by J. C. Eaton
“Crickets?”
“Yeah, it’s a major food source for scorpions. There really isn’t an effective way to kill the scorpions, especially since so many of them nest in the palms, but, by eliminating their food source, many die off or migrate elsewhere. So, what was it you wanted?”
“I was wondering about something. By any chance, did you see what that swan petition said? What was the name of the organization?”
“I only got a quick look, so I could be wrong, but I think it was AZ BIRD RR or something like that. Listen, I need to finish spraying before it gets dark.”
I thanked him for his time and practically ran to my car. The Google search for AZ Bird RR could stand to wait for a few minutes while I did something only my mother would condone under the circumstances—snoop around the Mazda convertible.
I already knew the car belonged to Trevor. It was the only Mazda in the lot. My SUV was tall enough to block the view should the guy step out of the building, but I had to act quickly. I leaned over the convertible and opened the glove compartment. Scads of paperwork, a few pens, and some icky tissues. My mother would’ve been appalled at my not having Clorox wipes with me. She had a point.
Next, I lifted open the small rectangular compartment directly behind the gear shift. In my car it was a catch-all for everything. I was hoping Trevor’s would be the same, although I didn’t know exactly what I expected to find. A microfiber cloth. More pens.
What does this guy do, collect them?
Wads of old gas station and fast-food receipts and a small flashlight. That was something I always intended to put in my car. A flashlight. But I never got around to it.
I shoved everything back and started to close the compartment hatch when something caught my eye. It was the logo on the flashlight. Only it wasn’t a flashlight. It was a black light with a scorpion on it. Same as the one on Louise’s key chain. In less than ten seconds, an ironclad theory crystalized in front of me.
Trevor Burrier killed Marc Yost and framed Darla Marlinde. Putting the blame on Darla would’ve been a pretty easy thing to do since she and Marc were notorious for highly publicized fights in all sorts of fancy restaurants and hotspots. Trevor must’ve used that black light to locate the bark scorpions behind the condo. All he would’ve needed was some sort of glass jar and a pair of cooking tongs. Even a tweezer, if he wasn’t squeamish. He had that small tan backpack. It could easily conceal a glass jar. He had motive, and he had means. Opportunity came when Marc got back to the condo after Darla left but before Trevor’s shift ended at five. All Trevor had to do was grab that black light, go outside for a few minutes, and help himself to some bark scorpions. After all, the gardener said they were plentiful. When he was sure Marc had crashed for the night, or morning in this case, Trevor took the keys to the condo, snuck in, and dumped the scorpions in Marc’s bed.
It was the perfect crime. Except for one thing. How on earth was I going to prove it? I didn’t even have circumstantial evidence. Lots of people, including my mother’s wacky friends, had those scorpion lights. Just in case, I grabbed my iPhone and snapped a quick photo of the black light as it sat in the Mazda’s gear shift compartment. Then I took a photo of the “Metro” parking sticker before walking to the rear of the car for the last image I needed—his license plate.
Chapter 28
It was getting late and the gardener had already pulled out of the parking lot. Only a few minutes of daylight were left. I quickly Googled AZ Bird RR and came up with “Arizona Bird Rescue and Rehabilitation.” It was part of a larger organization that specialized in saving wildlife. I kept scrolling past the organizational information and photos of rescued birds until I got to the “contact us” part of the page. I was still getting used to mobile searches as opposed to the ones I conducted on my desktop computer.
They had an office in Phoenix. And one in Tucson, too. The Phoenix office was actually located on Mill Avenue in Tempe, near Arizona State University. Office hours were Monday–Saturday from nine to five, with special evening hours from seven to nine on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Hurray for being in a college community.
I went to Google maps for the shortest route and headed over there, trying to ignore the rumbling in my stomach. It felt like it’d been ages since I’d last eaten. According to the address, AZ Bird RR was smack dab in the middle of the college business district, and that meant lots of eateries. I pictured subs, pizzas, gyros, burgers, and anything with carbs. And unlike my mother’s community, those places wouldn’t close at eight.
