Booked 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  By now I was dripping with sweat and the water looked inviting. Across from where I was standing, a large sign read, BATHERS MUST SHOWER BEFORE ENTERING THE POOL. I muttered something about swimming and then headed for a quick shower and a jump into the water. Thelmalee’s chair was across from the showers, with a direct view of the pool entrance. I walked quickly to rinse off, certain everyone was looking at me. Didn’t want to break any rules. I glanced back at the ladies and they had all returned to their reading or sunbathing. No need for alarm. No one was the least bit interested in what I was doing, and that was a good thing. I leaned over the fence to see if I could spot anything unusual by the bushes. At first glance I didn’t see a thing, but when I looked closer, I spied a small piece of paper under the bush. Probably just some litter that blew in from the wind. I decided to enjoy my swim and then take a closer look from the outside when I was done.

  Move over, Miss Marple!

  The water felt tepid but still did a decent job of cooling me off. It was four-thirty when I changed back into street clothes and left the gated area. The group of women had already gone, but new arrivals were trickling in. I skirted around the back of the building to the bushes behind Thelmalee’s chair, where I swore I’d seen that piece of paper.

  Making myself as inconspicuous as possible, I kept my head down and stared at the ground. My hunch was right. There was something unusual going on. The ground below the bushes had been hollowed out as if someone poured something into the cavity. Not your usual method for pesticide. Ant stuff, which we buy by the gallon in Minnesota, is sprinkled directly on the ground and liquid spray is just that—a liquid. So, what was this? I bent down to find the piece of litter that had caught my eye when I was at the pool. Sure enough, I found it. It was a small cardboard edge from a box, and I immediately recognized it when I turned it over.

  It was granulated sugar and not only that, it was the same brand I buy with the blue and white cane sugar logo on the box. This was no snack time treat for anyone’s grandkids. Someone had deliberately poured the stuff into the shallow hole they made under the bushes. An invitation for every bee in the county to stop by.

  As I pocketed the evidence, I had my suspicions about Thelmalee’s death. Her daily routine was known to everyone who frequented the pool. It was obvious she was reading The Twelfth Arrondissement. The book was right out in the open for every passerby and swimmer to see. Maybe someone knew about her bee allergy and decided to scare her into believing the book was cursed. By pouring that amount of sugar behind the spot where she lounged, they could practically guarantee she would be stung multiple times. The question was, why?

  Chapter 8

  “So, did you figure anything out yet?” my mother asked as we waited for our pizza to arrive. We were seated in a small Italian restaurant a short distance from her house. Five p.m. sharp, so as not to wreak havoc on her schedule. I practically had to run every yellow light from the pool to my mother’s house so we’d get to the restaurant “on time.”

  “No.” I glanced at the tacky red and white vinyl checkered tablecloth. “In fact, I have more questions than answers, and everything seems to have tentacles. I find out one little bit of information, but it leads me in a zillion different directions. I haven’t even been here a full day. I’m not Hercule Poirot. Besides, I didn’t even begin to look into the golf cart accident.”

  “The sheriff’s posse will have an accident report. And I can get you a copy of the newspaper article. Herb Garrett saves all his papers for the month before he recycles them. It’ll be in one of them.”

  “I’ll just do an Internet search. And, by the way, why does Herb save all those papers? That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

  My mother shrugged and reached for a breadstick. “Why does anyone do anything? People have all sorts of habits. It’s what makes you comfortable and that’s all there is to it.”

  The pizza arrived before we could discuss the matter any further. Probably a good thing. The place was filling up fast. The food had to be good. It certainly wasn’t the ambience, unless you considered black and white blowup photos of 1950s Italy to be a real boon. I later found out it was “double seniors night.” Twenty percent off the menu.

  We were literally an arm’s length from the nearest patrons. My mother was quick to point out some of them.

  “That’s Sylvia Watson in the corner.”

  “Book club member?”

  “No, I met her at my dentist’s office. Nice lady. Widowed. Children live in Seattle, if I remember correctly.”

