THE SOUND OF MURDER

by Cindy Brown

  “Good to know,” I said. “Remind me never to go hiking with you.”

  “Like I hike?” Timothy arched an obviously plucked eyebrow.

  “The thing is,” Candy said. “Arnie got the last laugh after all. He had that dead alligator made into shoes. He wears them every opening night.” She sat back in the booth, a satisfied storyteller.

  While I was trying to pull up a mental image of Arnie’s shoes, I realized that Roger had been quiet during the whole story. “You ever hear any of this?” I asked.

  He rubbed a finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. “I don’t know exactly what happened,” he said slowly. “But, yeah, Arnie was definitely in jail.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The sun shone on my shoulders, music filled the air, and a bunch of brawny men showed off in front of me. No matter what had happened last night, all was right with the world this afternoon.

  “Pull!” The shout rose above the theme from “Rocky,” which blared out of a portable PA system. I sat on the side of a grassy field, sipped my Diet Coke, and admired the men, especially the one whose biceps were as astonishing as his eyelashes. Jeremy caught my eye briefly and grinned as he and his seven teammates, all wearing dark blue Phoenix Fire Department t-shirts, tried to pull their foes over a line drawn in the dirt. I cheered wildly along with the crowd when my team gained ground. Who knew the annual “Guns and Hoses” Police versus Fire tug-of-war was so much fun?

  A well-orchestrated tug sent the policemen spilling over the line and tumbling on top of one another like puppies.

  “Woo hoo!” I shouted along with dozens of other onlookers as a collective groan arose from the police side of the field. The policemen scrambled to their feet, brushed themselves off, and formed a line to shake the hands of the firefighters, who barely suppressed their glee.

  “Third year in a row,” said the young woman next to me. Then to her toddler, “Can you show everyone how to make three?” The boy held three chubby fingers in the air as his daddy ran toward him. His mother smiled in my direction, jiggling the baby she held in her arms. “Who are you here with?”

  “Jeremy White.”

  “Jeremy? Wow. We’ve been wondering when someone would snag him. He is a catch.”

  Her husband reached the little group, swooped his giggling son into his sweaty arms and kissed his wife and baby. All truly was right with the world. Except that my heart hurt, just a little. It always did when I saw happy families.

  But suddenly I was in the air, picked up like a toddler by a laughing Jeremy. “Did you see their faces?” he asked. “They were so sure they’d win this year they said they’d double their contribution to the United Way if they lost. And they did. Ha!” He hugged me again to his sweaty chest. I didn’t mind.

  He stripped off his shirt. Wow. I thought I might faint. The woman with the little boy caught my eye and gave me a “See what I mean?” look. Jeremy grabbed a towel from a duffel bag near me, wiped himself off, and shrugged on a similar but non-sweaty Phoenix Fire Department t-shirt. “I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s get in line before the police eat it all.”

  We walked over to the picnic area, where several big barbecues filled the air with the irresistible smell of smoky meat. Jeremy grabbed a couple of paper plates and we got in line. “Hotdog or hamburger?” he asked.

  My stomach growled in response.

  “I’m having both,” he said.

  What the hell. “Me too.” After all, I had a pretty high metabolism. Plus I’d drop in at one of the aerobic classes at the rec center later.

  “So how’d it go last night?” Jeremy asked.

  I gave him a quick rundown as we filed through the line, picking up buns and scooping coleslaw and beans onto our plates. I stuck with the good news. Bad news was out of place on a day like this.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be there,” he said, squirting ketchup onto his dog. “When are your folks coming?”

  “They probably aren’t.” My parents and I had what you might call a “cool relationship.” Though they lived only a few hours away in the mountain town of Prescott, I usually saw them just once a year, when I drove Cody up there for Christmas.

  “Well, it’s nice your brother came with his girlfriend.”

  “She’s not his girlfriend.” Whoa, where did that come from?

