Botched 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  Marshall opened the front door for her and stepped outside, making it impossible to overhear what he was saying. I didn’t want to appear like a busybody, so I quickly finished up at the copier and raced into my office.

  “You don’t have to scurry off like that, Phee,” he said as he stepped inside. “And, Augusta, you can stop pretending to be looking at your computer screen.”

  “That obvious, huh?” I walked back to the main office.

  “What’s obvious is I’ve got to throw these clothes into the wash as soon as I get home, that is, if I can make it through the day. I smell like a French whorehouse. Pardon me.”

  I caught a quick whiff and stepped back, almost bumping into the doorjamb to my office. “Um, not that we were eavesdropping, but we couldn’t help overhear what Eleanor was saying. Do you really think there’s some validity to that? An affair with Sorrel? I don’t get it.”

  Augusta seemed in a hurry to put in her two cents. “Seen stranger stuff back home. Maybe this Frank guy got tired of being with a well-kept woman and wanted a dowdy, homely girl instead. They don’t require as much maintenance.”

  Marshall’s jaw dropped. “It’s not like we’re talking about a car or a house. And as far as an affair goes, we don’t know. Not yet.”

  “So, you’re going to follow through on it?” I asked.

  “It’s all part of one big puzzle. Plus, we’re still waiting for Rolo Barnes to get back to us on Eleanor and Marlene. So, as long as my washing machine doesn’t conk out, I’ll see where this takes me.”

  “Before you go back to work, I need to tell you about last night. The meeting . . .”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “It’s about Myrna’s golf cart accident. Lucinda pointed out something. All of the Sun City West maintenance vehicles are beige. Any chance you could—”

  “Bother Deputy Bowman again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Marshall gave me a wink, muttered “you got it,” and headed straight for his office.

  “Dowdy, homely girl?” I said to Augusta.

  “You never know what men find attractive these days.”

  Attractive or not, I seriously doubted Frank and Sorrel were having an affair, but that didn’t mean they weren’t involved in something else. I had no sooner booted up my computer to pay some office bills when Augusta told me I had a call.

  “Your mother, Phee.”

  Of course. More predictable than the tides.

  “Why do you have a cell phone if you’re not going to use it? Never mind. That’s not why I called.”

  “You scared Myrna half to death last night. Next time you think out loud, don’t!”

  “Myrna will be fine. It’s the Milquist and Edmund thing that’s been on my mind. Condolences, my foot. Something’s going on, and you need to find out what it is.”

  “Uh, isn’t that what the sheriff’s department and my boss are doing?”

  “Not fast enough. Listen, I’ll bet you anything Milquist and Edmund are in cahoots about something, and that’s what got Sorrel killed.”

  Oh goodie. We’ve stepped off the jealous lover theory and onto a wackier one.

  “Look, Phee, if you could get into Milquist’s house and snoop around a bit, you might be able to uncover something.”

  I tried to keep my voice down, but it wound up sounding sharp and shrill. “You mean like breaking and entering?”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. Forcible entry is a crime.”

  “Any unwanted entry is a crime. Even if the guy left the doors and windows wide open. It’s a crime!”

  “You can’t find evidence if you don’t look.”

  “That’s why they have subpoenas. And laws. And exactly what, if I might ask, am I looking for?”

  “Oh good. You’re considering it.”

  “Um, er. No. Not at all. And I need to get back to work.”

  “You won’t have to break in. You’ll go inside under another pretense.”

  “If this is going to be like that dumpster diving thing a year or so ago, you can forget it.”

  “Nothing like that. Cecilia uses the Happy Housecleaners twice a month. Some of those women are very chatty, and, come to find out, the Happy Housecleaners also clean the Harlan house.”

  “Oh my God, no! I am not pretending to be a housecleaner! I only pretend to do that in my own home.”

