by J. C. Eaton
“Okay.” I tried to keep them focused. “If no one here called, who do you think might have alerted the news?”
Accusations were hurled around the table like ripe fruit at a carnival clown, but as soon as one name was mentioned, all other names ceased. Gretchen Morin, the librarian.
“It would only make sense,” Shirley went on to explain. “She’d get so much attention for that library, it would mean more funding. And while I’m at it, maybe she did more than notify the TV station.”
An audible series of gasps ricocheted around the room.
“You’re not saying she had something directly to do with these deaths, are you?” I asked.
Shirley shook her head and cleared her throat. “All I’m saying is, the library is always struggling for funding and she could lose her full-time job. Lordy, we all know desperate people do desperate things. Besides, you know what she’s like, don’t you? She’s cold, deliberate, and disconnected. The only time I saw her really animated was when she was talking about type fonts, of all things.”
Lucinda pushed her plate toward the center of the table. “Maybe she’s not Miss Personality, but that doesn’t make her a killer.”
Shirley’s voice started to rise. “I’m NOT accusing her of killing anyone. At least not intentionally.”
I had a similar thought brewing and couldn’t keep still. “You mean, maybe she tried to scare people in the club and things got out of control?”
“Exactly,” Shirley said.
“Then why would she call even more attention to it by going to the news media?”
“Because,” Shirley continued, “the last person anyone would suspect would be a quiet, bookish librarian.”
“Which brings me to my next question”—my mother leaned back and raised her head—“did anyone at this table recommend that book?”
As if it were choreographed, all heads were shaking no.
“I’d never even heard of it,” Myrna said. “Usually we read books where someone has heard of the author.”
Louise laughed. “The author? I didn’t even know what an arrondissement was. I had to look it up.”
My mother was persistent. “So again, ladies, none of you recommended The Twelfth Arrondissement?”
Again, the heads shook.
All but Shirley, who said, “Of course, that leaves the other club members. The ones who aren’t here. The snowbirds. And the ones who are dead. That’s about two thirds of our club.”
My mother nodded in agreement. “I’ll be phoning the ones who can still pick up. We really need to figure out how that book got on our list and who called the TV station. I don’t know about anyone else, but I plan to be glued to the nightly news.”
The ladies all seemed to talk at once.
“I already have it on my DVR.”
“Me too.”
“It’s on my Hopper.”
“You have DISH?”
“Yes, I hate cable.”
“I cancelled my Bridge night so I could watch it live.”
My mother acknowledged each speaker with a quick nod as if she were the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company. “Good. We need to get an answer before next week’s book club meeting. Some of us are too unnerved to read that novel, and those who did read it are probably beefing up their life insurance.”
Her comment was followed by nervous laughter and a waitress who couldn’t get us out of the restaurant fast enough. Unfortunately, she put the bill on one check. After what seemed like hours straightening it out and reaffirming everyone’s commitment to the evening news, my mother and I got back in the car and headed to her house.
I pounced on her before she even put the keys into the ignition. “You didn’t tell me there was a book club meeting next week to discuss The Twelfth Arrondissement. When? What time?”
“It must have slipped my mind, Phee. It’s Wednesday at ten. We meet and then go out to lunch. The good news is you’ll still be here. I just hope I can say the same about the other members of the club. We need to find out who’s behind this, and we need to do so before next Wednesday.”
“I think we can safely eliminate the crew that was here today. Who’s left?”
“Cecilia, Lydia, Constance, Marianne, Ada, and Riva. Some of them are snowbirds and aren’t back yet. Still, I’m calling all of them when we get home. And Jeanette, too.”
“Mom, do you think the librarian is behind all of this?”
“I’m beginning to think so. Librarians do a lot of research. Enough to ferret out a cursed book and present it to a group of unsuspecting senior citizens as if it were a fancy partridge on Christmas Day—platter and all.”
Other than that bizarre little scheme my mother had rolling around in her head about a vindictive wife who tried to kill the husband’s girlfriend, aka Jeanette, and my well-thought-out and quite feasible scenario involving Minnie Bendelson’s ingestion of finned fish, we really had nothing. Nothing until this moment.
It seemed, with absolute clarity, that Gretchen Morin possessed the only real motive for murder. Well, maybe not murder, but certainly for fabricating a book curse and stirring up a lot of people. Not to mention her possible role in some rather suspicious deaths. And, she had help. Josie Nolan, for one. They sure looked like bosom buddies at the restaurant.
I was certain Josie was the one who put the sugar under the bush to ensure Thelmalee would get stung. I wasn’t so sure she intended for Thelmalee to bite the dust. I planned to find out as soon as we got back.
“I have a clue I’m working on, Mom, and if it fits, we may know exactly who has been doing what.”
“What clue? What clue?”
So I told my mother about what I discovered under the bush by the pool and, more importantly, about the two pieces of cardboard from the cane sugar box I was going to piece together. She immediately stepped on the gas and ignored the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit once we turned into Sun City West. We reached the front door in record time, and I took off to grab my precious clue.
My hands tremored slightly as I placed the recently torn piece of cardboard from today’s venture next to the one I’d stashed in a dresser the other day.