  Jeremy looked at me sideways, but wisely ignored my remark. I did too. Whatever was bugging me, now was not the time to think about it. Now was the time to glory in sun and hotdogs and the possibility of romance with a nice guy with amazing pecs.

  I had just managed to settle down on a big blanket on the grass with my full plate and Diet Coke (to make up for the other calories) when a familiar voice behind me said, “Olive?”

  I turned and felt something slide off my plate and onto my lap. I looked down. Baked beans. Very pretty on my white shorts.

  “Oh shoot. Sorry,” said the guy who had startled me. Detective Pinkstaff, a friend of my uncle’s, probably here to cheer on the police.

  I stood up and let the mess slide onto the ground. A couple of nearby firemen burst into laughter. “Hey Jeremy!” one said. “Better hose her down!”

  Instead Jeremy stripped off his shirt (again!) and gave it to me. “This should be long enough to cover…” He nodded at my bean-smeared shorts. “I’ll wear the other one.” He grabbed the sweaty one out of his duffle and put it on. I wondered if there was any way I could get him to take off his shirt again. I bet there was, but maybe not now. Especially since Pink seemed to be joining us.

  “Detective Pinkstaff,” he said, offering a hand to Jeremy. “But everyone calls me Pink.”

  “Hey, Detective!” called one of the neighboring firemen. “You here to arrest us for winning?”

  “No, just for drinking an open container in a park.”

  The guys looked at their beer.

  “Kidding.” Pink turned back to Jeremy, whose beer had stopped halfway to his lips. “We got a permit. Drink away.”

  Jeremy indicated a spot on the blanket. “Join us?”

  I slipped Jeremy’s XL t-shirt over my head and wished he wasn’t quite so polite. I liked Pink, a lot actually, but I wanted Jeremy for myself. Plus the detective had asked me out once. He was a good twenty years older than me, thought wrinkles were a fashion statement, and smelled like menthol cigarettes. He was also a really sweet guy, so I was a bit uncomfortable flaunting my fabulous-looking date in front of him.

  “Can’t stay long,” he said, settling himself on the blanket next to me. “Just wanted to see how Olive was getting on with her first case.”

  “A couple of things seem funky—” I began.

  “That’s just Jeremy!” said one of the firemen jokers.

  “But I can’t put my finger on anything.”

  “It was carbon monoxide poisoning, right?” said Pink.

  “Yeah.” The firemen had quieted down, probably so they could eavesdrop better. “In his car,” I replied.

  “What kind of car?” asked Jeremy.

  “A brand new Ford Taurus.”

  “No catalytic converter?” he asked.

  “Uh…”

  “A car that new shoulda had a catalytic converter,” Pink said.

  The firemen scooted closer. “See, catalytic converters turn carbon monoxide into carbon dioxide,” said one. “That’s why they’re better for the environment.”

  “And why it’s tough to kill yourself with a car that has a catalytic converter,” added the second one.

  “But they can be removed,” Jeremy said.

  “Some people take ’em off to get better gas mileage.” The first fireman grinned at Pink. “Cheapos. You know, like policemen.”

  The detective ignored him. “They’re also a pretty hot ticket in the criminal world. Easy to sell for the platinum they contain. Easy to remove too. Car owners don’t
even realize they’re gone half the time.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that Charlie could only have committed suicide in this particular car if the catalytic converter had been removed, either by him or by a thief?”

  “Yep.” This time the firemen and the policeman were in agreement.

  I had some investigating to do.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Na na na na. Na na na na,” the firemen sang as I kissed Jeremy. “Hey hey hey, goodbye.” I waved goodbye to them all and headed off for Sunnydale. If I made good time, I’d have an hour before I had to be at the theater.

  Nope. I don’t know where all the people were going in their incredibly slow cars, but by the time I drove past the Sunnydale exclamation points, I only had twenty minutes to spare. I decided to make the most of it, and stopped at the Sunnydale Posse Headquarters.

  The building looked like a smallish police station, with flags flying, a gated lot for official vehicles, and a few patrol cars parked outside. I parked next to one of them and headed in through glass doors, only to stop cold at the reception desk.

