Molded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Me? No. It’s on Nate’s list. Anyway, I should get back to work. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

  “Sure it is. Two people have been murdered and no one has any idea why Lucinda’s and my name wound up at one of those crime scenes. Light a fire under that boss of yours. And your boyfriend, too.”

  Whew, at least she doesn’t know her name wound up at both. “Love you, too, Mom. Catch you later.”

  As I hung up the phone, I thought about what she said regarding the Melhorns. Nate and Marshall were way too busy to interview them. After all, it wasn’t as if the Melhorns had witnessed anything. All Cindy told me was that they knew Quentin Dussler. But what did they know? And more importantly, would it help solve his murder? I turned my attention back to a spreadsheet I was working on when Nate’s words sprung to mind. “Keep it to Sun City West.”

  Fine, so it wasn’t as if he’d asked me to probe further with my contacts in Sun City West, but he didn’t tell me not to do so. Surely a little chat with Lon and Mary Melhorn couldn’t be considered anything more than mild snooping. Oh my God! I’m sounding like my mother.

  I went back to the spreadsheet and tried not to think about it. That lasted all of five minutes. I got up, rummaged through my bag, and found the original pad where I had written down their number for Nate. Picking up the phone before I had time for second thoughts, I called them. Mary answered on the third ring.

  Getting right to the point, I told her I was an acquaintance of Cindy Dolton and worked for Williams Investigations.

  “I’m not an investigator,” I said, “but I do help out when I can, and this might be one of those times.”

  I went on to explain how little details and seemingly insignificant observations could result in solid leads for a murder investigation.

  “I’m not sure what we can tell you,” she said, “but if it can get your office closer to finding out who killed Quentin, we’d be happy to try. Lon and I are going to be at the Kuentz Courtyard this evening around seven for their jazz night. It’s the recreation center on Stardust Boulevard. Maybe you could meet us there for a few minutes.”

  “That’s perfect. Um, how will I recognize you?”

  “Good point. At a certain age, we all begin to look alike. Bald men and gray-haired women. Tell you what, I’ll wear a red scarf around my neck. Lon and I usually get there early and sit in the back near the water fountain.”

  “I’m in my mid-forties with highlighted brownish hair and I’m wearing tan slacks and a blue cowl-neck top with sequins.”

  “You’ll be the youngest one there. We’ll notice you.”

  “Great. See you around seven. And thanks so much.”

  Augusta and I called out for lunch and had hot subs delivered. At a little past four, Nate phoned to ask us to lock up. Apparently he and Marshall were going to be stuck at the sheriff’s office for the remainder of the day, sifting through interview notes. With so many residents from the Lillian, I figured it would take more than one day. Marshall confirmed that when he called me around four thirty.

  “Looks like we’ll be here tomorrow as well. Nate’s having Augusta move our Tuesday appointments to later in the week. Thank goodness today was a clean slate as far as office appointments. Uh, would you be really disappointed if we got together tomorrow night instead of this evening? I’m dead on my feet and it’s not even five.”

  “Actually, that works for me, too. I’ll talk to you later tonight. How’s that?”

  “You’d better.”

  Whew! I was off the hook considering I’d agreed to meet the Melhorns around seven. Marshall would learn all those salient details, if there were any, when I phoned him later. Technically, I had Nate’s permission. But was it a technicality?

  Chapter 19

  The Kuentz Courtyard was an atrium nestled in the middle of the smallest recreation center complex. It featured overhanging trees and a lovely fountain surrounded by resort-style furniture. Tiki torches added to the ambience. For special events, like this evening’s jazz session, additional chairs were placed along the perimeter.

  I spotted Lon and Mary Melhorn immediately. No one else was wearing a red scarf. Or a gold Hidalgo bracelet and matching enamel ring. Way out of my price tag. The Melhorns had saved a chair for me next to the couch they shared.

  “You must be Phee.” Mary’s bracelet glimmered as she reached out to shake my hand.

