THE SOUND OF MURDER

by Cindy Brown

  The lights came up on Bitsy and three other nuns in a huddle onstage. “It’s a disgrace!” said Bitsy.

  “A temptation for our young people,” agreed a tall nun.

  “Is the music any good?” asked a short one.

  Marge/the Mother Superior entered with the elfin-looking Hailey/Mary.

  “What is it you’re discussing?” Marge asked the gaggle of nuns. Phew, first line down. A tune that sounded a lot like The Sound of Music’s “Problem Like Maria” began to play, and Bitsy opened her mouth and sang, “How do you solve a problem like a nightclub?”

  “Can’t we get the law to shut it down?” sang the tall nun.

  Marge/Mother Superior shook her head.

  “Who do you send to shutter up a nightclub?” sang the short sister.

  Bitsy and the two nuns sang in turn:

  “A politician?”

  “A monsignor?”

  “A clown?”

  “Many a time I’ve thought we could save souls there,” sang a chubby nun.

  “Many a time I’ve thought they’re damned to hell,” Bitsy replied in song.

  “It’s so full of sin,” sang the tall nun.

  “And lots and lots of men,” sang the short one, with a wistful smile.

  “What can we do to break the nightclub’s spell?” sang the chubby one.

  All of them chimed in, “Oh, how do you solve a problem like a nightclub?”

  “WHAT DO THEY WANT THAT WE HAVE GOT TO SELL?” Right on cue, Marge sang perfectly. Loudly, brashly, but perfectly.

  I sang beautifully during my scene too (sure, there was no one in the audience, but still). In fact, the whole dress rehearsal went smoothly, except for one of my changes in the wings, where my dresser somehow guided my arm through the neck hole of my dress.

  I was just leaving the theater when Hailey slid up to me. “Walk me to my car?” she said.

  “Sure.” I couldn’t imagine why. This part of town was not scary at night. Most people went to bed around eight.

  The cool night was quiet, the silence broken only by a jet far overhead. “You’re house sitting for Marge’s neighbor, right?” Hailey’s pale blonde hair shone silver under the parking lot lights.

  I nodded.

  “So do you see Marge outside of the theater?”

  “Not really.”

  Hailey tugged on a lock of her hair, a gesture I recognized from fraught rehearsals.

  “I guess I could,” I said. “Why?”

  She leaned closer to me. “I think someone should keep an eye on her. I’m really worried about her. I think she’s…not okay.”

  Marge had looked as fit as ever.

  “You mean her mind? But she did really well tonight.”

  Hailey shook her head. “I fed her lines all night. She couldn’t remember anything.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I knocked on the carved wooden door, the first door in my neighborhood investigation. I was going to be a great detective. I just knew it.

  The house was unlike any other I had seen in Sunnydale—stucco and a tile roof, yes, but newer, two-story, and oversized, barely squeezed onto the lot. As I was wondering how the neighbors felt about this monstrosity looming over them, the door opened. The blonde woman who stood there wore yoga pants and a cropped top that showed her pierced belly button. She was beautiful, and way too young to be living in fifty-five-plus Sunnydale. The homeowner’s daughter, maybe? Granddaughter? I decided to figure that out later. Instead I said, “I’m from Duda Detective Ag—”

  Slam. Dang Uncle Bob Duda’s pride. I knocked again. The woman opened the door a crack. “Let me explain. I’m Ivy Meadows—”

  It’s pretty hard to slam a door that’s open just a few inches, but somehow she managed it.

  I took a deep breath and knocked again. No answer, not that I expected one. I took one of Uncle Bob’s business cards out of my messenger bag and wrote my name on it above Uncle Bob’s. I drew an arrow indicating that the card should be turned over. On the back I wrote, “re: Charlie Small’s death.” I stuck my business card in the crack between the door and the frame, and walked down the concrete path that cut through the gravel lawn. The tiny rocks reflected the heat, even on a spring morning. No wonder half of Sunnydale took off for the summer. Their lawns would bake them.