  I glanced in the direction of Sylvia Watson, but my eyes caught a glimpse of someone else. It was Gretchen Morin, the librarian. She was a few tables from us having an animated conversation with a bald, middle-aged man with a wide jet-black mustache. He reminded me of one of those cartoon characters who were always on the wrong side of things. At the same table was another couple, a tall gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a lady who looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. I quickly turned away and stared at my plate, pretty certain Gretchen hadn’t seen me. My mother and I had finished eating and there was no sense lingering. Especially if it meant getting into a conversation with the librarian. I tapped the edge of the silver pizza tray.

  “So, do you want to finish these last three slices or take them home?”

  “We’ll take them home with the breadsticks and sauce. It’ll be tomorrow’s lunch.”

  “Good idea. I’ll go pay the check and meet you in the car while you wait for a takeout box.”

  Before she could respond, I left a tip and walked over to the register. My back was to Gretchen Morin, so there was little chance she’d see me. It wasn’t as if I had anything to hide, but I didn’t want her to connect me with my mother. Not yet anyway. I preferred to remain Sophie Kimball and not Harriet Plunkett’s daughter while I was delving into any secrets behind The Twelfth Arrondissement.

  My mother opened the passenger door of my rental car and plopped down on the seat, letting out a long, slow breath.

  “What on earth was that all about? I haven’t seen you rush out of a place since you were in junior high and didn’t want to be seen with the family.”

  “Sorry about that. It’s just the librarian was in there, and I didn’t want to get caught up in any long conversations. I’m exhausted.”

  “Oh, I doubt you’d have a long conversation with her. It hasn’t been the same since Barbara Schnell retired. Now there’s a lady who could chew your ears off. She decided to move back to Oregon and live with her daughter.”

  Indeed, Harriet Plunkett, my mother, had become a plethora of information regarding the people who lived in Sun City West or set foot in the place, for that matter. I listened wordlessly as she went on about some of them, letting my mind drift in and out of attentiveness as we got closer to the house.

  It wasn’t until I pulled into the driveway that I spoke. “I know it’s early, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a cool shower and then see what I can find out about that golf cart accident. Does your computer have a password?”

  “Yes, it’s my name.”

  “Geez, Mom. You might as well print it on a sticky note and leave it on the monitor.”

  “I didn’t want a password in the first place, but that computer technician insisted I type one in. So I did. One I wouldn’t forget. Besides, it’s not as if I’m harboring government secrets on the thing.”

  “What about your bank accounts?”

  “I don’t do any banking on the computer. I use it to play solitaire.”

  Unbelievable. A few-hundred-dollar piece of technology when a deck of cards would have sufficed.

  “Okay, then. I’ll catch you a bit later. I’ll be glued to your computer once I’m done showering.”

  As I let the cool shower water rush over my body, I began to relax. Then, all of sudden, something hit me and I snapped into overdrive. The lady sitting next to Gretchen Morin in the restaurant was one of the women I’d been talking with at the poo
l. I didn’t recognize her at first, without the large sunhat. Suddenly, the tentacles were getting tangled.

  * * *

  That night, I dreamt I went back to the pool, only there was no one in sight. No monitor. No sunbathers. Nothing. I walked past the courtyard and as soon as I saw the water, a swarm of bees came at me. I woke up thrashing the pillow with one hand and waving my arm with the other. The plantation shutters didn’t block out the bright sunlight, and it was as if someone was shining a flashlight in my eyes.

  I trudged to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face in an effort to clear my foggy brain and I nearly stepped on Streetman. Apparently he had decided to plant himself between my bedroom door and the bathroom. He immediately scurried away when I bent down to pet him. Turning the doorknob to the bathroom, I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Are you up, Phee? Are you up, Phee? It’s getting late.”

  Well, I am now. Who needs Westminster Chimes when you’ve got Harriet Plunkett.

  “Yeah, Mom,” I shouted. “I’m up.”

