Stalker (32 page)

Elaine sipped her cappuccino, receiving a milk mustache in the process. She licked it off with the tip of her tongue. “You know, you should be talking to Ray. He’s not
only a genuine old-timer, but he was more involved with Armand than I certainly was. He’s the town Realtor.” Elaine faced the front of the store. “Go east on Main, past the trailer park, past the big Wal-Mart shopping center with the Taco Bell and the Starbucks, almost to the end of Belfleur. The town merges into Haciendaville. If you reached Haciendaville, you went too far. His place is on the left side.”

“His office is open today?”

“His office?” Elaine smiled. “That’s funny…his office. Anyway, he’s always there except Sunday morning when he’s at church. Ray’s straight, a rabid Republican, and a Baptist to boot. But don’t be put off. Despite all that, he’s a good guy.”

It was a tiny storefront with filmy windows that usually accompanied places boarded up for good. The gold lettering on the glass said
RAYMOND HARP
. Underneath the name was the word
REALTOR
. Cindy opened the glass door and went inside. A man was slouched in an oversized chair with his feet propped up on a bridge table, its plastic top made up to look like simulated wood. He was smoking a cigar. He wore a white suit and a Panama hat, and sported a white beard. He had a round face, pale skin, and very dark eyes. He was typecast for the elderly plantation gentleman, or the old corrupt Southern judge. And Cindy wasn’t far off. When he asked—without moving—if she needed help, she detected a slight drawl. But it was more Texas than Deep South.

“My name is Cindy Decker. Are you Mr. Harp?”

“Pleased to meet you, Cindy Decker.” The man tipped his hat. “And no, I’m not Mr. Harp. I’m Mr. Harp
er
, if you must know. The E and R got scratched off the window ages ago. Never bothered to put ’em back up, since everyone in town knows who I am.”

Cindy nodded and attempted to give him a friendly smile as she looked around. The file cabinet was ancient, with papers sticking out even though the drawers were
closed. The soda machine was vintage quality and probably worth more than anything Elaine had in her antiques shop. “So you are Raymond Harper, then.”

“Achully I’m
Elgin
Harper. Ray was my brother, and he moved out twenty-five years ago. Never bothered to correct that, either. Lots of people call me Ray. But if you’re asking my true Christian name, it’s Elgin Harper.” He smiled, showing brown teeth, then blew a smoke ring. “Now what can I do for you, Cindy Decker?”

“I’m thinking about buying a weekend escape. I heard that prices are cheaper here than in Palm Springs.”

There was a pause. Then Harper said, “You’re talking about a second home
here
?” He swung his feet off the desk. “And just
what
do you intend to do with a house here?”

“Just relax.” Cindy kept at it. “Maybe drive into the mountains and do some hiking. Also, since it’s close to Palm Springs, I can drive into the city when I want a little more action.”

Harper eyed her. “Are you a hooker?”

Cindy burst into laughter. “No, sir, I am not a hooker.”

Harper didn’t answer.

“I’m
not
a hooker,” Cindy reiterated. “Honest.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Why are you so curious?” Cindy asked.

“Because a pretty lady comes in here asking for a retreat. A lady who wears slacks instead of jeans and a fancy sweater that shows off a healthy chest, excuse my impertinence. Listen, you want to ply your trade, I won’t object. I could give you a slew of referrals. Heck, being a red-blooded Republican male, I may even come to you myself. But I still go to church. That means I’m not gonna sell to you and get in trouble with the locals. Not that we’re too overly Christian. You see all the antiques stores we got?”

“I met Elaine.”

“She’s one of many. Hell, we got more queens in this here city than in Europe. But we don’t want any of your
type bringing in imported trash. We got enough with our own local trash. You want customers, try the reservations for that kind of shenanigans.”

“I am not a hooker.”

“Well, maybe not. But you’re not being truthful. What
do
you want?”

Cindy glanced around. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you, Ray? Or is it Elgin?”

“It’s whatever you want to call me, honey.” He started laughing. It turned into a hacking cough. “And yes, I’ve been here a while. Hey, I bet you’re a bondsman. Who skipped bail this time?”

“I’m not a bondsman. I’m not even a bondswoman.”

