on-going investigation.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “Hold on—I said I shouldn't, not that I won't! I can't tell you everything, but, since you've been such a help in the past, I can give you a bit of information. You'll hear it all through the grapevine in another hour, anyway.”

  Ashley laughed. “What on earth is going on in town that you think it will take that long? I'm surprised I haven't already gotten five or six calls—with all the wrong details!”

  “Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, it looks to me like things got a bit too heated—no pun intended—and ol' Charlie bopped Green on the head; my investigators tell me the preliminary cause of death looks to be blunt force trauma. Of course, under Texas law, we'll have to have an autopsy, since this was an unattended death, but my guys don't miss many!”

  “Who found him? And why are you so sure it was Charlie who hit him?”

  “A golf twosome found him in the rough at the seventh hole; the body had been shoved under some leaves in the underbrush. As for Charlie—well, he was Green's partner, he was drunk, and he disappeared off the greens for no reason that we can find. I'm pretty sure that a blood and DNA analysis of his bag and clubs will give us everything we need to wrap this up. It's too bad; Charlie Brady's a good man, and it's sad that booze pushed him over the edge. He'd never even have thought of hurting someone if he'd been sober.”

  Ashley pondered for a second and then asked, “But, Sheriff, if he'd just killed someone, why would he come back to the clubhouse? Why not just leave? I sat with him at the bar for at least ten minutes while we waited for Ryan to pick him up. He could have gotten a fair distance from the club in that time, especially if he'd left the course a while before that.”

  Mueller looked at her and shook his head. “Hon, he was stewed to the gills. I doubt he even knew that he was in the clubhouse. Did he say anything strange?”

  She decided to leave out Charlie's comment that he could have killed his partner, knowing that he'd incriminated himself enough with his comments to the deputies. “Just that he had a flask in his pocket 'for emergencies.' He was pretty well-oiled; he couldn't find his phone. But he didn't say anything that sounded like he'd just bashed someone over the head with a golf club. And, like Ryan said, I don't think he could stand up straight enough to hit someone with anything, much less a golf club, without falling over himself, especially not hard enough to kill. And Charlie didn't have any scratches or debris to show he'd fallen.”

  “Well, drunks can pull some pretty dumb stunts, and it will surprise you what they're capable of when you think they're seconds from passing out. Right now, though, I'd better get back inside and see what else the detectives have found out, and then I have to head back to the station. My wife is not going to be happy that I won't be home for supper; her sister and brother-in-law are supposed to be there—not that I mind missing that part! See you soon, under better circumstances, I hope!”

  He started to walk away and then turned back, his face serious. “Ashley, leave this one alone. Do not get involved in investigating; we have our killer—we'll close it up shortly.”

  Ashley didn't bother to respond. She didn't agree with the sheriff's assumptions, but she knew that she didn't have anything that would convince him—yet.

  As she slid the last box into the back of her van, she realized that she'd left her portable crepe maker in the kitchen. Since she'd need it for tomorrow's afternoon tea event, she went back to the clubhouse. She headed to the kitchen where she'd had the unit plugged in, but the door was locked, and no one responded when she knocked. Looking around, she saw that the bartender was still around.

  “Hey, Stacey, I left something in the kitchen; is there any chance you could let me in to get it?” She smiled, hoping a friendly face would help her convince the perky young woman to take pity and unlock the door.

  “Nope, sorry; only Javier, the manager, has a key. Nobody gets into the kitchen without him knowing about it, ever since they caught a couple of the members making sandwiches from some fancy food bought for a special event.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?” Ashley smiled at her mental picture of some tipsy men demolishing elaborate banquet dishes. It wouldn't be funny if she was the caterer, but it did make her laugh to realize that raiding the refrigerator crossed social lines.

  “Hell if I know; he disappeared early this morning, before the bigwigs starting showing up. One of the biggest events we've had this year, and he bails, leaving me with a dry bar because someone screwed up the inventory and didn't order enough booze—and he's the one who is responsible for making sure we're stocked up. I spent most of the day listening to members whining about not having their drinks or threatening to have me fired if I didn't pour booze I didn't have. Then, on top of that, there's this whole murder thing. I know Javier’s been distracted lately, but, when we've got all these VIPs around, he could at least pretend to give a damn about his job and stick around where he's supposed to be. Ordering inventory and patting members on the head is above my pay grade, and it would be great if that guy would do his job and earn that higher paycheck.”

