Booked 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Okay, I get the idea. Good night, Mom.”

  “Good night, Phee. Oh, and one more thing. Be quiet in the morning. Streetman likes to sleep late. Gets grouchy if you try to wake him.”

  That made two of us, but it never stopped my mother from waking me up at all sorts of ungodly hours. I’d only been there for a little while, but I could tell already that the master of the house was four-legged.

  Chapter 5

  In spite of the AC set at seventy-eight and the ceiling fan at full blast above my head, beads of sweat trickled down my neck as I nodded off. I must have been so exhausted from the flight yesterday, the preparation leading up to it, and the dramatic welcome on the street from the local fire department that I slept like a corpse. The alarm on my smartphone sent a jolt through my body as I sat up. It was five-fifteen. I wanted to give myself enough time to take a quick shower, grab something from the fridge, and get to the dog park by six in order to find Cindy Dolton and Bundles.

  Doesn’t my mother keep anything decent in her fridge?

  All I could find was some cottage cheese and milk. Suddenly, I remembered an earlier conversation with her.

  “Who cooks? We all go out to eat.”

  That’s wonderful, Mom. But this is breakfast. At an ungodly hour.

  I’d have to look for a Starbucks or McDonald’s if I wanted a cup of coffee. Maybe later. I rinsed off in record time and headed out the door, careful not to make a sound. Last thing I needed was a grouchy Streetman.

  With the sun rising in the east, I found myself squinting behind the wheel. Yep. My luck. I had to drive east into the sunrise to get to the dog park. It was adjacent to the tennis courts and less than a ten-minute drive. Ten minutes wondering if my vision would ever return to normal. Was this what it felt like to be snow-blind? I’d need to pick up some heavy-duty sunglasses if I planned on lasting the entire week.

  At precisely one minute past six, according to the digital clock in my rental car, I had reached the dog park. Gray-haired woman, small, white curly-haired dog. At least nine or ten people milled about as an animated pack of small dogs ran all over the place. Small white dogs.

  Great, Mom. All the dogs are small and white.

  I unlatched the gate and stepped inside, making sure nothing on four legs would escape. And yet another surprise. All of the women here have gray hair! There were only two men in the park, and they were talking to each other. I approached them and asked if they knew who Cindy Dolton was. And please do not tell me she has gray hair and a small white dog.

  “She’s the lady over by the fence, near the large garbage cans,” one of the men said.

  I thanked him and walked over to her before she decided to join the other ladies who were seated on the benches or standing underneath one of the trees.

  “Excuse me, are you Cindy Dolton?”

  She eyed me as if I was about to serve her with a subpoena.

  “Don’t tell me you’re from the Recreation Department. If it’s about that incident last week with the Schnauzer, I want you to know it wasn’t Bundles’s fault. That dog started it by sniffing around Bundles’s rear. Some dogs don’t like having their butt sniffed.”

  “No, I suppose not. Don’t worry. I’m not with the rec department. I wanted to speak with you about your roommate from the hospital, Minnie Bendelson.”

  Her demeanor changed immediately. “Oh dear. Are you a relative? It was so awful. That poor woman. So sweet. You know, I was in for chest pains following the gallbladder operation I had a few months before. Turned out it was just scar tissue. Well, anyway, they brought Minnie in because she was having chest pains, too, but not exactly like mine.”

  My God! How does Nate Williams stand this?

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered as she continued.

  “Anyway, they ran some tests and she was starting to feel better even before the results came in and then BOOM! All of a sudden, she’s dead. Talking to me one minute about her chicken casserole recipe and gasping her last breath the next. I’m still not over the shock.”

  “Was she doing anything else besides talking to you?” I asked.

  Cindy Dolton looked at me as if I had lost my senses. “What do you mean? What else could she be doing? She was in a hospital bed.”

  “Was she drinking anything? Eating anything?”