“Well, you’re some kind of person looking for information. You’re packing.” He pointed to her bag. “I can see the piece dragging down at the bottom of your bag. If you’re going to rob me, go away. Only money here is in the soda machine.”

Harper stood up. His protruding belly fell over his belt and hung down, nearly hiding his genitals. He put his hands on his hips and took a step forward. “So what do you want, young lady?”

“Okay,” Cindy said. “This is the deal, Mr. Harper. I’ll tell you what I know about Armand Crayton and you fill in the rest.”

“What’s in it for me, Cindy Decker?”

“Who knows? Maybe by talking, we can figure out who murdered Crayton.”

“And why would I care about that?”

“You didn’t like Armand?”

“As a matter of fact, I found him an agreeable young lad. But if you’re asking who killed him, I’ll tell you there’s a long list of candidates. Armand disappointed quite a few people.”

“Tell me about them,” Cindy persisted.

Harper blew another smoke ring. “I think I’m gonna sit down again. This may take a while. You might want to pull up a chair yourself.” He held up his cigar. “This bothering you?”

“No, not at all. I love the smell of a cheap cigar. It reminds me of back alley gambling and barroom brawls.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Harper sank into his chair and put his feet back up. “You wanna make up some coffee?”

“I suppose I can do that.” She searched around the room. “Where’s the coffeepot?”

“In the john, right next to the toilet paper.”

“Lovely.”

“No, it ain’t the Ritz, thank you very much.”

Cindy went inside the bathroom. It was small, but surprisingly spotless. Even the grout that held together the white tile floor was clean. The machine rested on a shelf, along with the coffee, its accoutrements, and three mugs. She poured the water into the apparatus and waited for it to gurgle. As the coffee brewed, she tried to formulate her questions. But there were so many of them, she gave up.

A few minutes later she walked back into the office—so to speak—and handed him a fresh cup. “What do you take?”

“Three packets of powder, three lumps of sugar.”

She took the cup from him and prepared it to his liking.

Harper said, “I could get into this. A beautiful woman fixing coffee for me.” A fraction of a wait, then he said, “
Any
woman fixing coffee for me.”

“I bet you do okay in the woman department.” She pulled up a chair. “That ah-shucks demeanor. Gets ’em every time. Now…” She sipped her coffee. “What can you tell me about Armand and Desert Bloom Estates?”

“The gentleman almost pulled it off. Quite a feat, Cindy, because this land doesn’t have a whole bunch of natural resources to sell it. Yet, Armand approached the land like it had been kissed by King Midas of Crete. Man, that boy could talk a good case. And he was nice to the locals, though everyone knew it was with self-serving interest. Still, he was polite. I’ll give him that much.”

“Who were his investors?”

“I’d say fools, but that would be harsh. You’ve got to remember, Cindy, that the stock market was booming with everything e-this or e-that. People were throwing capital
into companies that had never turned a profit. Guess Armand figured he might as well ride
that
wave. Housing was booming, and empty land was at a premium—if you lived in Silicon Valley or Seattle, that is. What’s the first thing they teach you in real estate buying school—location, location, location. Well, here in Belfleur, hi-tech means a calculator. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. What can I tell you? Belfleur didn’t really participate in the boom.”

Harper stubbed out his cigar and took a swig of his coffee.

“Sure we had a few Hollywood types with their ponytails and second wives that got it in their heads to be gentlemen farmers and bought some fruit orchards, but that was about it. All that was true until Crayton came along. But, you see, Armand wasn’t in the real estate business. He was in the dream business. He sold dreams to anyone willing to believe them.”

He arched his hand across the air, making an imaginary banner.

“Desert Bloom Estates. All you ever wanted in a dream getaway. Pools and sauna and gyms and massages and mud baths and salt rubs. The place to come when you want to be pampered. And who doesn’t want to be pampered. Heck, I get excited when a pretty young lady makes me coffee.” He winked at her. “Real excited.”

“You’re getting red in the face, Mr. Harper. Just what is your blood pressure?”

“I don’t know ’cause it’s rising by the minute.”

“Just watch yourself,” Cindy admonished. “My CPR skills are rusty.”

“It may be worth it.”

“Who actually owned the Desert Bloom land?”

“That would be Armand.”

