by J. C. Eaton
Augusta was at the copier. “Hey, Phee. I forgot to ask. When did you and Marshall get into geocaching? One of you left your map on the copier this morning. This is the first time I’ve been at the machine, so I just noticed it. Why don’t you use an app?”
“Geocaching? Map? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Give me a second.”
I got up and walked into the main office. Augusta handed me the original fax Sharon Smyth had sent me. I gave it to Marshall last night since he was going to ask our IT wiz guy, Rolo Barnes, if the markings meant anything. Marshall probably made a copy and, in his haste, left the original on the machine. Dealing with Rolo Barnes does stuff like that to you.
Rolo Barnes was an independent IT specialist who looked like a black Jerry Garcia. A Jerry Garcia who went from one wacko diet to another. Juicing. Grains. Paleo. You name it. “Independent” because he had so many quirks no one wanted to keep him on staff permanently. I should know. He used to work for the Mankato Police Department when I was doing the accounting. The guy only wanted special numbered checks but preferred to be paid with the latest kitchen gadgetry. If it wasn’t for Rolo, half our cases would have gone unsolved and IKEA would’ve been out of business a long time ago.
Augusta held out the paper. “Sure looks like a geocaching map to me. Although that line’s a little long for the longitude. Usually it’s a minus sign for anything west of the prime meridian.”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Geocaching. Isn’t that some sort of hide-and-seek game where people stash small objects in parks and recreational places so other people find them?”
“Sure is. Got a nephew back East who’s really into that stuff.”
“This paper’s not a map. It’s a copy of the artist marking for a clay jar that was stolen from one of the residents at the Lillian. And to complicate things, not that I think it had anything whatsoever to do with his murder, but the artist who made the jar was the one they found dead. Smothered with clay.”
“Artist markings, huh? You could’ve fooled me. Sure looks like coordinates. Thirty-three point eight six over minus—and I still think it’s a minus line—one hundred eleven point thirty is somewhere in Arizona.”
“What? Are you sure? How do you know that?”
“Because I plotted the coordinates on my GPS when I drove out here from Wisconsin. Of course, the darned GPS is still in my car, but you can use a computer to figure out where your numbers are.”
“Holy cow!”
I all but knocked her over running back to my office. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hit your elbow. What do I do? What site do I go to?”
“Try NASA. They always have data tracking.”
Augusta was literally at my heels as I sat in front of my monitor. A quick Google search and I landed at www.mynasadata.larc.gov. A few seconds later, I had typed in the coordinates and held my breath. “It’s pointing west of Punkin Center, somewhere in the Tonto National Forest.”
“Let me take a closer look. More like the Tonto Basin, if you ask me. Abandoned uranium and gold mines out there. I watched a TV special on that a few months ago. What else does that sheet of paper of yours have?”
“Squiggly lines and arrows. Oh my God, Augusta! What if the markings on the bottom of that clay jar were really maps to old mines?”
“Hold your horses. There are lots of maps to old mines. And no one’s going to find anything without investing in more equipment than what the actual discovery will turn out to be.”
I looked at the paper again and wished I was holding the actual clay jar. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to put longitude and latitude coordinates on the bottom of a jar instead of a signature. And we’re looking at a copy, not the real deal. Sharon Smyth might not have written everything down. Drat! Nate left the office an hour or so ago and Marshall’s still out.”
“If it is a mine, it’s not going anywhere.”
“No, but I am. As soon as I’m done for the day I’m heading over to the clay club in Sun City West to see what his other jars have on the bottoms. Maybe they are coordinates or maybe that’s just the way the guy signed his pieces. Too bad we can’t ask him. You know, up until this point, I was certain the theft of the jar had nothing to do with Quentin’s murder. Now, I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Well, I’m wondering, too. About my stomach. Should I stop and pick up a sub for dinner or fry up that hamburger meat?”
“That’s what I like about you, Augusta. You always have your feet firmly planted on the ground.”
As soon as we left for the day, I drove straight to Sun City West. My stomach was grumbling but my curiosity was even more demanding. If Quentin Dussler was as prolific with his artistry, the club was bound to have samples of his work on display.
I took the El Mirage cutoff to a crossroad leading into Sun City West. The recreation center, where the club was located, was only a few yards down the road. It was the original community center when Del Webb designed the place back in the seventies, but it had undergone numerous updates. There were two distinct structures, one that housed the aquatics area and another that resembled a large plaza framed by different club rooms. Large glass windows in front of each room showcased the artwork for that club.
It took me all of five minutes to find the clay club’s room. It was large with a number of worktables in the front and at least six or seven kilns lined up against the back wall. Two potter’s wheels took up a tremendous amount of space in the middle of the room. An entire side wall held cubbies. All were marked with people’s names on them and quite a few held clay pieces in various stages of production from moist creations wrapped in plastic to some that looked nearly complete. I noticed a few members firing pieces in the kilns and others working on the wheels or at tables. I was surprised at how busy the place was for early evening.
“Can I help you?” a woman asked. “I’m Diane, the monitor for this evening.”
Diane was short and extremely thin, with closely cropped dark hair. She was wearing a pinkish smock with a large name tag.