Mill Avenue was bustling with activity when I got there. It took me two swipes around one of the blocks to find a parking space, and I had to use every bit of skill I could muster to parallel park. The good news was that AZ Bird RR was adjacent to a sub shop, and I had every intention of chomping into a loaded sandwich once I was done speaking with someone from the bird rescue.
Posters of water fowl, raptors, and roadrunners were plastered on the walls of the small storefront agency, along with signs encouraging people to save the birds and donate now. Three desks, each with a computer, seemed to take up most of the space. A shared printer sat on a two-drawer metal file cabinet. A girl, who looked as if she was still in her teens, was busy at one of the computers. Her short, spiked hair with emerald-green highlights matched the green T-shirt she was wearing.
She spoke up as soon as I walked in. “Hi! Are you here to sign one of our petitions? Or volunteer maybe? We have volunteers of all ages, you know. Arizona Bird Rehabilitation and Rescue isn’t a college organization.”
Volunteers of all ages? My God, do I look ninety to her? And what about Sorrel?
“Actually, I was looking for someone who might assist me. Are you the only person working tonight?”
“Clarisse is, but she went out to get something to eat. I know Clarisse handles the accounting, but if it’s something other than that, I can help.”
“I’m actually here about the petition to rehome swans that are in unprotected areas.”
“Did you want to sign it or contribute to the cause?”
I took a quick breath and pulled out my business card, careful once again to conceal the word “accountant.” The girl gave the card a cursory glance and looked up as I spoke.
“I’m Phee Kimball and, like the card says, I work for Williams Investigations. We’re looking into the murder of one of your volunteers. Her name was Sorrel Harlan, and she was getting signatures for the swan petition.”
The girl looked horror stricken. “Murdered? One of our volunteers? That’s terrible. Oh my God! Were any birds killed?”
Birds? She’s worried about birds?
“Um, no. No birds were killed. But we may have a lead on who killed Sorrel, if we could see the petition she was carrying. Can you do that? Show me the petition?”
She crinkled her nose as if I’d asked her to walk across a bed of hot coals.
I pressed further. “This would be a tremendous help to the investigation. After all, I’m sure your agency would want us to locate the person who was responsible for murdering one of your volunteers.”
“Okay. But here’s the problem. That file cabinet over there has lots of swan petitions that haven’t been sorted yet. I don’t have the time to go through each one. Can you come back in a few days?”
By now my stomach was working overtime, and I had all I could do to ignore it. “How about if I sit over there and sort them. Do they have the volunteers’ names on them?”
“Volunteer initials are put on the bottom of each sheet with the date.” She walked over to the cabinet. “You sure you want to do this now?”
“Absolutely.”
“By the way, my name’s Sydney.”
“Nice to meet you, Sydney. And thanks.”
Sydney handed me a stack of petitions that dated back three months. Fortunately, I knew the date in question so once I sorted out the petitions Sorrel turned in, it made the process go faster than I had expected. It took me less than twenty minutes to f
ind the sheets with her initials on them.
“Wow! That was quick. You sure you don’t want to volunteer here? It’s a wonderful cause, saving birds.”
“I’m sure it is, but I work full time. Maybe someday. When I retire.”
Who was I kidding? But, it sounded good. I checked each page carefully to find the date in question—the date Marc Yost was found dead. Sorrel had managed to garner two pages with signatures. I held my breath and crossed my fingers. Literally. Sure enough, I spied Darla Marlinde’s signature. It was in the middle of the page. I scanned down. No sign of Marc Yost’s. I had one page left. Again, I crossed my fingers, hoping Sydney wasn’t looking my way. I had “amateur” practically stamped on my forehead.