  Bitsy.

  The Alzheimer’s comment had cemented my dislike of the woman, but there was something else, something sneaky about her that raised my antennae. For one thing, she seemed to be everywhere—the theater, the rec center, the craft fair. And here she was again.

  “Ivy! So nice to see you.”

  Bitsy’s sincere-sounding greeting made me feel bad I’d doubted her. But just a little. “You too,” I replied.

  “Have you seen Marge today? I’m a little worried about her.”

  I shook my head. I’d called Marge this morning, but no answer. I even went over and rang the doorbell. I heard a dog bark, and then what sounded like Arnie’s voice. Good. Maybe they were making up. But whatever was happening, I didn’t want to discuss it with Bitsy. “I didn’t know you volunteered here,” I said instead. A gray-haired woman walking down the hall smiled at me and studiously avoided looking at Bitsy.

  “Oh, I do a little community service,” said Bitsy.

  “More like servicing the community,” the gray-haired woman mumbled as she passed me and walked out the glass doors.

  Huh.

  “What can I do for you—oh dear,” Bitsy glanced at the clock on the wall, “in the next ten minutes?”

  This was awkward. I really needed some information, but felt like I should keep my investigating to myself.

  “Is this about Charlie? How did your neighborhood investigation go?” asked Bitsy.

  Guess that particular train had left the station. “I was wondering if anyone had their catalytic converters stolen recently.”

  “Don’t think we’d have that information, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’d also like to find out a little more about the suicides you’ve had here recently, the manner of death, specifically.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not public record, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How about the names of the people who committed suicide?”

  “Arizona is a closed record state—to protect our privacy, you know, but—”

  “You’ll see what you can do,” I finished.

  “Wait here just a sec.” Bitsy punched a number into the phone on the desk. “Can you cover the reception desk for me, just for a minute?” she said into the receiver. Then, “Thanks a bunch.”

  A short-ish man with a comb-over hurried down the hall toward us.

  “Thanks, Max.” Bitsy got up from her desk and trotted down the hall. She knocked on a closed door and was admitted.

  “Having a nice day?” I asked the guy, who now occupied Bitsy’s chair. He didn’t answer me, just ran a hand over his elaborate hairdo. I decided to give the shy fellow a break and turned my attention to the framed photos on the walls. Most were pictures of posse members in uniform, but there was also a big photo of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Since the posse was organized under the county, Sheriff Joe was its head honcho. He was also “America’s Toughest Sheriff,” famous for housing inmates in tent cities, reintroducing chain gangs, and making all inmates wear pink underwear (for better inventory control, he said). I wondered if the sheriff’s for-the-public version of the underwear (with “Go Joe!” stamped on them) sold well. I wondered if the Spanish version (“¡Vamos Jose!”) was still on offer. I wondered how Jeremy would look in pink boxers. Before I could wonder how Jeremy would look out of pink boxers (I admit I was heading down that path), Bitsy returned.

  “It’s as I suspected. I can’t give you much, but I can put together some information for you. I’m working here again on Tuesday afternoon. Why don’t you come by then?”

  “Sounds good. See you at the theater.” I was about to leave when Bitsy said, “You know, you might talk to one of our posse members, Hank Snow.”

  My ears perked up at the mention of Creepy Silver Hank. I briefly wondered if they literally did that, stood up a bit more, but directed my curiosity to the matter at hand. “Why him?”

  “It’s a funny thing.” Bitsy shook her head in disbelief. “He’s been on every single one of those suicide calls.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Do you think real nuns get hot?” I asked. I was. Candy and I were walking through the greenroom to our dressing room after curtain call for the Sunday matinee and I was dripping. “Especially here in Arizona. I mean, they wear all this black fabric.” Yards and yards of it, if my costume was any indication.

  “Darlin’, have you been under a rock? Most nuns just wear normal clothes today.” Candy opened the dressing room door for the both of us. “Probably because they got too hot.”

  Made sense to me.

