Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page A
Authors: Kathy Hogan Trocheck
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inconvenience. He’d have to move, rent an apartment somewhere else. The others in the room, like Ollie and Jackie and now Pearl, didn’t have the options he had. Not that he had many.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
“I guess somebody appointed Mr. Barchie head man in charge. ‘Cause he used to be an accountant probably. He was just saying how he called the Mandelbaums, even sent ‘em a registered letter, asking ‘em to come to the meeting.”
“Obviously they declined,” Truman said dryly.
“Cowards,” Jackie said. “Instead, they sent her,” she said, glaring at Cookie. “Mr. Barchie says she’s from the new management.”
“Now then,” Barchie said, looking down at his notes. “The hotel has had an interesting history, which I’d like to share with you all before we begin. It was designed by the local architect Lowell Randolph in 1912, and constructed over the years 1912 to 1914, one of several hotels built downtown by the same firm. Early on the hotel was called the McLatchey, after the pioneer Florida family that used to own—”
“How much?” Sonya Hoffmayer’s frizzy red head bobbed up from the crowd. She stalked up to Cookie Jeffcote, who looked alarmed at her advance.
“How much are we gonna have to pay?” Mrs. Hoffmayer repeated, pursing her Kewpie-doll-painted red lips.
“Thought she was part of the family,” Jackie said, smirking. “Don’t look like they’re cutting her a discount, does it?”
“We’ll get to that, Sonya,” Barchie said, tugging nervously at his bow tie. “Now, as I was saying, the hotel was one of the earliest buildings in Florida to have steam heat and private tiled baths—”
“Ask that woman how much,” Mrs. Hoffmayer insisted. “She’s working for that preacher fella now. She ought to know.”
“Yeah, Arch,” came a high-pitched voice from the front. “Skip that other crap. We wanna know how much.”
It was Ollie. He stood on his chair in order to be seen.
Arch Barchie shrugged. He could ignore Sonya Hoffmayer, but Ollie Zorn was a different matter. He turned to Cookie. “Miss Jeffcote?”
Cookie licked her lips and tugged at her short white skirt. She stood up and approached the microphone.
“Well,” she said, looking around for an ally but seeing none. “Uh, Reverend Newby and the church elders have come up with a preliminary pricing schedule. Nothing is really set yet, so it’s too early—”
“How much?”
Rosemary Pickett, the plumper of the Pickett girls, was standing now. “My sister and I have a small trust fund. We need to know how much our unit will cost so we can start planning.”
Verbena Pickett stood up beside her twin. She was dressed in a blue flowered shift that was identical to her sister’s pink one. “That’s right,” she said shrilly. “Papa was very conservative in his investments.”
Cookie sensed that she was outnumbered. She ran her finger down the price chart Reverend Newby had drawn up and smiled brightly.
“It’s actually a very affordable plan. For instance, units start at sixteen thousand five hundred dollars and cap at eighty thousand for a deluxe St. Peter’s penthouse unit.”
The room was quiet for a moment while the residents took it all in.
“What penthouse units?”
Truman found himself standing, addressing Cookie Jeffcote. “The only thing on the top of this building are six one-bedroom apartments. There aren’t any three-bedroom penthouses here.”
Cookie frowned, trying to remember the name of the wiry man with the strawberry-blond eyebrows. Kicklighter, she thought his name was. Recently widowed. Fourth-floor front. Troublemaker.
“Now that’s the exciting part of the plan,” she said. “The church will build two luxury units on that top floor. The St. Peter’s units will have top-of-the-line amenities with European kitchens, garden baths, private entrance halls, and key-operated elevators—”
“Eighty thousand dollars!” Sonya Hoffmayer’s face was
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
“I guess somebody appointed Mr. Barchie head man in charge. ‘Cause he used to be an accountant probably. He was just saying how he called the Mandelbaums, even sent ‘em a registered letter, asking ‘em to come to the meeting.”
“Obviously they declined,” Truman said dryly.
“Cowards,” Jackie said. “Instead, they sent her,” she said, glaring at Cookie. “Mr. Barchie says she’s from the new management.”
“Now then,” Barchie said, looking down at his notes. “The hotel has had an interesting history, which I’d like to share with you all before we begin. It was designed by the local architect Lowell Randolph in 1912, and constructed over the years 1912 to 1914, one of several hotels built downtown by the same firm. Early on the hotel was called the McLatchey, after the pioneer Florida family that used to own—”
“How much?” Sonya Hoffmayer’s frizzy red head bobbed up from the crowd. She stalked up to Cookie Jeffcote, who looked alarmed at her advance.
“How much are we gonna have to pay?” Mrs. Hoffmayer repeated, pursing her Kewpie-doll-painted red lips.
“Thought she was part of the family,” Jackie said, smirking. “Don’t look like they’re cutting her a discount, does it?”
“We’ll get to that, Sonya,” Barchie said, tugging nervously at his bow tie. “Now, as I was saying, the hotel was one of the earliest buildings in Florida to have steam heat and private tiled baths—”
“Ask that woman how much,” Mrs. Hoffmayer insisted. “She’s working for that preacher fella now. She ought to know.”
“Yeah, Arch,” came a high-pitched voice from the front. “Skip that other crap. We wanna know how much.”
It was Ollie. He stood on his chair in order to be seen.
Arch Barchie shrugged. He could ignore Sonya Hoffmayer, but Ollie Zorn was a different matter. He turned to Cookie. “Miss Jeffcote?”
Cookie licked her lips and tugged at her short white skirt. She stood up and approached the microphone.
“Well,” she said, looking around for an ally but seeing none. “Uh, Reverend Newby and the church elders have come up with a preliminary pricing schedule. Nothing is really set yet, so it’s too early—”
“How much?”
Rosemary Pickett, the plumper of the Pickett girls, was standing now. “My sister and I have a small trust fund. We need to know how much our unit will cost so we can start planning.”
Verbena Pickett stood up beside her twin. She was dressed in a blue flowered shift that was identical to her sister’s pink one. “That’s right,” she said shrilly. “Papa was very conservative in his investments.”
Cookie sensed that she was outnumbered. She ran her finger down the price chart Reverend Newby had drawn up and smiled brightly.
“It’s actually a very affordable plan. For instance, units start at sixteen thousand five hundred dollars and cap at eighty thousand for a deluxe St. Peter’s penthouse unit.”
The room was quiet for a moment while the residents took it all in.
“What penthouse units?”
Truman found himself standing, addressing Cookie Jeffcote. “The only thing on the top of this building are six one-bedroom apartments. There aren’t any three-bedroom penthouses here.”
Cookie frowned, trying to remember the name of the wiry man with the strawberry-blond eyebrows. Kicklighter, she thought his name was. Recently widowed. Fourth-floor front. Troublemaker.
“Now that’s the exciting part of the plan,” she said. “The church will build two luxury units on that top floor. The St. Peter’s units will have top-of-the-line amenities with European kitchens, garden baths, private entrance halls, and key-operated elevators—”
“Eighty thousand dollars!” Sonya Hoffmayer’s face was
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