Deadly Declarations (The Indie Retirement Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

Becky Trainer stood up with an ashen tint to her face. “Mr. Alexander. Please. Sue Ellen has the floor. Would you and your friend kindly take a seat?”

  Harriet was glad to see the two men. They were an odd twosome, but they were here for her, as she had asked.

  “Does everyone know Craig Travail?” Yeager asked. “Fresh man on campus. Single too.”

  Travail ducked his head and slumped into the nearest seat. He wore khaki pants, a blue button-down shirt, and a soft brown sport coat that blended with his light hazel eyes. His hair had a touch of grey in the black waves that brushed his ears. He had a well-shaped nose that accented his strong, clean-shaven face. Harriet knew he would be a hit with the women.

  Becky’s posture changed. More friendly, now. “It’s nice to have you with us, Mr. Travail. Welcome to the Indie.”

  Travail mumbled his thanks.

  “May I continue?” Sue Ellen said to Becky.

  “By all means.”

  “As I was saying, we have a problem. A serious problem.”

  As Sue Ellen spoke, her face bunched up in alarm, like she had to pee, and the toilet paper roll was empty. “If we don’t prohibit bird feeders on the property, the birds will cover our porches with… Well, I can’t bring myself to say it.”

  “Bird shit,” Yeager added. His voice carried.

  Becky Trainer was on her feet. “Mr. Alexander. Watch your language.”

  Yeager laughed and elbowed Travail.

  “This is serious,” Sue Ellen said. “The condominium porches have become a mess because the cottage residents feed the birds.”

  This was Sue Ellen’s version of class warfare. She was a condo resident, not a cottage resident. Fifth floor, at that, where she could look down on her kingdom, from her six-by-four-foot balcony.

  Harriet stood from her back row seat and addressed Sue Ellen. “Just say it.”

  “What is the problem now, Harriet?”

  “It’s not the cottage residents you’re complaining about. It’s me.”

  “This is not personal.”

  Harriet pushed her hair from her face and walked down the center aisle. She stopped halfway, set her eyes on Sue Ellen Parker, and put her hands on her hips. “You know darn well this is personal. It’s been that way all our lives. If I’m for something, you’re against it. But this one should be obvious. I’m the only cottage owner that has bird feeders.”

  “It’s not you I’m complaining about. Just your feeders.”

  “So you think me feeding the birds is to blame for bird poop on your porch?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you telling everyone that until I got here, birds didn’t exist at the Indie? Not in the trees? Not near the garden? That this was a no-fly zone?”

  “You’ve attracted more. It has to stop.” Sue Ellen turned to Becky and said, “Call the question. I move we prohibit bird feeders at the Indie.”

  Becky looked around the room. “Does anyone second Sue Ellen Parker’s motion?” Several people spoke at the same time. “Second.”

  Harriet had an idea. “Before you vote, I’d like you to hear from my lawyer.” She pointed to where Yeager and Travail sat.

  “Yeager is not a lawyer,” Sue Ellen said.

  “Not Yeager. Him.”

  “Mr. Travail is your lawyer?”

  “Yes. And a very good one.” Harriet had done her research. Craig Travail had been a well-respected trial lawyer, primarily handling complex litigation for well-funded corporations, but he sometimes represented individuals who found themselves as underdogs against moneyed opposition. Like the time he prevented a large municipality from shutting down a woman’s farm.

  Becky tried to take control. “This is not a legal proceeding, Harriet.”

  “Are you going to deny Mr. Travail the right to speak?”

  Yeager pushed Travail to his feet. Becky looked their way. “Do you want to say something, Mr. Travail?”

  “Sure he does.” Harriet tried to coax him in. “Tell them about the Jefferson Farms case.”

  Travail stiffened, and he looked at the door. He kept his comments brief.

  “Yadkin County built an office building next to my client’s farm. It then filed a nuisance lawsuit to shut down the farm.”

  Harriet pressed him. “What kind of nuisance was it?”

  “The county said the farm smelled bad and interfered with the use of the office building.”

