Murder on Stilettos (A Detective Joe Ezell Mystery, Book 4)

by P. J. Conn

  "I'll make time." He went downtown to the insurance firm's offices and was promptly shown into Hal's. "Is this another case of suspected fraud?" he asked.

  "No, I don't believe so. It may look rather silly, but it's serious to our client. Liam Dolan claims expensive ceramic pots were stolen from his front porch. The thief yanked out the plants, which were also pricey, dumped them and the potting soil on the lawn, and made off with the empty pots. Here are photos. Do you know anything about pots or plants?" He handed Joe the Dolan folder.

  "I can tell a rose bush from a palm tree, that's about it." Joe settled into his chair. "Was the client engaged in a feud with a neighbor?"

  Hal referred to his notes. "Apparently not. Mr. Dolan's home was to have been part of a garden tour in the spring. He described it as a heated contest to win selection for the tour, and for the cash prizes. He's won in past years, and fears someone is holding a grudge against him, and the vandalism is meant to force him to withdraw from the tour."

  "One of your usual investigators isn't able to handle the case?"

  "I suppose one could, but it seemed more perfectly suited to a man of your unique talents."

  Joe sincerely doubted it, but skepticism wouldn't pay his bills. "I'm flattered." He opened the file, and studied the photos. The five ceramic pots were in a variety of shapes and sizes, all with an aqua glaze ranging from pale to a deep turquoise. The largest held a massive Boston fern.

  "Dolan claims the collection of pots were worth more than the plants," Hal said.

  "Mrs. Dolan went out to bring in the newspaper last week, and began screaming when she found the plants withering on the lawn and the pots gone. She upset the whole neighborhood, but no one had heard anything during the night."

  "Pots that size must be heavy," Joe observed. "Probably more than a single man could handle, unless he used a dolly. Are any of the neighbors missing pots or plants?"

  "None have reported it to the police. Dolan is retired, so you should be able to catch him at home this morning."

  "I'll go there now." Joe was tempted to tell Hal about his puzzling visitor, but afraid he'd sound like an idiot, he didn't risk it.

  * * *

  The Dolans lived on San Pasquel Street, near Cal Tech, in Pasadena. It was a lovely tree-lined neighborhood. Even to Joe's unpracticed eye, the front porch of the two-story Craftsman home looked oddly bereft without their cherished potted plants.

  Liam Dolan answered Joe's knock at the door and stepped outside when he saw the detective's California West identity card. "Glad you're here. The police took the information, but the officer responding clearly thought he ought to be working on more serious crimes. This theft is serious to us. I've got the plants temporarily stored in buckets in the backyard. I'll replanted them when we get the pots back, or are forced to buy new ones."

  "I'm glad you were able to salvage the plants. California West doesn't require receipts, but it would be helpful if you had kept them for the pots."

  "We bought them before the war, and can't keep track of everything we buy. Who does?" Tall and deeply tanned, he gestured with a sinewy grace. "They cost more than I'd wanted to spend, but I wouldn't disappoint my wife and not buy them. Are you married?"

  "I will be right after Christmas." Joe couldn't wait to make Mary Margaret his wife, but he also understood how greatly his life would soon change.

  Liam lowered his voice, "My dad gave me the secret to a happy marriage. Just never refuse your wife anything. It doesn't matter if she wants to go to Paris, and you have less than a hundred dollars in the bank. Just smile and tell her it's a terrific idea and ask her to help you save for the trip."

  "Thanks. I'll remember that." Mary Margaret was a level-headed young woman who wouldn't have to be tricked into thinking she'd gotten her way when she hadn't. Rather than discuss the joys of marriage, however, he redirected his attention to the front of the house.

  Steps led up to the long cement porch, and the missing pots and plants had provided a lush green frame for the front door. Five pale circular rings showed where they had stood, three on one side and two on the other. Joe walked down the brick steps to the front walk to get a better view.

  "It's difficult to imagine how someone could dump the plants, lift the pots off the porch, and drive away without alerting you or your neighbors."