So as not to miss anything, I held the palm of my hand under each signature and scrutinized it carefully as I went down the page. Then I saw it. Three signatures from the bottom, and it took up two lines. It was almost as illegible as those doctor signatures on prescriptions, but the capital Y and the small o and s in Yost gave it away. The capital M wasn’t too bad either. Judging from the way Marc signed the petition, he was either in a tremendous hurry or really wasted. It didn’t matter. Unless there were throngs of people signing that petition all at once, the guy was alive and well after Darla left the condo. Way too many signatures in between.
Then I had another thought. Suppose Darla had put scorpions in Marc’s bed before she left the place? No. Even the most stoned drunkard would’ve noticed those crawly things when they climbed into bed. I was positive Marc’s murderer was Trevor Burrier.
“Sydney, I found what I was looking for. Is there any way I could make a copy?”
Again, the crinkled brow. “I guess it would be all right. But the original must stay here.”
The original. Only an original document would be admissible in court. I knew I couldn’t leave with it, but I wanted to make sure no one else did either.
“Um, what happens to these petitions when your agency has enough signatures?”
“Oh. They get filed with the state and appear on the voting ballots.”
Duh. I should’ve known that. Unlike Minnesota, Arizona was known for a plethora of proposals that appeared on the election ballots. Those petitions wouldn’t be destroyed, they’d be archived somewhere, and that was just as bad.
“Do you have a timeline for the swan petitions?”
“We’ve got plenty of time. It’s only March. We won’t be turning anything in until summer.”
My pulse returned to normal. “That’s good. Very good. For the swans, I mean. I’m sure you’ll get more signatures.”
Sydney made me a copy of the two petition pages, and I also used my iPhone to take my own pictures of them. Feeling guilty for stretching the truth, I handed Sydney a twenty dollar bill and told her it was a donation for the swan cause.
As I started to leave, Clarisse came in, and I could smell the garlic and onion on her breath. By now, I was one step away from dying of hunger. I thanked Sydney and headed straight for the sub shop next door. I’d order all the fixings. No one was going to smell my breath tonight.
Chapter 29
I arrived to work on time, but, apparently, everyone else had gotten there earlier. Augusta was already seated at her desk.
“I’m alive and well as you can see,” I said to her as soon as I walked in the door.
“Shh. Come on over. You need to know something.”
By the look on her face, I knew it was grim.
“What?”
“It took two days, but the police department in Paradise Valley got the Darla Marlinde information to Deputy Bowman, and he just faxed it to Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams and Mr. Gregory are in Mr. Williams’s office right now going over it. Statements, timelines, you name it, they’re pouring through it right now to see if you were right. If Sorrel was a witness. I don’t think they’re going to be too happy you went over to that condo last night.”
“Yesterday you thought it was a good idea. You said ‘information gathering is information gathering.’”
“That was before the whole kit and caboodle was served up to Mr. Williams this morning. I overheard him saying he was glad you were staying out of it.”
“Really? He said that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s great. That’s just great. I’m going to lose my job and my boyfriend.”
“What exactly happened yesterday? What did you find out?”
I leaned over her desk, and, keeping my voice as low as I could, I told her everything.
When I was done, she grabbed my wrist and shook it. “You cracked that case wide open, Phee. This Trevor guy killed Yost and framed Darla. The only witness was Sorrel. She saw Yost alive, and Trevor had to get rid of her, so he got his sister Eleanor to shoot her with a bow and arrow. Eleanor being a top marksman and all.”
“That’s what I figure, too, but the only evidence I have is the petition. Besides, until I can find out Eleanor’s maiden name, I won’t be a hundred percent certain. I tried a Google search last night and got nowhere. Talk to me when you catch a break. I’ve got to get to work.”
I booted up my computer in record time and started on the tax filing information for the business. I needed something cut and dry that I could do automatically. I also needed time to figure out what I was going to say to Nate and Marshall. I was running scenarios through my head when Marshall knocked on the doorframe and walked in.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“What? No. You caught me off guard, that’s all. I’ve been working on the taxes.”
“Uh-huh. The taxes. Well, I wanted you to know I spoke with Frank Landrow about what you said the other day. You know, ‘things getting out of hand.’”