“Yes, thank you. I’m Phee Kimball. I work for Williams Investigations but—”
“Oh good Lord. The Dussler murder. You’re here about the Dussler murder.”
No sooner did she utter the words “Dussler” and “murder” than everyone seemed to stop what they were doing and look directly at me.
“Actually”—I tried to clear my throat—“I only came to look at something. The investigators, Nate Williams and Marshall Gregory, will be contacting members to interview them privately. Most likely sometime this week.”
Diane seemed to relax for a second and, one by one, the club members went back to what they were doing.
“I was hoping to see a few of Mr. Dussler’s clay pieces. Would that be all right?”
“Sure. A few of them are for sale and are in the glass showcase out front. I can point them out to you or remove them from the display for you to see. Most club members sell their pieces here or at the Sun City West Village Store. The club gets a commission as does the store. Remaining monies go to the artist. Or, in Mr. Dussler’s case, I imagine, to his estate. I don’t really know. In fact, I didn’t know him other than seeing him work in here from time to time.”
She motioned for me to step toward the small desk off to the right. “Frankly, he wasn’t the friendliest of people, but he was a good instructor and a marvelous artist. Hold on, let me pull out a few of his pieces.”
Behind me, a bearded gentleman wearing a navy blue T-shirt with a picture of a large jar on it was using the sink to wash up. Below the picture it said, “Just throw something.” He gave me a quick smile and I nodded as Diane returned, holding two brownish jars, each one about five or six inches high.
“These are fairly typical of his work,” she said. “Very fluid. It’s really an art using that wheel. They sell for fifty-nine and seventy-nine dollars, respectively.”
“Did he have any other colors for sale?”
Diane sh
ook her head. “Not here. He only used the brown, yellow, and beige glazes, although many of his pricier pieces were made in his own studio.”
“Studio?”
“Well, garage. Lots of artists in Sun City West use their garages as studios. Some to the extent where they no longer have room for their cars. That’s where they found his body, isn’t it? The garage?”
“Um, yeah.” I tried not to think about how his body was found. “Do you mind if I pick these up?”
“No. Go right ahead. Take a good look. They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
I wasn’t much of a connoisseur where pottery was concerned, but I had to admit, the jars were really nice. Still, fifty-nine to seventy-nine dollars seemed awfully expensive to me. Slowly, I turned each jar over and studied the bottom. Since Sharon couldn’t provide me with an actual copy of Quentin Dussler’s artistic signature, I had no way of knowing if the one on the bottom of her jar was a match for the ones on these jars. And even if I had a copy of the guy’s signature on a letter or something, it might not be the same as the way in which he signed his artwork. Aunt Ina told me some artists used a very stylized signature on their pieces.
What did stand out was the empty space underneath his name. No squiggly lines and no numbers. I ran my fingers over the bottom to make sure my eyes weren’t fooling me. Smooth as glass.
“Diane, are these the only Dussler pieces you’ve got?”
“I think there’s one more. Hang on. I’ll get it for you.”
As Diane walked to the showcase, the bearded man tapped me on the elbow. “You won’t find what you’re looking for in here. Only pottery Quentin made in this workshop was his cheap stuff. Common glazes, simplistic designs. His museum-worthy pieces were done at his place. He’d bring a few of those now and then for exhibitions. The crimson and cobalt glazes were worth beaucoup bucks.”
“A lady I know purchased one of the crimson jars.” I waited for his reaction.
“She must have money to burn. He only made one or two of those a year. They sell for close to a thousand dollars.”
If it were possible for my jaw to hit the ground, it would have. I started to open my mouth when Diane placed another jar in my hands.
“Here you go, Miss Kimball. The remaining work.”
The bearded man muttered “commonplace” under his breath as he left the room, but I don’t think Diane heard him.
I turned the new jar over, but all I saw was a signature. I tried not to show my disappointment as she looked on. “Everything all right, Miss Kimball?”
“Yes. Say, I wondered . . . would it be all right for me to take a photo of the bottom of this jar? It might help my boss and his partner with their investigation.”
“I don’t see what harm that would do. Sure, go ahead.”
I thanked her for her time and told her Nate and/or Marshall would be in touch regarding the club member interviews. Then, as I got to the door, I asked her one more question. “Did you ever hear anyone threaten Quentin Dussler?”
“If they did,” she answered, “it wasn’t when I was on duty.”
Chapter 11
Marshall’s easy errand took up the entire day. I finally heard from him at a quarter to nine.
“Can you believe it? I just got in the door. Had to run all over Phoenix today. At least I can put that fraud case to rest. Along with my body. I’m totally whipped. And dinner is going to be Rice Chex.”
“Oh my gosh. That does sound bad. How’s tomorrow shaping up?”
“Not much better, but at least I’ll be in one place, or one neighborhood. Augusta got most of the interviews scheduled for the clay club members and left messages for the ones she couldn’t reach. Nate and I will be at your favorite spot.”
“Don’t tell me, Bagels ’N More?”