  "It has us stumped too, but our bedroom is upstairs in the back. When I bought the pots, I carried them empty to the porch, set them where we intended them to be, and filled them with potting soil. I never tried to lift them after I added the plants, and they didn't dance around. They stayed put until last week."

  Joe opened the file he carried to study the photos. "Those were such striking pots, you should be able to recognize them if they turn up elsewhere."

  "I've driven around, but whoever took them must not be from around here. We bought them at the Bellefontaine Nursery. They came from New Mexico, and the artist's name, Joseph Blue Feather, is signed on the bottom. Maybe that's why he was partial to the color. The nursery might keep their records longer than we do. You want to go there?"

  When Joe had murder suspects knocking on his door, a trip to the quiet serenity of a nursery posed a welcome diversion. "Sure, give me the address, and I'll follow you there."

  * * *

  Located on Fair Oaks in Pasadena, the Bellefontaine Nursery had a wide array of flowers, plants, vines, and small trees along with clerks who gave excellent gardening advice. Joe and Liam parked in the lot and made their way to the pottery shed. Joe waved down one of the clerks, and showed him the photo of Liam's porch.

  "We're looking for something similar to these pots you once sold. Do you have any?" Joe asked.

  The gray-haired man needed only a quick glimpse of the photo. "We used to carry those several years ago, and it's funny you should ask about them. A man came in on Saturday with one, said his grandmother had died, and he was cleaning up her house and yard before he sold the place."

  "Did you take it?" Liam asked.

  "I told him I was interested, but needed to talk to the boss first. Completely forgot about him until now. You want the guy's number?"

  Joe smiled. "We sure do."

  When the clerk led the way to the office, Liam whispered, "This was too easy."

  "Don't get excited. From my experience, nothing is as easy as it first appears."

  Liam nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's often true. If the man who came here is trying to sell my pots, what are we going to do?"

  The plan came easily to Joe. "We'll ask him to bring all the pots here. He might recognize you, so you'll have to stay out of sight. I'll pretend to be a landscaper working for an eccentric woman who wants nothing but blue pots for her garden. Size and shape won't matter, they just have to be blue. I'll take my time, and if they are your pots, call the police and let them handle the arrest. There's no need for us to confront the man ourselves."

  "If they keep the pots as evidence," Liam complained, "I still won't have them."

  It was an unnecessary complication as far as Joe was concerned. "Let's tackle one problem at a time."

  The clerk plucked a scrap of paper from the bulletin board behind the telephone. "Said his name was Bob Rasmussen. You want to call him, or should I?"

  Joe reached for the note. "I'll call him." The telephone rang so many times, Joe was ready to hang up when Rasmussen finally answered.

  "What!" he barked.

  "Mr. Rasmussen, I'm at the Bellefontaine Nursery. I'm a landscaper, and heard you have a blue pot I might be interested in buying."

  "It ain't cheap," he warned gruffly.

  "The cost isn't the issue." Joe gave him the story about the woman who demanded blue pots for her garden.

  "I've got a mess of them here."

  "Really? Would you bring them to the Bellefontaine Nursery? The owner is interested in buying any I don't want."

  "That's a whole lot of trouble. You sure that's what the owner said?"

  "I'll probably buy them al
l, but he's interested too. It will be well-worth your while."

  After a long pause, Rasmussen agreed. "All right, I'll be there in half an hour."

  Joe hung up and smiled. "We've baited the trap, let's see if he takes a bite. There's a good view from here in the office of the parking lot, Liam, and I'll make sure you can see the pots clearly."

  In twenty minutes, a dusty Chevy pickup rolled into the parking lot. Bob Rasmussen unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He stood six feet five inches tall, and weighed two hundred seventy pounds on a well-muscled frame. With dark hair and a close-cropped beard, he reminded Joe of Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. He wasn't going to fight the man over the pots, but wearing a helmet for his jobs seemed like an increasingly good idea.

  "Mr. Rasmussen," Joe called.

  "Yeah, that's me." He stuck out his hand, and Joe's nearly disappeared in his. A tattoo of a hula dancer on the inside of Bob's right forearm swayed when they shook hands. "Come around to the back of the truck. I figure there's no reason to take them all out if they're not what you want."