  “Now that you mention it, she’d just taken a bite out of her salad. It was some sort of Asian chicken salad. You know, the food has gotten much better at the hospital. It used to be so bland. Now they have all sorts of salads, hummus, and dishes with names on them I can’t pronounce. I buzzed the nurse immediately when Minnie couldn’t breathe, but it was too late. They said she must have had a heart attack.”

  “What about an autopsy? Did they perform one?”

  “Sweetie, at our age, unless the family requests it, they don’t. Said she died from heart failure. I am so, so sorry for your loss.”

  “Um, actually, I’m Harriet Plunkett’s daughter. You met her in the hospital. She asked me to look into Minnie’s passing because it seemed . . . well . . . sudden, and Minnie was so liked. Anyway, I hope you and Bundles have a great day.”

  Just then, the doggie gate flew open and three Dachshunds charged inside. Cindy Dolton stood between them and Bundles like an armed guard in front of a vault. I took the opportunity to make a dash for my car and headed straight out of the parking lot toward the nearest coffee shop. I needed to jot down two questions once I got there. In my mind, they were already numbered.

  1. Did Minnie Bendelson have any food allergies?

  2. What ingredients were in that Asian salad?

  If I could prove she was poisoned intentionally, then this was no book curse. It was an excuse for someone to commit murder.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to drive too far. Sunsational Coffee was wedged between a nail salon and a beauty parlor, in walking distance from the dog park. A chalkboard next to the counter listed the daily specials. Too bad I wasn’t a fan of hazelnut; it was 50% off. Maybe other people didn’t like it either. I opted for my usual—regular coffee and cream, no sugar.

  After the first few sips, I began to feel more like myself. Now what? How was I ever going to find out what ingredients were in Minnie’s salad? As far as food allergies were concerned, my mother should already have that information.

  Unlike Mankato, Minnesota, where coffee shops didn’t start to fill up until eight in the morning, this one was already crowded. Apparently there were lots of early risers in Sun City West. I found a small table adjacent to the doorway and sat down carefully, making sure not to spill the hot coffee all over the place. I glanced at my mother’s notes again, trying to decide what to do next. The library seemed like a logical choice, but it didn’t open for another hour. I reached into my bag and took out my iPad. Might as well put the time to good use and plod on with The Twelfth Arrondissement.

  Okay, so the wealthy landlord found out his son was having an affair with the man’s former mistress. It still didn’t explain why someone murdered the family governess. Not my problem! It’s just a book. I have real murders to solve. Oh my gosh, am I listening to myself ? I don’t even know if these are murders. Get a grip.

  I was hoping there might be something in the plot, or maybe the setting, that would link to the unexplained deaths, but that was stretching it. I knew that the book had nothing to do with the sudden passing of four ladies and a near-death experience for the fifth. Still, I kept on reading, getting up once for a refill.

  As I started to head back to my spot by the door, someone tapped me on the elbow and I jumped.

  “Whoa! I must be losing my touch. You’re Harriet Plunkett’s daughter. Sophie, right? We met a few years ago when you and your daughter were visiting. Cute little thing. I’m Herb Garrett. I live across the street from your mother.”

  The stout, balding man standing in front of me looked vaguely familiar.

  “That must have been quite a few years ago,” I said. “The cute little thing graduated from c
ollege and is teaching.”

  “No kidding. What about you? Are you married?”

  Is this guy going to make a pass?

  “Used to be. I gave it up for Lent.”

  “Well, anyway, you sure picked a hot time to visit your mother. They won’t turn the oven off around here until October.”

  “Yeah, well, I had some vacation days coming and thought I’d see my mom. I wasn’t prepared for that dramatic scene on the street last night. Does that kind of thing happen often?”

  “Emergency responses? Yeah, all the time. People fall. People have heart attacks. Lucky the hospital is close by.”

  “No, I mean the car left running in the garage. My mother told me that’s what happened.”