“Oh yeah. That.”
“Turns out Sorrel was into more causes than you could shake a stick at. Poor Frank got dragged along into some of them, and he was getting frazzled. The horse rescue up in Williams, the abandoned dogs in Wittman, and, get this, a swan rescue. And you’ll never guess where that was.”
There was a reason I didn’t play poker. I’d never be able to pull off the face. I pretended to be looking at my computer screen as if, somehow, the tax information would save me. “Um, was Frank there, too?”
“I didn’t even tell you where it was, and, no, Frank wasn’t there. Listen, maybe I should stop back later. You seem to be really involved with the taxes.”
“Oh, what the hell!” I pushed my chair back from the computer, opened my desk drawer, and pulled out the copies I made from the swan petition. “I know Frank wasn’t there. I know all about it. And before you lose your temper and say something we’ll both regret, although I’ll probably regret it more than you, I went to Paradise Valley after work yesterday. To Marc Yost’s condo. I knew Sorrel must’ve seen something, and that’s what got her killed.”
“I know. I know exactly where you were.”
“Augusta? Augusta told you?”
“Phee, I’m a licensed detective. That means I come with some skills. And no, Augusta didn’t say anything. And you were talking with a possible murder suspect. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“When you raced out of work yesterday without so much as a ‘good-bye,’ I knew something was off. And Augusta was acting even cagier than usual. I knew you couldn’t leave the Darla Marlinde case alone because you were certain Sorrel had witnessed something.”
“So you followed me? You followed me all the way to Paradise Valley?”
“You would’ve noticed my car if I did. Instead, I called in a favor from an off-duty police officer who lives near there. His car was parked in front of Marc Yost’s condo.”
“They must pay well in Paradise Valley. All those cars were Audis or BMWs.”
Dead silence for ten seconds.
“He also followed you to Tempe. So you might as well tell me every single thing beginning with those papers in your hand.”
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“You’re not angry with me?”
“Angry? I’m furious. Interfering with an open investigation. Talking with possible suspects who could be dangerous. My God! We’ve had this conversation before!”
“Marshall, I—”
“Look, it’s a matter of trust. If I can’t trust you or believe you, how on earth is our relationship going to work?”
Aargh. The trust thing. The last time that subject came up, it was with my ex-husband, and I was the one asking the questions. This time I didn’t say a word.
“And whatever you do, don’t start to cry. It won’t help.”
“I wasn’t going to cry. And no matter what I say, it won’t be right. And you can be as angry with me as a hornet, but can you do it after Sorrel’s killer is caught and Darla Marlinde is exonerated?”
“Whoa. Darla Marlinde? Innocent? You’d better start from the beginning.”
At that moment, Augusta decided to take her break and charged into my office. “Before you or Mr. Williams go off the deep end and fire Phee, I need to say something.”
Marshall’s mouth couldn’t get any wider. “Who said anything about firing Phee? The only one going off the deep end is you, Augusta. Calm down.”
Augusta folded her hands in front of her chest and stood as if she was at attention. “Like it or not, Phee’s able to get more information from witnesses and suspects than either you or Mr. Williams. Face it, who would you talk to? The sweet girl next door or a couple of investigators who look like G-Men?”
“G-Men? Good grief. I’ll make a note to remove the white shirts from my wardrobe. And once again, no one’s firing Phee.”
“Hrrmph” was the only sound Augusta uttered as she left my office.
“So,” Marshall said, “tell me why you think Darla Marlinde is innocent.”
“Because Marc Yost wasn’t in his condo that night. And Darla left before he staggered in there the next morning. I can prove it.”
I showed Marshall the petition and went over the timeline with him. “Look, I know you and Nate got the police reports from Paradise Valley, but, unless I’m wrong, there’s probably no mention of that swan petition or any interviews with the gardener. Marc’s body wasn’t discovered until later in the day when his office hadn’t heard from him. The only credible witness the police had was the desk assistant. Who actually happens to be the real murderer. Am I right?”