  Joe leaned over the tailgate. "They look good. Let's start with the smallest one."

  Rasmussen had stored the pots in cardboard boxes and easily freed it, showing off the strength he'd used to soundlessly sweep the pots from the Dolans' porch.

  It was heavier than Joe had anticipated, but he got a firm hold on it before he turned it to read the name inscribed on the bottom. Joseph was carved into the clay, underlined with a drawn feather and a touch of blue glaze. He set it down carefully. "I like it. Let's see the others."

  "First, let's talk about money. Don't you want to know how much each one costs?"

  "Of course, I do, but my client isn't all that concerned about money. She just wants what she wants, and that's it."

  Unable to wait another minute, Liam walked up wearing a clerk's straw hat pulled low and a green Bellefontaine apron. "I don't want a bidding war, but I'd like to see the pots too."

  Intrigued, a woman carrying a philodendron to her car, called to them. "Are you having a pot sale?" she asked.

  Liam waved her away. "Sorry, it's not open to the public. Come by next week and see what we have that's new."

  "All right, I will."

  Liam had thrust himself in the middle of their plan, so Joe had to use him. "I understood I'd have the first chance with the pots."

  "Sure, I'm just looking now," Liam assured him. He peered into the bed of the pickup, and then stepped back. "I like these a lot, but I have work to handle in the office before I can offer a bid."

  "You can bid on whatever I don't want," Joe shouted after him.

  Liam waved. "Fine."

  "Would you unload them all so I could walk around them?" Joe asked. "It's difficult to judge their size otherwise."

  Rasmussen plucked the tallest from his truck, and carefully placed it on the asphalt. "That's the largest. These others are medium sized."

  Joe checked to be certain they all had Joseph Blue Feather's signature. Stalling for the police to arrive, he arranged them in several ways. "These are too nice a grouping to leave any behind. How much do you want for them all?"

  Rasmussen leaned back against his truck and folded his arms over his broad chest. "Thirty bucks for the smallest, and fifty each for the other four."

  "I'll give you two hundred for the lot," Joe countered. He'd stalled as long as he could, and was greatly relieved when a police car turned into the lot and pulled up behind Rasmussen's truck to block its exit.

  Liam had been waiting for them, and quickly ran from the office. He pulled a photo of his porch complete with the potted plants from his shirt pocket. "Those are my pots. I filed a report of the theft last week."

  "What is this?" Rasmussen hands curved into ham-sized fists. He took a menacing step toward Joe.

  Joe grabbed the smallest pot, and stood ready to swing it in a slow arc into the bigger man's head. He hoped it wouldn't break, but he needed more than bare fists to defend himself against this brute.

  "Back away, Rasmussen," one of the officers shouted.

  "You know him?" Liam asked.

  "We do. He'll steal anything that isn't nailed down, but this is the first time he's taken a fancy to pottery."

  Joe didn't place the pot on the ground until Rasmussen had been handcuffed and forced into the backseat of the squad car. He whispered to Liam, "They don't have enough room to transport the pots, why don't you offer to take them home where they belong? I have a camera to take photos they can use in court."

  Liam removed the straw hat and apron, and after a quick discussion with the officers, he smiled and turned to Joe. "It's fine with them. Were you really going to defend yourself with the small pot? It's my wife's favorite."

  "It was the only thing handy, and California West would have replaced it if it had been broken." He waited until the squad car had driven away to fetch the camera. He posed the pots with the nursery sign behind them, and the pickup's license plate in view. He took several photos and promised a set for Liam.

  Once the pots were carefully stowed in the trunk and rear seat of Liam's Packard sedan, Joe shook his hand and counted his case closed. What he needed now was lunch, and for some reason, a large green salad sounded particularly appealing.

  Chapter 14

  Monday afternoon, Joe called Mrs. Navarro. She did not want a report over the telephone, and appeared in his office an hour later. Joe had coffee ready and the new magazine for her chauffeur. He smiled and hoped the visit would go better than he feared it would.

  "You were interested in how your grandson spent his time," he began.

  "I already know that," she responded with a quick flip of her wrist. "What evidence did you gather to prove he's amounted to nothing?"