“So he actually was selling land that he owned.”

“Well, I suppose technically the bank owned it. But Armand had the deeds. Mr. Crayton owned the plots, and more important, the rights to develop them.”

“Who were Armand’s clientele?”

“Lots of working-class stiffs from Los Angeles. And for a while it looked like Armand was going to pull it off. The locals were ecstatic.”

“Did any of the locals buy in?”

“Most didn’t. Don’t think they fully trusted Armand and they turned out to be right. But that was neither here nor there. A development like Desert Bloom could completely revitalize the town. City planning commission couldn’t wait to approve the plans. This was what everyone was waiting for. They, like the rest of us, could almost taste that influx of fresh greenery. And it was promising for a while. Armand had down-payment money and everything. How do I know? Because Crayton had his business accounts banked locally. And there was money in the account. Real money. We all thought that the project looked like a go.”

“So what happened?”

“Guess you don’t follow the market much.”

“I would if I had money.”

“Touché,” Harper said. “I know that situation. Well, Cindy, what happened is that the market dipped…a big dip.”

“Armand pulled out,” Cindy said.

“No, he didn’t pull out. But his partner did, the actual man with the money to develop. When the plug was pulled by Dex, everything fell through.”

“Dex being Dexter Bartholomew,” Cindy said.

Harper regarded her. “Yep, you’ve done your homework. The good old boy from Oklahoma had us all going for a while. But then…” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. He suddenly refused to develop Desert Bloom, claiming that Armand didn’t have enough initial buyers to develop a project of such magnitude. Hell, he needed way more money just to get started. You know, to run the utility lines—the water, the sewage, the electricity, the phone lines, though God knows there were plenty of phone lines already set up. But everyone here knew what the real story was. Dex took a beating in the market and didn’t have the play money anymore.”

“But Armand had banked the down-payment money.”

“Yes, ma’am, he did.”

“So he refunded his investors.”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t. I said he banked the money. I never did say the money stayed in the bank permanently.”

“He spent it.”

“Yes, he did. Not on wine, women, and song—although I’m sure that was part of it. Mostly, he spent it to acquire more land to make the development even bigger. When the bust hit, and Dex pulled out, Armand was left with a slew of angry investors.”

“Any particular irate citizen come to mind?”

“Nope.” Harper sighed. “It was very pi-tee-ful. Dex left Crayton with worthless land and a lot of explaining to do. In the end, he was forced to declare bankruptcy. The bank took back the land that Armand owned, and the dream vanished. Now the people who had already bought plots, course they still owned the land. But now it was worthless. There was a class action suit, but nothing ever came of it because Crayton didn’t have anything. Of course, that didn’t stop him from living in a fancy house or driving a fancy car. Which really tweaked a few noses.”

“Never let them see you sweat, Mr. Harper.”

“Mebbe, though it wouldn’t have hurt to be a little more sensitive to the situation.”

Cindy drank her coffee, remembering Crayton. He was a man of flash and dreams, as insubstantial as a Hollywood pitch line. She said, “You know, the rumor was that Bartholomew actually made money off Armand. But it sure doesn’t sound like that was the case.”

Harper chuckled. “Don’t cry for Dex. Once Armand went broke, Dex—as a gentleman’s courtesy to those unfortunate souls who went bust—offered to buy back the land. His largesse was tempered by the fact that he offered deep discount prices. Still, twenty percent on the dollar is better than zero. Dex did just fine.”

“How’s that if the land’s worthless?”

“Worthless as a housing development, but not worthless as land. Lots of stone underneath here, Cindy Decker.
Good, solid stone. But you need capital to quarry it up. Lucky for Dex that he had capital from his oil pipe business. If you keep going northeast, you’ll run into the pits. Now we Belfleurians are a forgiving type, so we don’t hold it against him. Also, he’s created more than a few local jobs. Dex is doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“And everybody sold out to him?”

“Almost.” Harper broke into a big smile. “See, I don’t believe in selling land at a deep discount if it’s my money. I’d rather sit on it.”

“You were an initial buyer in Desert Bloom Estates, Mr. Harper?”

Harper hung his head in mock shame. “I regretfully admit that I got caught up in the frenzy. Sometimes I think that I’m just a crazy old fool.”