  “Hold on. I know for a fact they’ll be there tomorrow morning at eight. If I’m not mistaken, you swapped another Saturday morning. You’re not working tomorrow so you can do this. Cecilia already talked to the woman in charge, and she agreed to have you spend time there watching them work in order to decide whether or not to hire them for your own house. Which, by the way, wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

  “It won’t work. Milquist knows who I am. Remember? The memorial service?”

  “For your information, Milquist won’t be there. According to the Happy Housecleaners, he prefers to be out of the way. That company is licensed, bonded, and insured, so he doesn’t have to worry about them going through his things.”

  “No, he has to worry about an unlicensed, un-bonded, and unwarranted person going through his stuff. And I don’t think my personal liability insurance covers snooping in other people’s homes.”

  “Do you want this murder solved or not? There’s nothing to worry about. As far as anyone knows, you’re checking out a cleaning service. Very benign.”

  “What about Marlene Krone? What if she didn’t go back to New Mexico?”

  “If she happens to be there and she catches you pilfering through something, tell her you’re checking to see how well dusted the area was.”

  “Mom, for the last time, I don’t know what I’m looking for, and, for crying out loud, this has disaster written all over it.”

  “Disaster is better than murder. Call me when you get home.”

  “Aargh!”

  My groan was so loud, Augusta, who had gotten up to make herself a cup of coffee, walked over to my door.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You won’t believe it. My mother actually wants me to snoop around Milquist Harlan’s house tomorrow under the pretense of observing his cleaning service. She even had her friend make the arrangements.”

  “Milquist. That’s the husband of the deceased, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The husband is always the first suspect.”

  “He was out of town at a writers’ conference when she was murdered.”

  “Still doesn’t mean there wasn’t collusion involved. What does your mother want you to look for?”

  “That’s just the thing. She has no idea and neither do I. Besides, if the guy was hiding something, it would probably be on his computer, and it’s not as if I could shove in a flash drive and start copying files. That only works in the movies.”

  “You never know. There might be papers floating around, incriminating photos, all sorts of stuff. When you really give it some thought, it’s not such a preposterous idea. The authorities would need search warrants and reasonable cause to check out the place. All you’re doing is observing that cleaning company at work.”

  “There’s another dilemma. Nate and Marshall. I hate going behind their backs. They’re the detectives, not me.”

  “True, but if you tell them, then they become part of an unauthorized search. Far be it for me to tell you what to do, but if you want to put a stop to those annoying phone calls from your mother, you may want to take her up on this one.”

  “If I get arrested, you’re the person I’m calling to bail me out.”

  “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  Augusta made her coffee and returned to her desk. I glanced at the closed door to Marshall’s office, and, for one brief second, considered bursting in and spilling the beans. I didn’t. Instead, I called my mother back and said one word, “Fine.” I hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

  Chapter 22

  The Happy Housecleaners’
sky-blue van with a logo depicting cloudlike dusters and smiling faces was parked in Milquist’s driveway when I arrived. I parked on the street and headed for the front door, pausing every second or so to admire the gorgeous stone pavers that created a swirling path to the entrance. The colors blended perfectly with the stone veneer of the house.

  Carefully manicured rosemary bushes and boxwood beauties graced the pavers. Must be nice having money. I rang the bell. A young, dark-haired woman in her late twenties or early thirties answered the door. She was wearing jeans and a light blue polo shirt that sported the same logo I saw on the van.

  “Hi! I’m Gracie. You must be Phee. Glad you could watch us in action today. We’re always hoping to impress new clients. And, of course, our existing ones.”

  New clients? Is this a done deal? What did my mother do? Am I going to wind up with an expensive housecleaning service?

  I thanked her and followed her into the house. This time, I made it past the foyer. Gracie motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen, chatting all the way.

  “There’re three of us here today. Me, Rosa, and Zia. Her real name’s Jalisa, but everyone calls her Zia.”

  “Uh, do all three of you always work together?”

  “Not always. Depends on the job. Some places are real terrors, if you know what I mean. Absolutely filthy until we arrive. Those houses can get up to five of us working.”