“Nope. The posse office. They’ve got quiet rooms we can use, unlike our original plan to meet at a restaurant. Of course, a few folks agreed to come to our office later this week. I figure it’s going to take Nate and me until the weekend to get through the list of people and the litany of questions we have for them.”
“Next weekend still on?”
“You bet. But I’ll need Saturday morning to catch up, so I figure I can drop by your place around one and we’ll head out then.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I went on to tell him about the underwear drawer incident at the Lillian and Augusta’s hunch about Quentin’s markings on the stolen pottery jar.
“So, I went to the clay club this evening to see if I could find the same markings on the guy’s other pieces. Nothing. Only the signature. Think Augusta’s on to something?”
“I never discount Augusta’s wisdom but . . . chances are those are specialty markings that might give the piece more value.”
“Funny, but that’s similar to what some guy told me at the club tonight. Did you know Quentin’s specialty items were almost a thousand dollars? That makes it grand theft, regarding Sharon’s jar, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm, I suppose so if someone can show the jar was worth a grand. But it’ll be hard, if not impossible, to prove. By the way, great call regarding the inventory. Nate told me what you said. He contacted the sheriff’s department since they’re scrutinizing Quentin’s house for any forensic leads. Who knows, maybe if those deputies find an inventory, they may also find out where that niece of his lives.”
“Maybe. Meanwhile, I really wish we could see what the signatures on his other pieces look like. The man I spoke with at the clay club said Quentin’s really valuable pieces were made in his own studio, um . . . garage, that is.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Wish I could say the same about what’s going on at the Lillian. Nate seemed to think the management will find out soon enough and step in. I’m not so sure. Too bad I can’t convince Gertie and Trudy to speak with Kimberlynn Warren.”
“You know, that kind of stuff . . . rooting through drawers and the like, is not all that uncommon in college dorms and shared residences. It’s usually some jerk getting his kicks. But at the Lillian? Tell your friends to make sure their doors and windows are locked.”
“Already did.”
* * *
Marshall and my boss were out more than in for the rest of the week with one exception. They had a few office appointments on Thursday. Marshall’s began early, almost the moment he walked in the door, but Nate’s first encounter wasn’t until midmorning. At a little before ten, a stylish lady with tan slacks, a scooped neck top, and matching scarf breezed into the office. It looked as if she’d just had her shoulder-length hair curled and set.
“I’m here to see Mr. Williams. I have a ten o’clock appointment, and I want to get this over with. I’m meeting a friend at Home Goods.”
I was standing near the copier when the woman walked in. Augusta had gone on a brief errand because we ran out of coffee.
“Sure,” I said. “Welcome. Have a seat. Would you like some water?”
“No thanks. I really want to get going.”
“Okay. I’ll tell Mr. Williams you’re here. And your name is?”
“Melinda Ranclid. I’m a member of the Sun City West Clay Club.”
“Ohh . . . that. Give me one moment.”
I knocked on Nate’s door, told him his ten o’clock was here, and scooted immediately back to my own office. A few minutes later, Augusta returned with enough K-cups to keep us caffeinated for the remainder of the month.
“You missed a real hoity-toity.” I grabbed a Donut Shop Coffee and plunked it into the machine.
Augusta laughed. “From what Mr. Williams and Mr. Gregory are saying, they’re up to their elbows with kook-and-nut cases from the clay club.”
Terrific. And this is the club my mother and Lucinda recently joined. “That bad, huh?”
“A few of them insisted there’s a hit list out on them and one of them went so far as to demand twenty-four-hour protection.”
“They’ll have to wait in line. After
my mother. What did Nate tell him?”
“Not sure, but I suppose he pointed the guy in the direction of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.”
The phone rang and both of us jumped.
“If it’s my mother, tell her I’m out on an errand. I was supposed to call her last night.”
“Caller ID says Harriet Plunkett.” Augusta gave the usual greeting and glared at me.
“Aargh,” I groaned. “I’ll take it. Hang up when I pick up the line in my office. My God, that woman must have ESP.”
My mother’s voice thundered into my ear. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t waiting for a meal or I would have starved to death.”
“Um, hi, Mom. Yeah, sorry about that. I meant to call. Honestly.”
“So, any news on the investigation or should I still be carrying my screamer around with me?”
“Nate and Marshall are talking with the clay club members, and the sheriff’s deputies are tracking down Quentin’s relatives. Or relative, I should say. And there’s the usual crime scene investigation the sheriff’s office is conducting.”
“This would’ve been a done deal on NCIS.”
“That’s because they have to make it fit in an hour. This is real life. Not television. Listen, I’ve got to get back to work, so—”
“So, yes or no? Are you coming to Bagels ’N More this Saturday? We’re meeting at ten for brunch.”
It was an opportunity I’d decided not to miss. Those book club ladies were constantly picking up chatter. Better than the National Security Agency. Maybe one of them had a clue about what was going on at the Lillian. I really couldn’t get too involved in the Quentin Dussler case, but nothing was stopping me from looking into those unsettling goings-on at Sun City West’s premier resort retirement residence.
“Um, yeah. Can I go now?”
“You’re worse than the dog when he gets impatient. Fine. I’ll see you on Saturday and call me if something comes up.”