  “But we could ask my cousin,” she said.

  “She’s a nun? One who wears a habit?”

  “No, but she was.” Candy sat down and took off her too-tight shoes. The costumer didn’t have nun-looking shoes in a size twelve, so Candy squeezed her enormous feet into size elevens every night. “In a past life. She was beheaded. S’got the birthmark on her neck to prove it.”

  I began taking off my habit. The veil and wimple came off pretty easily, but the habit itself had way too many folds. I pulled it over my head, engulfing myself in a sea of sweaty black rayon. “Wouldn’t it be really hard to climb the Alps in habits?”

  “I don’t know.” Candy sighed happily. I bet she was rubbing her feet, but I couldn’t see because I was still stuck inside my nun costume. “The girls in the movie wore dresses. Maybe the Alps aren’t so hard to climb. Or maybe there’s a back way.”

  Since I still had black fabric covering my face, Candy couldn’t see my look of doubt.

  “I think you’re just complaining ’cause you want to wear your curtain costume for bows,” she said.

  Busted. In our play, Mary makes the Vaughn Katt dancers some new, less-skimpy costumes out of drapes. Mine was adorable, a short flirty skirt and lace-up Bavarian-style bodice. I looked like that girl on the German beer label.

  “That costume is sexy, in an innocent sort of way,” Candy went on.

  I could see the light at the end of my habit and struggled toward it.

  “Sort of like Cody’s girlfriend,” Candy said as I finally emerged. I managed not to make the “she’s not his girlfriend” statement again, but just barely. “She’s cuter than a sackful of puppies.” Candy continued. “What’s her name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Sarah.” Candy was down to her undies and putting on her street clothes. “Do you think they’ve done it yet?” She stepped into her jeans.

  “Candy! What is with you lately?” Candy was always sassy, but lately she’d been a bit over the top, inappropriate even.

  “I know.” She zipped up and sat in her chair with a sigh. “I’m getting as bad as Zeb. I think I’m just feeling restless.”

  “Why? I thou
ght things were good.” Candy had Matt, a job that worked with her schedule, and she was never without acting work of some kind.

  “I just wonder what I’m doing here.” She peered at herself in the mirror. “I think I’m getting crow’s feet.”

  I put those two thoughts together. “You’re worried that you’re wasting your youth in a dinner theater in Arizona.”

  Candy looked at me in the mirror. “You’re getting to be a pretty good detective.” She shrugged. “If I’m really going to be an actress, I’d better hop to it.”

  She had a point. But I didn’t want to talk about it, because then I’d have think about it too.

  “But something’s up with you too,” Candy said. “Every time I say Cody’s name lately you frown,” she said. “And I don’t think you said ‘boo’ to his girlfriend when she came on opening night.”

  Didn’t I? Maybe not. “I was probably hot and grouchy because of this ridiculous nun’s outfit, which did I mention is a stupid costume for curtain call?”

  “Yeah, you just did.”

  “None of the audience can even tell who’s who,” I finished.

  “’Cept for Marge,” said Candy, pulling a hot pink t-shirt over her head. “’Cause she looks like an apple doll nun.”

  Marge had tried lighter foundation during dress rehearsal but she looked like a kabuki nun. “Apple doll nun” was a step up.

  “She said anything to you?” Candy corralled her unruly curls into a ponytail.

  I shook my head. Ever since Friday night, Marge had slipped into the theater at the last possible moment as to avoid all of us offstage. She remembered all her lines and did a decent job of the show. I’m sure none of the audience could see the pain behind her eyes, but we could. And judging from Arnie’s long face and unusually demure demeanor (even his cigar looked limp), the two hadn’t made up.

  As worried as I was about Marge, I had other things on my mind, like the catalytic converter conundrum, and Hank. I was sure the two were connected. But how? Maybe if I could tail Hank, I’d find out the link. But not only was my car the only yellow, fire-prone VW around, I was one of the few under-fifty folk in Sunnydale. He’d peg me in an instant.