  It was barely seven, so the music hadn’t started yet, only instrument tuning. The people were still streaming in. I prayed none of them were from the Booked 4 Murder book club. Keeping my voice low so Mary and Lon would follow suit, I asked them to tell me anything they could about Quentin Dussler.

  “Lon and I used to be in the clay club years ago,” Mary explained. “That’s how we met Quentin. Once in a while we went out for coffee if our clay club schedules coincided. The man was an absolute artistic genius. Especially the way he sculpted those jars of his on the potter’s wheel. Not to mention the glazing. His technique was unparalleled.”

  “Is that what made his pieces so valuable?”

  “Some of them. The rare colors.”

  “I see.”

  I had heard that before, but somehow I thought there was more to it.

  “How did he find a market to sell those expensive pieces? From what I’ve heard, some of them sold for close to a thousand dollars.”

  “Close to? Try thousands. Quentin once told Lon that if he could sell a few more pieces, he’d be set for life.”

  “It still doesn’t explain how there was a market for them,” I said.

  “I think his niece handled that part of the enterprise.”

  “The journalist?”

  “That’s the one. I suppose she took care of the marketing when she wasn’t flitting all over the world on one of her assignments.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know how to reach her, would you?”

  “Sorry. We haven’t a clue. Not even her full name.”

  I shrugged. “Someone told me Quentin taught art at a college in New York. Did he ever say what his wife did?”

  Mary bit her lip and looked at her husband. “Not directly, but I got the feeling she worked in the diamond industry in New York City.”

  My eyes about popped from their sockets. “The diamond industry? What makes you say that?”

  “Remarks here and there Quentin made. Nothing specific.”

  I glanced at the courtyard. It had filled to capacity in the few minutes I had been speaking with the Melhorns. The jazz musicians were still tuning up their instruments, so I had a bit more time.

  “I have one more question before I take off. Do either of you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Quentin Dussler?”

  Both of them answered without hesitation and, even though their voices overlapped, the response was clear as could be: “Someone who was looking for something.”

  “Like money or credit cards?”

  Again the Melhorns locked gazes, but this time only Mary spoke. “Like information. If it was one thing Quentin knew how to do well, other than create pottery, it was conceal information.”

  By now I was hearing more than I could process. “You mean like a spy? Like espionage?”

  “Let me be really frank,” Lon said. “Most people around here are like puppies. Wagging their tails and telling you everything about their life stories. Quentin was more like a cat. Secretive and cagey as could be. He never answered anything directly when we got together. Almost as if he was hiding something. Then again, he might have simply been one of those nonobtrusive quiet people.”

  “Fat chance,” whispered Mary just as the first piece began.

  “Thank you both,” I said. “Enjoy your evening. If I have any more questions, can I contact you?”

  Both of them nodded and I slipped out of the courtyard as quietly and unobtrusively as I possibly could.

  Since the only thing I had eaten since lunch was a quick salad at Wendy’s, I headed home to make myself something mor
e substantial. But not before making a stop at the first Walgreens I saw. It was time for poster paper, markers, and string. Maybe real detectives had Smart Boards, but fourth-grade artwork always seemed to come through for me.

  I made two charts that basically resembled outline webbing for an essay. The easy webbing that looked like a sun with spokes coming out of it. One of the posters had Quentin Dussler in the center and the other one had Sharon Smyth. I filled in the spokes with the tidbits of information I had gathered, trying to stick to the facts and not my theories. Somehow, it wasn’t working. That’s when I got the brilliant idea to use one color ink for fact and another for supposition.

  By the time I had finished, I had a fantastic plot for a murder mystery thriller spanning Europe and the Western Hemisphere. Totally disgusted with myself, I sat on the couch, picked up my phone, and called Marshall.

  “I’m glad I’m not a detective. It’s too darn frustrating.”