  “Good! It’s about time. While you were sleeping, I walked the dog and drove over to that new Dunkin’ Donuts. I got us some coffee. They’re giving away free cups this week. It’s a promotion.”

  “That’s great. Terrific. Really. I’ll be right there.”

  Grabbing the lightest weight shirt I’d brought, I slipped it over my head, put on a pair of shorts, and walked into the kitchen. Sure enough, two large Styrofoam cups were on the table, along with an assortment of donuts. I reached over to grab one when I felt something pawing at my leg.

  “Isn’t that cute? Streetman wants you to give him a piece of donut. You can give him a little morsel from one of the plain ones.”

  Really? I have to feed the dog a piece of donut first thing in the morning?

  I tore off a tiny tidbit and held it out to him. It was gone in a nanosecond and so was the dog.

  “See, Phee? What did I tell you? He’s very well behaved for the most part.”

  “Who wouldn’t be? He gets butter cookies and donuts. Anyway, thanks for the coffee and breakfast.”

  “It sounded like you were going to be on the computer this morning, and I didn’t want you to waste any time.”

  Ah, the real reason for this sugary start to the morning—my mother wanted me to get on with my so-called investigation.

  “And by the way, Phee, I called around this morning and guess what I found out?” She didn’t stop to take a breath. “I found out Minnie Bendelson was allergic to finned fish. Finned fish. Of all things. You would have thought maybe peanuts since everyone seems to be allergic to that nowadays. Can’t even have peanut butter in schools. Anyway, I don’t think it was the Asian chicken salad that killed her. I mean, if she was allergic to peanut sauce or soy, that would make sense, but she wouldn’t have ordered it with that kind of allergy. And they’re very careful at the hospital. They keep records of those sorts of things. A million pieces of paper to fill out every time you see your doctor. I’m telling you, it could be that book curse.”

  I ignored her last remark and took a quick sip of the coffee.

  “Finned fish? Like what? Tuna?”

  “Tuna, halibut, I don’t know. I guess any kind of a fish with a fin. Why?”

  “Because white fish, like halibut and tuna, look an awful lot like chicken. Maybe someone made a mistake in the hospital.”

  “I don’t know how you’d ever find that out.”

  “Cindy Dolton might have an idea. Looks like an early dog park morning for me tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m going to get started on that Internet search for Marilyn Scutt’s accident. But before I do, I really should have the sequence of events. I can’t believe I haven’t already done that. I told you I’m not an investigator. I’m all over the place with this. Anyway, just tell me who died first, and I’ll write it all down.”

  “Marilyn, then Minnie, then Edna, then—”

  “Whoa. Slow down, Mom. I’ve got to write this down. Hold on. I’ve got a small datebook in my bag. I’ll just use those empty pages in the back.”

  As I fumbled around for a pen, my mother repeated the names out loud as if it was a roll call for Arlington National Cemetery.

  “Marilyn Scutt . . . Minnie Bendelson . . . Edna Mae Langford . . . Thelmalee Kirkson . . . Jeanette Tomilson . . .”

  Then, as I was writing, she repeated the list again, only this time enunciating the word “deceased” after each of the names except Jeanette’s.

  “I know. I know. They’re dead. Well, all but one.”

  “Good thing Jeanette’s alarm system was working. A similar thing happened a few years ago to an elderly man who lived around the corner. He didn’t replace the battery in that carbon monoxide and smoke detector of his, and fell asleep with one of the burners to his stove on. He didn’t smell the natural gas and no alarm went off for the carbon monoxide exhaust. It was awful. When he didn’t show up for his tee time the next day, someone sent a deputy sheriff to check. Course, by then, it was too late. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Or gas. Maybe both. I don’t know why they don’t manufacture stoves with alarms if you forget to turn the burner off all the way.”

  “They can’t have alarms for everything. We’d be jumping out of our skin all the time,” I said.

  “I’d rather jump than be six feet under. And not that you asked, but I had the batteries in my smoke alarms replaced last year with those lithium ones. They’re good for the next five years.”