  Nobody was home at the next several houses I tried. It was eight thirty on a beautiful spring morning. Most people hadn’t gone north for the summer yet. Where was everyone?

  I decided to widen my search. I got in my Bug and drove around until I found the cul-de-sac that backed up against Charlie and Bernice’s cul-de-sac. Though it took several minutes to drive the winding streets, the houses’ backyards on this street faced the ones on Charlie and Bernice’s. Only a gravelly sagebrush-lined wash separated the houses’ yards. Maybe someone over here saw or heard something.

  More empty houses. Wait, was that movement? I paused in front of a rambling ranch-style house with a green gravel lawn. A shadow passed by the picture window. Yes!

  I strode up the walk, past a brightly painted concrete mule pulling a wagon full of fake flowers. I pressed the doorbell and Beethoven’s Fifth played loudly on chimes. This time I’d skip the introduction to me or my uncle’s detective agency, hoping to get past any slammed doors.

  The lady who opened the door had gray hair that was squashed on one side, like she’d been sleeping on it, and enormous sunglasses. I whipped mine off, hoping to make a better impression. I had dressed to impress this morning, in a conservative white blouse and navy polyester skirt.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Charlie Small and wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

  “Goodness me,” she said in a trembling voice. “Am I a suspect?”

  “Oh, no.” Nice job, Ivy, scaring an old lady. “I’m just doing a neighborhood investigation, finding out if anyone saw or heard anything that might help us.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly tell you what I can,” said the woman, turning away from the door. “I’m Fran Bloom.” She walked toward the back of the house. “I just made some coffee. Come sit and have a cup.” Her voice still quavered. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she did know something.

  I followed Fran into a dark kitchen redolent with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. She opened a cupboard door and took down two large plastic mugs. Her hands shook as she poured coffee into them.

  As she worked in the kitchen, I sat at her table and reviewed what I knew about investigating witnesses. Uncle Bob had counseled me to begin with questions they could answer truthfully, so I could see which direction they looked when they were telling the truth. Then I should ask a question that caused them to use their imagination and watch where their eyes went. Then start in on the real questions. If their eyes drifted to the imagination place, said Uncle Bob, they were usually lying.

  “How do you take your coffee?” asked Fran. She set down a silver tray. A dainty creamer and small sugar bowl, both beautifully wrought in silver, looked incongruous beside the white plastic mugs filled with coffee.

  “With cream,” I replied. “You?” My first question.

  “Oh, I like lots of sugar,” she said. I counted the spoonfuls she sprinkled into her coffee. Three. Good. She was telling the truth. But she was also still wearing her sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes. This was going to be harder than I thought.

  “I didn’t get your name, dear,” Fran said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I decided to use my family name for detecting. “I’m Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detective Agency.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Du–da.” I pulled a business card out of my bag. “It’s a Polish name. It means ‘one who plays the bagpipes badly.’”

  “I didn’t know Polish people played the bagpipes.” Fran took the card and peered at it, or so I th
ought. I couldn’t see her eyes behind those enormous sunglasses. “Your name’s not on here.”

  “I’m new with the agency,” I said quickly. “It’s a family business.”

  “But your name isn’t ‘one who plays the bagpipes badly’ is it? Didn’t you say Zieg…”

  “Wart. Olive Ziegwart.” I really needed to get my own business cards. And lest she ask me what Ziegwart meant (“victory nipple,” my dad always said), I turned the conversation back to my original purpose. “So, Fran,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Mr. Small died early Thursday morning. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

  Fran laughed. “I can tell you’re new at detective work. See these?” She pointed with both fingers at the sides of her head. Two tiny hearing aids were tucked inside the whorls of both ears. “I can hardly hear you, much less anything outside the house.”

  “Oh,” I said. “And your vision?”

  “I have photophobia.”

  I was about to tell her that I didn’t like having my picture taken either, but kept my mouth shut for a change.