  “Whoa. What brought that on? I thought I was the only one mentally and physically exhausted. As if the Lillian interviews weren’t enough, we’re still patching together the information we got from the clay club members. And it’s worse for Nate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At least I can sit here in peace and quiet. He’s still babysitting his aunt’s African parrot.”

  “Eww. I forgot about Mr. Fluffypants.”

  “He’d like to forget, too. Seems the thing talks nonstop.”

  Nate’s elderly aunt lived south of Tucson in Sierra Vista and last year, when she broke her hip, he agreed to babysit her parrot. Apparently recuperating from a broken hip could take an epoch amount of time. Being a kind and dutiful nephew, it was no wonder he offered to help her out, even if it meant temporarily acquiring an obnoxious roommate.

  I giggled while Marshall continued. “So, what did you mean about it being frustrating?”

  “I knew you and Nate were piled high and deep, so I called those people Cindy Dolton told me about. The ones who were acquaintances of Quentin. The Melhorns. I met them tonight. Nate had them on a list for interviews but—”

  “You couldn’t resist. Hey, I’m not going to get all worked up. It wasn’t as if they were bona fide witnesses to anything. Truth is, I’m glad you saved us some time. So, what did you find out?”

  “A smattering of possibilities. We talked at the Kuentz Courtyard in Sun City West. Jazz night. Very safe. Do you want to hear the facts by themselves or my theory?”

  “The facts. Please. Then we’ll get to your theory. Good?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I proceeded to tell Marshall about the real cost of Quentin’s special pieces, his niece’s travels, and his late wife’s possible, albeit remote, connection to the diamond industry.

  “Now, do you want my theory?”

  “Oh sure, why not.”

  “The niece was, probably still is, some sort of agent. She stashed some information at her uncle’s place and that’s what got him killed. Someone was looking for it.”

  “Wow. And all this time I thought Lee Child was the only one with a handle on that stuff.”

  “I’m serious, Marshall. Listen for a sec, will you? Nothing of value was stolen from Quentin’s house. Not even his credit cards. And we can rule out an affair gone bad because women usually don’t murder their victims by stuffing clay in their faces. No matter what those book club ladies tell you. A person has to be pretty strong to do something like that. If we can figure out what Quentin was really up to, we’d find his killer. Unless . . . oh my gosh, I hadn’t thought about this until just now—what if the niece killed him?”

  “Seconds ago you said a woman wouldn’t be that strong. Which is it?”

  “Oh heck. I don’t know. And what about that niece? Has anyone been able to track her down?”

  “Nope. The sheriff’s deputies haven’t been able to find anything about her at Quentin’s place.”

  “Ah-hah. My theory’s still in play. She’s an operative. Whoever she is. Too bad the Melhorns couldn’t give me more information. At least you and Nate probably have something to go on where Sharon Smyth is concerned. I feel as if I’m wadded up in some ball of yarn and can’t even knit myself out.”

  Marshall laughed. “Relax. Cases aren’t solved by a few facts and some theorizing. Unless it’s a TV series. Then they can do it in less than an hour when you factor in the commercials. We’ve got another day at the sheriff’s station to compile and analyze what we learned from those interviews. Then maybe we’ll be able to get somewhere.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you this. The sheriff’s department found Quentin’s inventory log. It was a plain old notebook, one of those marble composition ones. The guy had it stashed in a small pull-out drawer in this desk. If it wasn’t something your aunt said, Nate never would have mentioned it to the sheriff’s office. Their department thought they had everything when they took Quentin’s laptop. Apparently that didn’t yield any information, but the inventory did.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, ‘wow’ about sums it up. They’ve got the information all right, but none of their deputies can figure it out. So, it wound up in Nate’s lap. Literally.”

  “Yeesh. You know what that means, don’t you? Get out your wallets and find out what kind of diet Rolo Barnes is on now.”

  “Already done,” Marshall said. “Something with biblical grains and cage-free eggs.”

  My body twinged. “Um, this log of Quentin’s, I take it there are no names or e-mail addresses.”