  “That’s wonderful. Now, getting back to your list. Are any of the families holding memorial services? That would be a great place to start an investigation.”

  “Edna Mae’s family was having her body shipped back to Wisconsin, the last I knew. I haven’t heard anything about Thelmalee. Minnie Bendelson’s nephew had her cremated and buried almost immediately. No service. No celebration of life. No nothing. Just ashes and a quick burial. He was the only surviving relative, so I imagine he did what he could. So sad. So tragic. Unlike Thelmalee’s troupe. That family’s been all over her place scavenging anything they can get their hands on. Shirley and Lucinda were talking about it before you arrived for lunch yesterday.”

  “Hmm, I suppose families deal with these things differently. Did Thelmalee have a lot of money or valuables?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. None of the book club ladies live extravagantly. They all seem to make ends meet, enjoy some dinners out, travel a bit.... Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just wondering, that’s all.”

  I started to get up from the table when I realized I’d forgotten to ask something important. Something even a novice detective wouldn’t have overlooked. So I won’t get hired by Scotland Yard. Accounts receivable in Mankato, Minnesota, is just fine.

  “Mom, I know you gave me that list of the husbands, but all I did was glance at it. Tell me, are any of them still alive?”

  “Only that rotten scoundrel of a husband Jeanette used to be married to. He’s a snotty little pastry chef in Scottsdale.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

  “Well, he’s not a very nice man, from what Jeanette has shared with us.”

  “You don’t think he could be responsible for any of this, do you?”

  “What? And leave the East Valley? He wouldn’t be caught dead this side of I-17!”

  “Okay, I’ll try to compile this information and get started researching Marilyn Scutt’s accident. What are your plans for the day?”

  “I have an appointment to get my nails done.”

  “Fine. I don’t expect I’ll be too long at the computer. If I’m not here when you get back, it means I’ve gone over to the bank to cash a check.”

  The strawberry frosted donut I was eating left me craving for another one. For some reason, once I passed forty it got harder to keep my figure. I was still determined. Last thing I needed was to find myself enrolling in Weight Watchers or TOPS. I looked away from the donuts and stared at the window. A beige SUV was backing out of Jeanette Tomilson
’s driveway.

  “Is that the boyfriend, Mom? The beige car at Jeanette’s place?”

  My mother sprang from her seat and raced toward the window faster than Teddy Roosevelt charging San Juan Hill.

  “I didn’t get a good look. The car is down the block. It might have been her boyfriend. I don’t know what kind of car he drives. It’s awfully early in the morning, if you ask me.”

  “Her business is her business,” I said.

  “Then why did you point it out?”

  “Strictly for investigative reasons. You concocted that idea about the boyfriend being married and his wife wanting to harm Jeanette. I figured I’d better take note of the car.”

  “Some note. All you found out was that it’s beige.”

  “That’s not all. It was an SUV.”

  “Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere. A big beige car. The kind married men with kids drive around in. It’s the boyfriend. It has to be. I’ll bet he’s married with teenagers. Was there a bicycle rack on the back? Those families are always toting around bikes.”

  “A bike rack? Where do you come up with this stuff? And once again, we don’t know that she has a boyfriend.”

  “We don’t know that she doesn’t.”

  I did know one thing. I had to take a look at real tangible evidence and didn’t want to waste time speculating about Jeanette’s social life. I took the last sip of my coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup in the trash.

  “I’ve got to get started on that police report. When are you leaving for the nail salon?”

  “In a few minutes. I’ve got to change my clothes first. I don’t want them to clash with my new nail color. I’m trying to decide between a fall bronze look or something in burnt sienna. Maybe I’ll have them match it to the highlights in my hair. Anyway, I’d better get a move on.”

  “Don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll wipe the table and straighten up.”

  I hadn’t finished my sentence when I noticed my mom had already left the room. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of reading the accident report when she shouted from the door leading into the garage that she was on her way out.