  “That’s why I wear the sunglasses,” said Fran. “It’s another ‘Parkinson’s perk,’ as I like to call them.”

  Parkinson’s. Of course, that explained the trembling. She was right. I was really new at this.

  “Since the light hurts my eyes, I stay indoors a lot.” Fran sipped from the plastic mug, which I realized was light and unbreakable. I was pretty good at discovering this stuff after the fact.

  “But you did know Charlie?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He was a lovely man. And his wife, Helen, such a lady. We were all so upset when we heard about it.” She shook her head. “And then that business with Pastor Scranton…” Fran’s mouth puckered with distaste. “I think he was grandstanding. Talking openly about denying Charlie a funeral.”

  “Because suicide’s a sin?”

  “Because he was trying to make a point.” Her voice became strong and clear. I sat up. “Pastor Scranton felt like people were being unduly influenced by the suicides. Wanted to put the fear of God—or hell—in us, I suppose. Imagine, believing that someone would kill himself just because someone else did. Ridiculous!”

  “Did you say suicides? Plural?”

  “I did,” said Fran, her voice quavering again. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “If you include Charlie, three people committed suicide in the past two months.”

  “Three? That does seem like a lot for one town.”

  “Oh no, that was just people in our congregation. In Sunnydale, we’ve had…” She counted on her fingers, her lips moving slightly. “Eight.”

  CHAPTER 14

  As I made my way back to Bernice’s house, I rounded a corner, nearly rear-ended a slow-moving golf cart, and solved a small mystery. I knew why the streets of Sunnydale were empty. Everyone was at the annual Spring Craft Sale.

  Banners announced the sale in the main rec center parking lot: “Stock Up on Gifts! Support the Sunnydale Elks Club!” As I drove past the pancake booth, the smell of bacon wafted in my open car window and I had to stop. I had to. Bacon somehow overpowers every impulse in my body, especially if I’ve only had a banana for breakfast.

  The Elks Club pancake booth sat at the far end of the rec center parking lot, surrounded by long folding tables full of happy bacon-eating people. I pulled in, paid my five-dollar donation, and ate too many pancakes and way too much bacon. I did think about my midriff-baring costume at one point as I dipped an especially crispy slice of bacon into a pool of maple syrup, but decided that eating for a good cause karmically canceled calories.

  When I couldn’t eat one more bite, I sat back and enjoyed the sun. Its warmth felt good on my shoulders, but its reflection off the asphalt was near blinding. I dug around in my bag for sunglasses, and pulled out Arnie’s spy shades. I put them on. Wow. They really were cool. I could see everything behind me: the whole craft sale with tables full of handmade quilts, wooden toys, and stained glass sun catchers.

  What the heck, I had a few minutes to spare. I pushed me and my full belly out of my chair, and started down one of the long aisles. I was just checking out some beaded earrings when I heard a familiar voice say, “My grandkids love these mittens.” I used Arnie’s sunglasses to look behind me. Yep. It was Bitsy, standing behind a table and holding out a pair of lumpy striped mittens to a mustachioed man who had stopped at her booth. Some instinct kept me from turning around.

  “You are not old enough to have grandkids,” the man said.

  Oh, please.

  Bitsy—white-haired and obviously grandma-aged despite whatever work she’d had done—gave a tinkling, flirtatious laugh. “I do, but they’re very young.”

  “Your grandkids live here in town?” The guy, buff in a fitted gray t-shirt and athletic shorts, looked to be late fifties.

  “I can do custom work if you like those, dear,” said the woman behind the beaded earring booth. I ignored her. I wanted to hear what Bitsy said, especially since she had never mentioned grandkids even once. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard her mention family at all.

  “In Nebraska,” replied Bitsy. “That’s why the mittens come in handy. So to speak.” She laughed at her own joke.

  “You and your husband from Nebraska?”

  “My husband passed away a few years ago. Do you know Nebraska?”