  “Correct. Lots of codes. Probably bank routing numbers.”

  “Yep. That’ll be right up Rolo’s alley. So, uh, I guess I don’t get to see you tomorrow, huh?”

  “Not during the day, but I’ll be damned if I spend the night sifting through those interview notes with your favorite deputy sheriffs. Let’s say I pick you up at seven thirty. We’ll get dinner somewhere and then—”

  “Oh yeah. I like the ‘and then.’”

  Chapter 20

  Unfortunately, the “and then” never happened. Not on Tuesday night, anyway. I was getting ready to leave work when Marshall called.

  “You won’t believe this. Hell, I don’t believe this. A few minutes ago Nate got a call from the residence manager at the Lillian. She called him because she didn’t, and I quote, ‘need a scene with the sheriff’s department.’”

  “Huh? What’s going on?”

  “Apparently our weekend of interviews created so much stress for the residents that now some of them are threatening to leave. A few have already packed overnight bags and headed to relatives’ or friends’ houses. Kimberlynn Warren asked if we could please go over there and try to calm the rest of them down. A major exodus, according to her, ‘is going to shut this place down like an epidemic of bedbugs.’”

  “Poor Gertie and Trudy. They must be wringing their hands. Do you think I should head over there, too?” I asked.

  “Truthfully, we don’t know what the heck we’re walking into, so maybe it’s best if you stayed put. I’ll give you a call once I know what’s really going on.”

  That was at four forty-five. I didn’t hear back from Marshall until well past eight.

  “One more minute in that place and I swear I would have poked my eyes out with a fork. Do you have any idea how fast those people can go from cranky to psychotic?”

  “Yikes. That bad?”

  “Kimberlynn thought it best to have them all sit in the dining room while Nate and I tried our darnedest to reassure them. I’ve seen prison cafeterias that were less threatening. It seemed our questioning regarding Sharon Smyth stirred up a number of other issues. The residents are convinced they’re being watched by secret surveillance in their rooms. The director tried to assure them it wasn’t the case, but they weren’t buying it. Add that to the fact a few of them had their belongings rifled through and we all but had a revolution.”

  “What finally happened?”

  “Nate p
romised he’d have the sheriff’s department discreetly check their rooms for any electronic bugs and Kimberlynn said she’d hire security personnel to walk the corridors. Hopefully to end any concerns about unwanted intruders.”

  “Do you think someone at the Lillian is orchestrating all of this to shift the attention away from the investigation?”

  “Funny, but Nate and I asked ourselves the same thing.”

  “Hmm, it’s getting late for them or I’d give those sisters a call. Maybe they haven’t told us everything. Think Nate would mind if I dropped over there tomorrow?”

  “I think he’d be delighted if anyone, other than he, dropped over. Still, you might want to run it by him.”

  As things turned out, Nate was fine having me visit the Gertrudes, as Sharon Smyth had referred to them. Marshall and I had postponed our evening together for later in the week, so when I got out of the office on Wednesday, I decided to make an impromptu stop at the Lillian.

  It was a little before six and the residents had already finished their evening meal in the dining room. As promised, Kimberlynn had added additional security. And while she told Nate it would look seamless and unobtrusive, it didn’t. Pairs of thirty-something men and women in light pastel tops and khaki slacks were everywhere.

  The blondes were at their usual places, manning the reception desk, and were more than happy to page Gertie and Trudy for me.

  “They’ll be right down,” one of them said as she picked up her phone and thumbed through it.

  “Thanks. I’ll grab one of those seats by the elevator.”

  A few minutes later, both sisters emerged from the elevator and motioned for me to follow them outside.

  “All of a sudden this place has become the Pentagon. I’ve never seen so much security,” Gertie said. “And I don’t like the fact someone can listen to my private conversations.”

  I slowed my pace to keep in time with her as we walked out the front door. “It’s just the residence’s way of protecting its tenants and staff.”