  After Constance had praised his work and given a referral, it would be unprofessional to return Mrs. Navarro's retainer and show her the door. However, he was sorely tempted. "I drove by your grandson's home and found him working on a car in his driveway."

  "Did you take a photograph so I can show him I know all he does is waste his time?"

  He handed her one of Timothy and his friend with their heads under the hood of the old jalopy. "I spoke with your grandson that afternoon. He's bright, and impressed me with his ambition. He's restoring old cars and selling them for a profit."

  "That isn't a job for a well-educated man," she replied. She studied the photo, promptly dismissed it, and slapped it on Joe's desk.

  "That's a matter of perception," Joe argued. "People will always do better when they are employed doing something they enjoy. Many veterans are using the GI Bill to pay for college, and younger men like your grandson may feel intimidated. It could be a factor in his uncertain focus."

  "So what? He should work harder rather than repeatedly shift majors."

  Joe rocked back in his chair. "He's young, and may need more time to mature than his sister. He did tell me he's dating a young woman who attends USC. She has to be a good influence."

  Mrs. Navarro stared at him. "I'm paying for your time, why are you taking Timothy's side?"

  She had him there. "It's an effort to help you resolve your differences. Timothy is a capable young man, and while he's not on the path you'd choose, it doesn't mean he won't be successful in life."

  Her eyes narrowed as she swept his small office with a critical eye. "Are your parents proud of you?"

  "They're no longer living, but yes, they were enormously proud of me and supportive of everything I wished to do."

  She grabbed the photo, rose, and turned toward the door. "This has been a complete waste of my time and money."

  Joe stood, took out his wallet, and handed her a refund. "I'm sorry not to have pleased you, Mrs. Navarro." He opened the door for her, and the chauffeur leaped to his feet.

  "Excellent magazine," the man remarked. He handed it to Joe along with the empty cup.

  "Thank you, I'm glad you liked it."

  Mrs. Navarro shoved the cash Joe had given her into he
r purse, took the chauffeur's arm, and left without bothering to say good-bye.

  Still on her nephew's side, Joe made a few notes in the Navarro file, counted the case closed, and filed it.

  With that unpleasantness out of the way, he called Hal to relate his success with the Dolan case. "The police arrested the culprit, the Dolans have their pots, and Liam thought he might be able to reuse the original plants."

  "You solved the case in a single day?" Hal asked.

  Joe couldn't blame him for being incredulous. "It wasn't difficult. If you like, I'll take longer the next time you pass along a case."

  "No, wrap them up as quickly as you can. I'll put your check in the afternoon mail to save you a trip downtown."

  "Thank you, as always it's a pleasure to work for California West." It was certainly a lot more pleasant than dealing with Mrs. Navarro.

  He checked his calendar. Thanksgiving was Thursday, and Mary Margaret was looking forward to celebrating the holiday with the other residents of the Chrysanthemum Court. He'd met them all working on Georgia Dixon's murder. He ought to bring something to the party, and he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on his desk and wondered what he could possibly contribute.

  A knock on the door brought him upright. "Come in."

  Marty Streech peered in. "It was so quiet, I doubted you were here."

  Joe had forgotten to turn on his new radio. "Come on in. What's new?"

  "Someone has been following me." He took one of the chairs facing the desk. "I must have stepped on the wrong toes interviewing people for my stories, and I need you to discover who it is before they turn violent."

  They weren't close friends, but Joe admired the reporter's perseverance. He picked up a pencil and yellow pad to take notes. "When did it begin?"

  "Over the weekend. I'd been out running errands, and when I saw the same car, a gray four-door DeSoto, multiple times, I became suspicious."

  "Did you see the driver?"

  "No, and when I parked in the lot at the hardware store. I turned back, and saw he'd parked two spaces away. I watched from the front window, and after half an hour, no one had returned to the DeSoto. I left and drove around the block. The DeSoto was gone when I rolled through the parking lot the second time. On my way home, I saw it a couple of cars behind me. I pulled over, and he drove by me. He turned right at the corner, went around the block, and came up behind me again."