  “Um, well, thanks anyway,” Ashley stammered, a little taken aback by the bartender's vehemence. “I guess I'll have to swing by tomorrow to get the rest of my things.”

  Shaking her head, Ashley crawled into the driver's seat of the catering van and pulled out her phone to call Ryan, but the call went straight to voice mail. She headed out, thinking that she'd try calling again when she got back to the commercial kitchen she and Patty shared.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Patty? Are you here?” Ashley pushed open the door to the kitchen with her box and dropped it on the stainless steel prep table. “Patty?”

  “I guess I'm here alone,” she thought. “I haven't seen Patty since—wow, I can't even remember!” Her friend had been a bit distant the last few weeks. It almost seemed like Patty was avoiding her, like she was hiding something. “Maybe I should call her and suggest a girls' night out.” As she reached for her phone, it started to ring; the screen showed Ryan's number.

  “Are you okay? How's Charlie?” she asked.

  A deep sigh on the other end. “He's still at the station. They say that he won't see the justice of the peace or the judge before tomorrow, so he'll have to stay at the jail overnight. Sheriff Mueller is talking about taking him to the hospital first, though; he's worried about how drunk Uncle Charlie is. He wants the doctor to take a look and be sure he doesn't need some kind of treatment. I can't ever remember seeing anyone that drunk before. He blew almost three times the legal limit.”

  “Oh, Ryan! I’m so sorry! Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I don't know, Ash; I really don't know. Uncle Charlie is innocent—I’m sure of that. He's been like a second father to me all my life, and there is no way he'd kill someone over a golf game. I mean, I know he isn't perfect, and he's drinking way too much, but—he and Aunt Mercy are in the middle of a divorce, and it's turned really ugly and expensive. He still loves her and doesn't want the divorce, but she's got some other guy in the wings and wants all the money and property. I know it's not an excuse, but he's a harmless drunk. In fact, he usually doesn't touch alcohol anywhere but at home. He wouldn't intentionally hurt anyone, much less kill
them, and definitely not over golf. I mean, he enjoys the game, but he doesn't care enough to get that mad over it!”

  Ryan paused and then, voice quivering, said, “Ash, I need your help. I have to prove that Charlie's innocent. I can't let him go to prison for something I know he didn't do. I owe him so much; I have to help him.”

  “Let the police handle it, Ryan; that's their job. If Charlie's innocent—and I'm sure you're right that he is—they'll figure it out.” Ashley could hear the doubt in her own voice, but she hoped Ryan couldn’t.

  “Oh, sure—they'll solve it easily, since they aren't even looking for any other possible suspects. They've decided it had to be my uncle, so they aren't even talking to—or about—anyone else. But that's not the truth, and my uncle is going to be railroaded into prison if I don't find a way to prove they're wrong.”

  Her turn to sigh. “Okay, take it easy; if we're going to help, you have to stay calm and in control of yourself. And yeah, I do know how hard that is—I do remember.” She thought about how panicked she was when it looked like she would end up in prison for her ex-boyfriend's fraud and thefts. She was eventually able to prove her innocence—her naiveté, really—but it was a scary time, knowing that the police then were also convinced she was the guilty party. She paused, considering, and then continued, “I'll help you however I can. What do you already know about the case?”

  “Nothing really; all they told me was that Oliver Green had been found dead on the golf course and that he had been murdered. Right about then, Charlie's attorney got to the station, and no one would tell me anything else. The attorney said he'd call me tomorrow, and Mueller told me to go home.”

  “Hmm. Well, I did find out that the cause of death was blunt force trauma, and Sheriff Mueller is having Charlie's golf clubs tested for blood and DNA. I think we're going to have to leave that part to them. I have to go back to the club in the morning, though, to pick up some stuff I left behind. I guess I can snoop around and see what I can learn there. I have to tell you, though—the only sure way to prove Charlie didn't kill Oliver is to find out who did. That could be dangerous, so we need to be careful.”