  “Once in a while that kind of thing happens. Got a lot of old coots around here who are so scattered they forget one thing from the next. Usually it’s food left on the stove or someone taking something out of the oven and forgetting to turn the oven off. But Jeanette’s not like that. She’s kind of young, if you know what I mean, and she’s as sharp as a tack. No . . . if you ask me, there’s something fishy about this. Boy, it’s a good thing she has an alarm system for the house. Well, I’m headed to the bocce court. Nice talking to you, Sophie.”

  “You can call me Phee. Everyone else does.”

  “Nice yacking with you, Phee. Enjoy your visit and keep cool.”

  Herb headed out of the coffee shop with a large drink, pausing to wave at a few people. I returned to my seat and kept reading, waiting for the library to open.

  When I finally exited the coffee shop, the wall of heat hit me as if someone were pushing me straight into an oven. I couldn’t get to the car fast enough. I’d always visited during the holidays in December or April, never in late summer. In the thirty seconds it took me to get into the car, I realized one thing—no wonder people were up and about at six in the morning. Anything after eight was at your own risk.

  The sun was brutal. I looked around the car for anything I could throw over the steering wheel so I wouldn’t get scalded when I returned from the library. Thankfully I’d left a lightweight sweater on the passenger seat and immediately tossed it over the wheel as I opened the door. Staring straight ahead, the library’s tall, stucco tower with its stylized clock came into view. Westminster Chimes, belting out the hour, seemed out of place, given the drab beige structure that housed the clock face. I shrugged and started to walk toward the building.

  The library was only a few yards from my parking spot, but the heat made it feel as if I were at the other end of the earth. Once inside the sliding glass doors, I had to stop and catch my breath before asking one of the volunteers at the counter for the librarian.

  “I’ll see if Miss Morin is at her desk,” was the reply as a slender woman in her late sixties or early seventies started for the hallway.

  In the meantime, I looked over the brochures on the counter listing activities, book talks, and speakers.

  “Can I help you?” came a soft voice from behind me. I turned quickly, fixing my eyes on her name tag: GRETCHEN MORIN, LIBRARIAN. The woman appeared to be tall, in her mid-forties, with shoulder-length blond hair that was starting to reveal its darker roots. Wearing khaki slacks and a white tailored shirt, she looked more like a model for L.L. Bean than a librarian in a senior citizen community.

  “Yes.” I tried to keep my voice low as well. “I’m visiting here and heard about your book club. Since a group of us are starting one back in Minnesota, I was hoping you could give me some pointers about book selections.”

  “Book selections? That’s usually up to the members of the club.”

  “Won’t that be difficult if each person wants the club to read a particular book? I heard you had a solution for that.”

  “Let’s move over to the table near the media area. We won’t be in the way as patrons check out their selections.”

  I followed Gretchen Morin and sat at the wooden, rectangular table.

  “I’d love to know how your library handles matters like that. You see, it will be a new club for my library, and I’d hate to have it get off on the wrong start if people are disappointed or disgruntled because their books weren’t chosen for discussion.”

  Unbelievable. I can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth. And I can’t believe how smoothly it’s coming out. Not bad for information-gathering.

  If Gretchen Morin thought I was faking it, she didn’t let on. “There are so many books out there . . . best-sellers . . . debut novels . . . not to mention the different genres. It would be impossible to please everyone. Sometimes, unilateral decisions are best.”

  “I understand.” I leaned in closer so my voice wouldn’t be too loud. “So, you make all the decisions about the books that are selected?”

  “Me? Of course not. That’s not what I meant. At the start of the year, each person in the book club offers a title for consideration. Twelve books are chosen randomly, with each one assigned to a different month. I compile the information and type the list for distribution. Then I make sure our library has at least three or four of those titles on our shelves.”

  “Chosen randomly?”

  “Yes, the titles are written down on slips of paper and placed in a small index box on the main counter. I then draw the first twelve entries. That simple.”

  “And there are never any changes?”