“Damn! Not even close.”
I was practically wailing. “And I was so sure it was her. I would have bet money if it was a horse race and Josie was running. Damn!”
“That still doesn’t mean she didn’t do it,” my mother said. “Was that the only box of sugar in the credenza at the realty office?”
“Yeah, and believe me, I was petrified I was going to spill the stuff all over when I went to tear off the edge. It was pretty much filled to the top.”
“And you said they had a sugar bowl sitting on the countertop?” my mother asked.
“Yes. Yes, a full bowl of sugar. Sugar that had nothing to do with Thelmalee’s bees.”
“Phee, if that sugar bowl was full and the box you were holding was nearly full, then that box couldn’t have been the one someone used to pour sugar under a bush. You were holding a new box. The one in question is probably in their trash.”
“Oh my God, Mom. I’ve got to get back over there before they take out the garbage. They probably have a trash basket sitting right next to the coffeemaker. I can’t believe I didn’t look. What made you realize that? Seems you’re the one with the detective skills.”
“When your cousin Kirk was little, he tried to sneak sugar out of the boxes all the time. Not to mention cereal. Your aunt Ina got to the point where she actually used a marker to indicate where she left off.”
“Wow. Remind me to thank her next time she calls.”
My mother gave me a questionable look, and I quickly added, “And you, too.”
I was nearly out the front door when something dawned on me and I turned back. My mother had made herself comfortable on the couch next to Streetman. She already had the phone in her hand to contact the rest of the book club.
“Don’t start dialing yet. We need a plan. A diversion. I can’t go rooting throug
h their trash unnoticed.”
“What did you have in mind? I’m not going to make a disturbance in there. I have to live here, you know.”
“You won’t even have to go there, Mother. Listen, all you need to do is to call the receptionist and keep her on the phone. I’ve got your number on speed dial. I’ll let it ring once and stop. That will be your signal to call Nolan and Nolan. I’m banking on the fact Josie won’t even be in the office. It’s her sunbathing time at the pool. If I’m lucky, it will be a slow afternoon and no one will see me.”
“So if you find an empty sugar container you’re just going to carry it out of there?”
“Uh, I hadn’t thought about that. My bag is way too small to stick it inside.”
“Hold on. I have pocketbooks for every occasion. I never throw them out.”
Within seconds I was outfitted with an enormous Vera Bradley bag that most likely had the first pattern she ever designed. It was large, loud, and perfect for the job.
“Don’t call anyone until you hear from me. I’ll phone you the minute I’m back in the car. Last thing I need is a busy signal,” I said.
“Okay. Okay. I’ve got it, Miss Marple.”
There was nothing Miss Marple about me. Well, the bag maybe. Miss Marple was shrewd and deliberate, not to mention a heck of a lot older. Unlike her, I was operating by the seat of my pants and hoping I wouldn’t get kicked in that very spot. No one would dare kick Miss Marple. I clutched the Vera Bradley bag and went out the door for the second time.
I tried not to think about what the fines were for speeding tickets in Arizona as I hit the gas pedal. So far I’d been lucky not getting caught. At least in this state. I rationalized that if I did get stopped for speeding, it wouldn’t go on my Minnesota license. I’d already succeeded in garnering a few points back home for running a red light because I’d forgotten to set the DVR and didn’t want to miss the finale of The Good Wife. What would my excuse be this time? A pressing need to pull something out of an office trash container?
Less than a mile to the real estate office and the traffic slowed down. Really slowed down. Two cars ahead of me a golf cart was practically at a crawl. And next to it, one lane over, another golf cart was moving at a snail’s pace. Dear God, can’t they pull over and let the normal traffic go by? I knew golf carts weren’t allowed to go over thirty miles an hour, but these guys were doing half that speed. The two cars in front of me made left-hand turns at the next intersection. More likely out of frustration than anything else. I plodded along behind a golf cart that had a flag from The Ohio State University hoisted on its roof and a large sticker that said, GO BUCKEYES. I made a mental note to never, under any circumstance, root for the Buckeyes. Two intersections later, the golf cart signaled right and made a left-hand turn. I shuddered. At least there were no fender benders, and I could see the Nolan and Nolan Realty office across the street.
There was only one car in their parking lot when I arrived. It was a Ford Fusion parked off to the side. Probably Chelsea’s, the receptionist. It looked like something she would drive. I was about to go inside when I realized I needed a reason to be there. Luckily, I had one—the realty form. It was stashed in my bag—only the bag was at Mom’s since I was now sporting the giant Vera Bradley.
Just walk in and tell her you lost the form. So what if she thinks you’re a bumble-head. One excuse is as good as the next.
I opened the car door and started to get out, when all of sudden someone screamed from the other end of the parking lot. It was a woman’s voice. Turning around, a lady started running toward me, arms flailing in the air. It was Cindy Dolton, yelling at the top of her lungs.
“Bundles! Bundles escaped from the dog park! He’s headed down the block!”