  “How did it smell?” Harriet smiled.

  “Like the smell of what cows leave on the ground.”

  A few residents snickered. Sue Ellen frowned. Harriet now had everyone’s attention.

  “Did you win your case, Mr. Travail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The cows were there first.”

  Harriet threw up her arms and looked around the room. “Kind of like the birds were here before Sue Ellen Parker.”

  Yeager laughed, along with the cottage owners. Even a few condo owners smiled.

  Sue Ellen stared at Becky Trainer. “Can we vote now?”

  Harriet wasn’t ready to give up. “Has everyone forgotten the history of this place, the reason we call our home the Indie, and the spirit that brought us here?”

  Becky Trainer banged her gavel on the table, but it had no effect as heads turned to look at Harriet.

  “The house next door stands for something. A great patriot lived there. He was a man who stood against tyranny and for freedom from unjust laws.” She knew she was laying it on thick, but she continued anyway. “What do you think Hezekiah Alexander would have done if King George told him he couldn’t have a bird feeder?”

  People laughed again, even the condo owners.

  “Don’t tread on me and my birds, Sue Ellen Parker.” Harriet pointed at her nemesis.

  More laughter.

  But that was all Harriet accomplished, a brief bit of humor, as everyone turned their attention back to Becky Trainer and voted with a show of hands. Because the condo owners outnumbered the cottage owners two to one, Sue Ellen had the votes she needed to starve the birds.

  “The motion carries,” Becky said. “All feeders must be removed by month’s end.” She looked directly at Harriet, but Harriet refused to acknowledge Becky’s directive. She walked to the exit, turned, and stomped her feet. Everyone turned to look at her.

  “You can outlaw bird feeders all day long, Sue Ellen Parker, but no bird within five miles of this place will resist the opportunity to crap on your porch.” Harriet walked out of the room with her head held high.

  Yeager slapped Travail on the back and shouted for all to hear, “Huzzah!”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE PROFESSOR’S NEW BOOK

  Preface to An American Truth

  by Matthew Collins

  In light of circumstances that must be made plain to even the most serious of skeptics—as I once was—by the discoveries to be revealed in this book, it was incumbent upon me to write this sequel to reconcile my conclusions in An American Hoax.

  In 1831, the North Carolina governor, acting in concert with the North Carolina General Assembly, completed a report in defense of the April 30, 1819, publication in the Essex Register of what was referred to at the time as a “Declaration of Independence.” The declaration was made on May 20, 1775, in Mecklenburg County, North Carolina. The delegation that drew it was chaired by Abraham Alexander, and it was attested by John McKnitt Alexander, secretary, with twenty-six delegates present. Because the original declaration and copies either burned in an 1800 fire or were lost to time, the Essex Register set off a controversy as to the Meck Dec’s authenticity among states, regions, and well-respected American patriots.

  John Adams, successor to the presidency of George Washington, and a Massachusetts delegate to the Continental Congress, upon learning of the 1819 publication in the Essex Register, thought it genuine; whereas, Thomas Jefferson, successor to the presidency of John Adams, and drafter of the American Declaration of Independence in 1776, did not.
Rather, he thought it “spurious,” a fact quoted in the preamble to the 1831 report.

  Jefferson’s callous retort motivated the state of North Carolina to publish the 1831 report to defend the honor of the North Carolina patriots who stood for and witnessed a declaration of independence on May 20, 1775, in the backcountry of North Carolina.

  In An American Hoax, I, like many historians before me who disputed the validity of the Meck Dec, gave little or no credit to the sworn statements of eyewitnesses whose accounts appeared in the 1831 report, calling the witnesses either biased or confused or both. The 1831 report accepted the witnesses’ accounts without question, showing that North Carolina had much invested in the emotional fabric that is patriot pride and it wanted the story to be true. No longer could Virginia or Massachusetts take all the credit. North Carolina was important too. The 1831 report made a case for the validity of the Meck Dec, and I disputed it. I was not the first to do so, but I did so with (in hindsight) too much vigor.