  “No, ma’am. I just know it’s cold,” the guy said with a little chuckle. “I’m from the south, originally.” He stuck out a hand. “Colonel Carl Marks.”

  Even from my vantage point, I could see a shadow flit over Bitsy’s face. “Karl Mar…”

  “Not the communist,” the guy said, grinning. “Just a man who fought communists.”

  “I also have some with peacock feathers,” the earring lady said to me. I nodded, hoping the gesture would keep her quiet for a moment.

  Carl Marks picked up a blue dog sweater with pink felt hearts. “This is great.” He looked it over. “But it’s too big for my dog. Too bad,” he said. “You’re very talented, ma’am.”

  She wasn’t. I’d seen some of the things she had knitted during breaks in rehearsals.

  “I can knit one to order,” said Bitsy. “And I have many talents.” She dipped her chin and looked at him from under her eyelashes.

  “I see,” said Carl in a slow drawl. “Maybe I could bring the dog in question over to your house. Just to get his measurement for the sweater, of course. Maybe around the cocktail hour?”

  This was getting weird. Bitsy was probably nearing seventy, a good fifteen years older than the buff Colonel Marks.

  The earring lady handed me a little square of tissue paper with her business card taped to it. I guess she had taken my nod for a buy signal. “Ten dollars, dear.”

  In Arnie’s glasses, I could see Carl and Bitsy exchange business cards. I took a twenty out of my wallet and paid the earring lady.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said. “Those peacock feathers will look lovely against your blonde hair.” She opened a metal box. Inside were neatly stacked bills, some quarters, and a business card that said, “Colonel Carl Marks.”

  “Unusual name,” I said, pointing at the card. “Carl Marks.”

  “I know. What were his parents thinking? Nice man, though. Or at least I hope so, since he’ll be coming by my house tomorrow,” said the earring vendor. “He just ordered some custom work from me.”

  CHAPTER 15

  I was working on my laptop at Bernice’s glass-topped kitchen table, finishing up an insurance report for Uncle Bob, when my cellphone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I had left my number on Duda Detective Agency business cards at a lot of houses that morning, so I answered with my professional voice: “Good afternoon, this is Olive.”

  “This is Colonel Carl Marks.”

  I felt a stab of something li
ke fear. Had he seen me watching him and Bitsy? I shook it off. So what if he did?

  He continued: “You left your business card at my house.”

  Ah, just a coincidence. Right?

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m investigating the death of Charlie Small.”

  A pause, a bit longer than felt comfortable. Then he said, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to tell you, ma’am.” Chewing noises followed. Was he eating lunch?

  “Did you know Mr. Small? “

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’d love to have just five minutes of your time,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, finally. “Go ahead.” More chewing.

  “Would it be okay if I came over?” My uncle had taught me it was always best to question people in person, so you could see their eyes and read their body language. Of course, I couldn’t say that. “This connection isn’t great.” I crumpled some paper next to the phone and made little crackly noises with my voice.

  “Well…”

  “Great, thanks!” I said, making more crinkling crackling noises. I got Carl’s address, told him I’d be there in fifteen minutes, and hung up, hoping he didn’t wonder how I heard his address through my “bad connection.”

  I sat for a minute, mentally prepping for the upcoming interview. The man made me nervous, but I was glad I was going to get to question him. Something was up with Colonel Carl Marks, and I wanted to know what.

  Fourteen minutes later, I knocked on the door of the first house I’d visited that morning, the oversized behemoth just a few blocks from Charlie’s. The same belly-ringed woman opened the door. “Carl!” she shouted as she turned away and walked into the interior, her blonde ponytail swinging above tight yoga pants. “Honey? It’s that detective.”

  So the guy who was flirting with Bitsy had a trophy wife. Hmmm.

  Carl Marks entered the hallway from somewhere. He’d put on jeans and exchanged the gray t-shirt he wore at the craft fair for a U.S. Marine’s tee that said, “Mess with the Best, Die Like the Rest.” I wondered if he’d chosen it on purpose.