  I couldn’t imagine a place so disgusting it would require five housecleaners. Then again, not everyone had a mother like mine, insisting on the “white glove” treatment. Gracie explained that each cleaner worked in a different area, and she was starting on the kitchen.

  “Feel free to move about the house but please don’t touch anything. Zia’s doing the bedrooms, and Rosa started on the upstairs bathroom. This is one of the few houses in Sun City West that has an upstairs area. Just a sitting area, really, and Mr. Harlan’s office. Oh, there’s also a balcony that overlooks the yard. Nice, huh?”

  Nice didn’t begin to cover it. The Harlan house was spectacular. While the exterior was desert Southwest, the interior looked more like one of those Pacific Northwest houses I’d seen in travel magazines. Massive wooden furniture, large stone fireplace, beamed ceilings, leather couches, and artwork that showcased the flora and fauna of that region. I supposed it would make sense, given Milquist came from a family that made its fortune in the timber industry. And while I was tempted to take my time and admire the place, I knew I’d better start rummaging around, beginning with the guy’s office. I’d seen my share of detective movies, and the office was always the place where incriminating evidence turned up. Of course, those detectives knew what they were looking for. I was as clueless as anyone could get.

  “Um, uh, I guess I’ll go upstairs and see how Rosa’s doing in the bathroom. My shower always gets dingy on the bottom and nothing seems to work on it.”

  Wow. This is the first thing I’ve said that was true.

  “Hey, Rosa and Zia!” Gracie shouted. “That lady friend of Ms. Flanagan is here.”

  I thought I heard both of the cleaners yell out “Okay” or something to that affect. I headed up the circular staircase, another feature that stood out in this dramatic home. Rosa was scrubbing the toilet when I got to the top of the stairs.

  “Hi! The trick is to spray on the cleaner and then let it set for a few minutes before scrubbing.”

  I really had no intention of watching the poor woman toil away in the bathroom and had to think fast. “I see. You know, in order for me to see how well you ladies clean, it might be a good idea for me to, well, check the other rooms before you get there. Kind of a before and after.”

  Rosa didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “That makes sense. The little den is to the left, and it goes right into the office. Upstairs rooms get very dusty in Arizona, and the corners seem to attract all sorts of unwanted dirt. Dead insects, too. You’ll be surprised how nice those rooms look when I finish. You can see what they look like now and come back in a little bit. Maybe see how Zia and Gracie are doing.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. Thanks, Rosa.”

  I breezed through the den, which consisted of a small couch, large flat screen TV, coffee table, and indoor corner fountain with LED lighting, and stepped into Milquist’s office. It was like going back in time to the turn of the century—the twentieth, not the twenty-first. A massive wooden desk with built-in cubbies took up most of the room, leaving little space for the bookshelves and armoire. Papers were strewn everywhere.

  How are you going to dust this, Rosa?

  An Acer PC and laser printer took center stage, and I could see that the setup was Wi-Fi. Must be Sorrel had had her own computer or tablet. Pretending to check for dust, I leaned over the desk to make it appear as if I was taking a better look at the windowsill. Beneath me, I saw what Milquist was working on—another book. The papers were numbered, and the content dealt with the eating habits of the Anasazi civilization. Handwritten comments were everywhere. Marlene’s maybe?

  Moving away from the desk, I perused the bookshelves. Tome after tome about the Southwest, as well as a collection of James Burroughs’s naturalist books dating back to the mid-1800s. I surmised Milquist was into conservationism, along with his late wife.

  I noted a few knickknacks on the bookshelves and the desk. Rocks. Shells. A dried pine cone. Nothing that shouted out, “Hey! I’m a clue to Sorrel’s murder.”

  Just then I heard footsteps and knew Rosa had entered the den. I turned away from the desk. “I see what you mean about the dust. It’s everywhere.”

  Unable to poke around any further in the office, I headed downstairs. Zia was in the master bedroom, and Gracie was still in the kitchen. I opted for the bedroom.