Before I could say anything, she ran past my car toward a series of smaller establishments. Her voice pierced the air like an ice pick. If I was Bundles, I’d keep on running, too. But I wasn’t her dog and I felt as if I should do something. I got back in my car and drove down the street slowly, searching for the small white dog.
A streak of white tore through the intersection and headed straight for The Presidential Arms, a large senior citizen complex. I executed the fastest left-hand turn on record and watched as the little bugger stopped to leave his mark on the beautifully manicured oleanders.
Cindy Dolton was a good two blocks away, closer to a coronary than she was to her dog. I pulled up in front of the bushes, leaned over, opened the passenger door, and shouted, “Here, boy! Want to go for a ride? Go for a ride?”
Bundles immediately turned his attention to me and leapt into the car as if he’d been waiting for a chauffeur all morning. I coaxed him onto my lap, leaned over again, and closed the door. “Gotcha, little buddy!” I waited for Cindy Dolton to round the corner. She came into view, panting and huffing her way down the street. Bundles moved from my lap to the passenger’s seat and proceeded to lie down. Cindy was gasping for air, pausing every few seconds to yell for her dog. I know she was trying to say “Bundles. Bundles,” but it sounded more like “Undles. Undles.”
Now it was my voice that jarred the neighborhood as I rolled my window down. “It’s okay! I’ve got him. Get inside.”
Cindy opened the side door and Bundles jumped all over her, licking her face as if none of this was his fault. I was positive the woman didn’t even register who I was. She was totally focused on her dog.
“Oh my God! I can’t thank you enough. He could have been killed! Some half-wit at the dog park went out the side gate and Bundles ran through it. That gate is only supposed to be used for the maintenance people. The front gate has double entry for safety. Oh my God! My poor little Bundles!”
The dog was about as nonplussed as an animal could be. He finished licking Cindy’s face and started to clean his front paws.
She turned her attention back to me. “Oh my goodness. You’re Harriet’s daughter. What a coincidence that you were in front of the realty office. Thank you so much for saving Bundles’s life.”
“No problem. I’ll drive you back to the dog park. You must be exhausted from all that running.”
“Out of breath, but not exhausted,” Cindy said. “Usually I just take Bundles to the park early in the morning, but I had some free time today and thought he’d enjoy another outing. Believe me, when I see that nincompoop who left the door open, I’ll certainly have words with him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but since I saw you in front of Nolan and Nolan, are you buying property?”
Not if I can help it, but the thought did cross my mind. And exited out of there as fast as possible.
“Um, er, no. I mean, I don’t know. I just pulled in their lot to get something out of my eye. The dust is terrible here.”
No sooner did I say that when I realized I would be heading back to that office. What if Cindy drove past on her way home and saw me? I had to think fast.
“Of course, I may wind up going back there. They have free maps of the area and I could sure use one.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve lived here for seven years and sometimes I get lost. And who’s got time to start fiddling around with one of those GPS systems? Oh, here we are at the dog park already. You can just drop me off at the gate. I’m going to plop myself on the benches and relax before I take Bundles home.”
There were a few small dogs milling around and three or four ladies sitting on the benches. I envisioned Cindy telling those ladies about “the nincompoop who left the gate open.” She thanked me again and carried Bundles straight into the park. I immediately turned the car around and headed back to Nolan and Nolan.
In the ten or fifteen minutes that it had taken me to rescue the dog and return him and his owner to the park, the lot in front of the realty office had filled up. Damn! I couldn’t very well go inside and be seen by people as I rooted through the trash. Aggravated, I continued down the street and turned at the intersection that led to my mother’s house. Grea
t work, Miss Marple.
Chapter 14
“You’re back!” my mother shouted. “I never got your call. Did you try to call me? I wasn’t on the phone with anyone. What happened? Did you get the empty box?”
“No, no, and no. I didn’t call. I didn’t get the box. I didn’t go in.”
My mother looked at me dumbfounded. I couldn’t tell if she was perplexed or annoyed because she didn’t get a chance to start calling the ladies from the book club.
“Had to rescue a dog. Never got out of the car. Give me a minute and I’ll explain.”
At that point, I walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of water from the fridge. Then I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened and why I couldn’t go back inside. “So I guess that’s one clue we’ll never find.”
“Of course you’ll find it. You’ll find it once they close.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a realty office. And a big one at that. They’re not going to leave their trash basket filled till the next day. Someone is going to take it out to their Dumpster behind the building. All of those buildings have Dumpsters. After five you’ll go back and check the Dumpster.”
“WHAT? Are you nuts?”
“Phee, I’ve seen detectives do this all the time—Cagney and Lacey, that crew from Castle, Rizzoli and Isles. . . .”
“MOM!” My voice all but exploded. “Number one, I’m not a detective. And number two, more importantly, neither are they!!! They’re actors! Actors, for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s what detectives do.”
“I’ll tell you what they don’t do. They don’t tamper with evidence. You should know that. You watch enough of those shows.”
“You’ll wear gloves. That way you won’t be tampering with evidence, you’ll be finding it.”
“Honestly. You’ll justify anything to suit yourself.”
“You need to do this, Phee. What other choice do you have?”