  “Well, yes. Once in a while when it comes to duplicate authors. The book club agreed that only one author per year would be selected. I mean, no matter how exciting Stephen King is, or how intriguing J. A. Jance is, the readers in the club want exposure to other authors.”

  “Is there any way of knowing who recommended a specific book?” I asked.

  “No, it’s done anonymously. That’s because a few years back, when certain club members didn’t like a book the group was reading, they made life miserable for the person who offered it for consideration.”

  “Really? That sounds so juvenile.”

  The librarian nodded in agreement. “Even adults can have their moments. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “You said the file box is on the main counter. So then anyone could write down a title and submit it, even if they weren’t in the club.”

  “I suppose that’s true, but to my knowledge, it has never been an issue. Who wants to recommend a book for reading if they aren’t going to be part of the discussion?”

  Maybe someone who figured out a way to create a stir and shift the focus of attention like magicians do.

  She started to get up from the table.

  “Are the books always best-sellers or novels written by known authors?”

  Gretchen Morin paused as if I’d asked her to ignore the “state secrets privilege.” I could tell by the look on her face she was uncomfortable.

  Make a note of that.

  “Not always. Club members sometimes select local authors or self-published authors who they’ve heard about from the Internet.”

  “I see. Well, thank you so much, Miss Morin. You’ve been very helpful, and I’m looking forward to sharing your insights with our club once I get home.”

  “It’s all part of my job. What did you say your name was?”

  I told her the truth.

  “It’s Sophie. Sophie Kimball.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sophie Kimball. Have a good day.”

  She marched back to the hallway. All business.

  A single thought kept jabbing at me—If The Twelfth Arrondissement was so obscure, then how on earth did anyone find out about it?

  At that point, I had two options: try to find out what was in that Asian salad that Minnie Bendelson ate, or take a look at the gravel in front of Edna Mae Langford’s house. I opted for the gravel since I had a funny feeling about it. At least I wouldn’t have to talk with anyone. It was hard creating scenarios at the drop of a hat. I don’t recall Nancy Drew ever doing that. Or the Hardy Boys for that matter . . .

  Chapter 6

/>   The steering wheel still burned my fingers in spite of the sweater I’d tossed over the wheel. I made a note to pick up one of those windshield screens at the gas station after I checked out Edna Mae Langford’s place. She lived a few blocks from the library, near one of the newer recreation centers. I figured I could scope out her property and make it back in time to grab lunch with my mother.

  For some reason, my mother had become fixated about eating at a certain time. Our conversation about it still played out in my mind.

  “I like to eat lunch between eleven forty-five and one so I can eat dinner at five. Five-thirty the latest.”

  “That seems so early for dinner, Mom.”

  “I don’t like to go to sleep with heavy food in my stomach.”

  When I was growing up, dinners were flexible. Now I had to abide by my mother’s new military schedule. That meant having me finish up my so-called sleuthing before noon.

  I found Edna Mae’s street without any trouble. Pristine gravel lawns. Cookie-cutter stucco houses. I half expected Rod Serling to pop up and announce, “A quiet street in the middle of a senior living community. . .” He’d be the only one popping up.

  A mail delivery truck approached slowly from the opposite side of the street. The driver waved as he slowed down in front of a mailbox with a large metal roadrunner affixed to the top. I waved back as I got out of the car. Other than the mail delivery truck, mine was the only vehicle on the block. Edna Mae’s house was the second one from the corner and distinguished from the rest by the large mesquite tree, whose limbs overtook the front yard and sidewalk. I took advantage of whatever shade the tree offered and parked close to the curb. Like most of the yards in Sun City West, hers was covered with crushed granite. I looked at it carefully as the mail truck moved farther down the block.

  I remembered how thrilled my father was when they first moved here and he didn’t have to mow a lawn. Their only decision was the color and size of the granite. Apparently homeowners could select rock sizes ranging from four inches to fine particles like pea gravel. My mother’s yard was somewhere between a half inch and dust. Now I was about to check out the suspicion I had about Edna’s yard.