  As I walked in, Zia was finishing up making the bed, having changed the linens. She looked up and explained the process before I could say anything.

  “Hi! As soon as I arrive, I strip the beds and throw the linens in the wash. It takes about forty-five minutes. Then I put them in the dryer, and when they’re done, I fold them and put them in the linen closet by the hallway bathroom. Very efficient that way.”

  My eyes were darting around the room as I tried to process what I was seeing. A monstrous bed, oversized dresser, and nightstands with glass globes instead of lampshades. Wooden relief wall hangings and metal sculptures of animals gave the room an African safari feel. A large flat screen TV faced the bed. No sign of feminism anywhere. Of course, I had no clue regarding Sorrel’s decorative tastes.

  “You, uh, mentioned stripping the beds. I take it you mean guest rooms, too.”

  “Oh no, miss. I’ve never had to change the linens in the guest room. Only Mrs. Harlan’s room, rest her soul.”

  “Mrs. Harlan’s room? They have, I mean had, separate rooms?”

  “Oh yes. Her suite is across the hall. I haven’t started in there yet, except for stripping the bed. I’m on my way over there now. Look around this room and the en suite. This model house has two en suites and three bedrooms.”

  Zia pointed to the master bath. “Rosa cleans the upstairs bathrooms and the powder room downstairs. I do the en suites.”

  “I see. I’ll be sure to take a good look,” I said as Zia left the room.

  I glanced at the master bath, and she was right. It was gleaming. It was also as masculine as hell. No cute little soap dishes or fancy towels. Plain beige ones on either side of the double vanity. Shaving stuff, an electric toothbrush, and a box of tissues completed the scene. I went back to the bedroom for another look, still uncertain of what it was I was after.

  The room reminded me of a motel, and, in that instant, I did something I never thought I would. I opened the drawer to the nightstand that housed the phone. If someone were to call Milquist while he was in the room, he probably had a pad and pen in the drawer. Motel 101.

  Sure enough, I was right. In addition to cough lozenges and a few crumbled-up tissues, a small white pad and a few pens were in the drawer. I picked up the
pad and studied it. Reading all of those Nancy Drew books as a kid paid off. I could see the imprint from a note he had written. He must have pressed down hard when he wrote because the indent from the first word stood out—Frank.

  Quickly, I tore off the sheet and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I raced out of the room and over to Sorrel’s, where Zia was in the middle of making the bed. I could tell she was uncomfortable.

  “This is the first, the first ... This is the first time the sheets have been changed since Mrs. Harlan was killed. We only come here once or twice a month.”

  I didn’t know what to say and stood there staring. Finally, I managed to say something. “This room is very different from Mr. Harlan’s.”

  What an understatement. The room had a gorgeous oak canopy bed with rope designs that matched the armoire and nightstands. Stained glass lamps were everywhere—dragonflies, birds, lizards, you name it. The artwork on the walls was a change, too—watercolors and lithographs of garden scenes.

  “Zia, how long have you been cleaning for the Harlans?”

  The girl looked up and stared for a moment. “At least three years. The Harlans are steady customers.”

  “Um, not that it’s any of my business, but I’m curious. They have separate bedrooms.”

  “Shh. Not my business either, but I don’t think they were interested in each other like man and wife.”

  “Because of the separate bedrooms?”

  “Look at the bedroom doors. They have locks on the doorknobs.”

  “Most bedrooms do. I think that’s standard for houses.”

  “Take a good look. The lock on Mr. Harlan’s door is small, but it’s a keypad door lock. Who has something like that on their bedroom door?”

  Who indeed? What was this guy hiding? Especially from his wife. His office was upstairs, not in the bedroom, and if he were to bring a woman home, surely Sorrel would’ve noticed. There had to be something else. Something else in that bedroom. At first I thought it might’ve been hidden ledgers, but those could’ve been locked up in a security safe, no need to lock a door. Then, the weirdest idea came into my head.