  Convincing hardened skeptics boils down to producing a document—which I intend to do—proving that independence was born in Mecklenburg County. I look forward to revealing the true story of what happened on May 20, 1775, and just as important, the conspiracy involving the official Dispatch 34 that kept the truth a secret for so long.

  CHAPTER 8

  SITCOM ORIENTATION

  Travail awoke at 5:30 a.m. and made a cup of coffee. He was on edge from the previous day’s introduction to the Indie and hadn’t slept well. He needed something to do, so he emptied his satchel, the sixtieth birthday gift from Rachael and the one Angela had stuffed papers into the day he quit the firm. The papers she’d provided were not the complete file of the professor’s case, but they brought back memories of the trial fifteen years earlier.

  He flipped through papers he recognized until he saw a document he had given little thought to at the time. It was a copy of the letter approving the professor’s grant application to fund the research and writing for his book, An American Hoax. The funding organization was called The Jefferson Experience. He used his phone to Google the organization. When he found the web page, he clicked on the board of directors link. A name jumped out at him. Robert Elkin. That was interesting. A fact he’d never known.

  Before Travail could dig deeper, he heard rat-a-tat-tat on his back door and a loud voice. “You home in there, Craig Travail?”

  Travail sighed. He thought about ignoring his neighbor, but so far, that strategy hadn’t proved successful. He stepped to the door and opened it.

  “You ready to go?” Yeager pushed his way in.

  The sun was showing itself. “Go where?”

  “To a stakeout.”

  Before Travail could say no thanks, Yeager had him by the arm and out the door. “Time for you to learn something about the residents.”

  Travail pulled back. He had no interest in spying on other residents, if that’s what Yeager had in mind, but Yeager was strong.

  “Oh no you don’t. Ya gotta eat.” He guided Travail up the gravel path to the community center. He pushed him through the back door at the basement level and up a flight of circular steps that emptied in the first-floor lobby. “Let’s sit over there, between the food and the booze.” Yeager gestured toward two leather chairs separated by a fake tree with plastic green leaves.

  Travail was confused but remained quiet. He’d know soon enough.

  After they settled in their seats, Yeager looked at his watch. Travail checked his own. It was 6:55 a.m.

  “Anytime now,” Yeager said. “The first shift is about to arrive.”

  The lobby was a hexagon. To Travail’s immediate left was a wall with double glass doors that opened to the main dining room. The wall to his immediate right had a similar design with a door that opened to the well-stocked bar. The wall at ten o’clock became a wide hallway that led to the business offices and the main entrance. That was where Travail had signed in and had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Peaches, the activities director. The wall at two o’clock opened to a long hallway Travail had traveled when he was trying to escape Peaches. It led to the chapel, the library, the game room, the swimming pool, the salon, and the work-out facilities. Straight ahead at twelve o’clock were a bank of two elevators.

  “Very few take the steps,” Yeager said. “You can’t miss them from here.”

  Before Travail could comment about how noticeable they would be on Yeager’s version of a stakeout, one set of elevator doors opened. A man in a sweatshirt got out first.

  “Here comes Fifth of Jack,” Yeager said. “Too early to head for the bar, even for him.”

  “You give them nicknames?”

  “Best way to remember them.”

  Another man followed close behind. He wore a blue blazer and had a woman in a floral dress at his side. “Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third.”

  “You must be really bored.”

  Yeager laughed and elbowed Travail. “Here come the Skipper and Gilligan.” A big-boned fellow with thick sailor arms and a thin man with a mop of hair followed the millionaire and his wife into the dining room. “The Skipper calls his roommate ‘little buddy.’ They’re gay, but nobody cares.”

  Travail didn’t care who was or wasn’t gay. He stood to leave, but Yeager grabbed his arm and pulled him back in his seat. “Wait. There’s more.”

  When one set of elevator doors closed, the other set opened. An elderly attendant pushed an old woman in a wheelchair into the lobby. “That’s Tommy Do-Little. He’s driving Ms. Daisy.”

  “Do-Little?”

  “Yep. As little as he can. Been here since the place opened. Keeps getting annual raises while doing less and less each year. He’s thinking about writing a how-to book.”

  And so it went for the next thirty minutes. Yeager introduced Travail to all the residents, Bert and Ernie, Laverne and Shirley, Archie and Edith, Deputy Fife, Gomer Pyle, and an assorted group of contestants from The Dating Game.

  “Oh, and here comes President Bill Clinton.” Yeager pointed to a handsome elderly man with grey hair, who had a woman twenty years his junior on his left arm. The president nodded to Yeager as he passed.

  “Let me guess.”

  “Yep. He’s never had sex with ‘that woman.’ Or that one over there. Or that one right there either. That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.”

  Yeager wasn’t totally stuck in the ’60s and ’70s sitcom era. He liked to put names to residents who looked like recent politicians too. He had a match for George W, Obama, The Donald, and Uncle Joe. He even dallied in pop culture, naming characters on TV shows Travail had never watched. Travail was surprised Yeager had watched The Bachelor.

  Two women left the elevator bank next, and Yeager nudged Travail. “Here come Sue Ellen Parker and her sidekick, Becky Trainer.”

  Travail recognized the women from the homeowners’ meeting. They turned their heads and looked down on Yeager and Travail when they passed. Travail avoided eye contact and leaned into Yeager. “Are we done here?”

  A feminine voice with an edge to it responded. “That’s a good question.” Harriet Keaton stood to their right with her arms folded across her chest.

  “I was just about to tell Craig Travail the news about Sue Ellen,” Yeager said.

  “Not here,” Harriet said. “Follow me.”

  Yeager was on his feet. “Come on.”

  Travail was perplexed but followed Harriet and Yeager to a table in the bar’s corner. They had the place to themselves.

  Harriet eyed Yeager. “Okay. Tell him.”

  “Sue Ellen Parker just inherited fifty million dollars.”

  “Good for her.” It was a large sum, but Travail wasn’t interested in the story.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Obviously.” Travail was losing patience. He’d had all he could take of Yeager in less than one twenty-four-hour cycle.

  Yeager and Harriet looked at each other like there was something more that needed to be sai
d. Harriet said it. “Have you ever contested a will in court?”

  Travail grumbled. “Is this because of your bird feeder fight?”

  Harriet flinched. But not Yeager. “The bird feeders are not a problem anymore, Craig Travail. Harriet ordered beehives.”

  “What?”

  Yeager slapped Travail on the shoulder. “Sue Ellen won’t have the votes to get rid of the birds and the bees. Get it, Craig Travail?”

  Harriet gave Yeager the same look she had on her face when she caught him shooting fish. Then she stared at Travail. “This is more serious than the birds or the bees.”

  Travail was sure of that. “Contesting a will is no simple matter, nor is it something to do out of spite.”

  Harriet huffed and spoke to Yeager. “I told you this would be a waste of time.” She walked away angry. It was the same way she’d left the homeowners’ meeting.

  “She doesn’t handle rejection well, does she?”

  “You know what your problem is Craig Travail? You’re a retired lawyer who still thinks like a big-shot lawyer.” Yeager pressed ahead before Travail could respond. “Harriet’s a good person. She cares about Lori.”

  “Who’s Lori?”

  “Matthew Collins’s granddaughter.”

  “I didn’t know he had any grandchildren.”

  “Lori is the granddaughter—his only heir—who got cut out of his will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Yeager reached into his pocket and pulled out one sheet of paper. He dropped it on the table. Travail didn’t touch it. He sensed it was a document that shouldn’t be in Yeager’s possession, and he didn’t want his fingerprints on it. Yeager grabbed it back and read the words on the page aloud. He emphasized the part about how Sue Ellen Parker was the sole recipient of the professor’s fortune.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “The professor’s condo.”

  Travail got up. “I can’t be a part of this.”

  “Why not? You got something better to do?”

  “I mean, I can’t be an accessory to a criminal act, which is what you did when you took that document from his condo.”