by J. C. Eaton
“That’s what you think,” Trudy said. “I call it snooping.”
The evening air was still warm, but a light breeze made it perfect for sitting outdoors. We found an empty table and chairs in a small courtyard near one of the parking areas. With the exception of an elderly man walking a small white dog, we were the only ones in the vicinity.
I clasped my hands together and leaned toward the center of the table. “I came here tonight because I was concerned the recent series of events might tempt you into doing something you’d regret later.”
Gertie crinkled her nose and gave me a funny look. “You mean like saying something to that stuck-up Kimberlynn Warren?”
“Well, no. Actually, I was afraid you’d want to leave the Lillian. And I wanted to reassure you that whatever’s going on, I mean, besides Sharon Smyth’s murder . . . that, um . . . my boss, his partner, and the sheriff’s department will get to the bottom of it. These investigations take time.”
“If they take any longer, it won’t matter,” Trudy said. “We’ll all be dead.”
Gertie shot her a dirty look. “We’re not leaving the Lillian.”
“Good. Glad to hear that,” I said. “So, other than all those interviews this past weekend and the additional security, is there anything else going on that you want to tell me about?”
They shook their heads.
“Fine. I’ve got another question for you. Do either of you remember special commemorative water bottles being used here?”
Trudy gave a quick nod. “The purple logo ones for the fortieth anniversary?”
“Yes. Purple.”
“That anniversary was around Thanksgiving. Huge celebration. Or was it Christmas? Anyway, it was months ago. Carving tables with steamship roast, glazed ham, and turkey. And a Viennese table with all sorts of desserts. That logo was on the bottled waters as well as the napkins. Very classy.”
Thanksgiving. Christmas. It meant that water bottle had to be at least six months old. Not likely. The paper logo that was wrapped around it wouldn’t last in the desert for months. Weeks maybe, but not months.
“Um, are they still using those bottles with the special logo?”
“No. We’re back to using the regular ones. Been using the regular ones for months now. I think they stashed the leftover logo ones in the office somewhere for staff.”
“What makes you say that?”
Gertie glanced at her sister. “Because we’ll see one of those specialty bottles once in a while on the reception desk next to the computers. And sometimes we’ll see one of the cleaning ladies or maintenance men with them. It’s the same thing with the holiday candy and other seasonal stuff. The management gives the residents the newest, freshest amenities. And that’s the way it should be. Gracious. I wouldn’t want to be drinking water on Memorial Day from a bottle that said, ‘Happy Halloween.’”
Then Trudy held up her hand as if to shush her sister. “Why are you asking us about the water bottles? Are they contaminated? Is that what’s going on?”
“No. No. Absolutely not. I, um, happened to see one and thought it was very unique. That’s all.”
Gertie cleared her throat and sat up. “I’ll tell you what should’ve been unique. Someone should have taken one of those water bottles and dumped it over those deputies’ heads this weekend. Questioning us as if we were suspects.”
“We are suspects, Gertie,” Trudy said. “Everyone is.”
“Not everyone. Some people more likely than others. Mario Aquilino’s name springs to mind. Maybe it was a crime of passion.”
Mario Aquilino. From Cecilia’s church. The man whose paintings had been reversed. I knew I was forgetting something. I meant to chat with him days ago.
“Uh, what can you tell me about this Mr. Aquilino? Other than what you mentioned a few days ago. You know, about him leaving Sharon Smyth’s place at a really early hour of the morning?”
Trudy made a tsk-tsk sound and tapped the table. “That’s all I know. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s very helpful,” I said. “Very helpful. Anyway, I should be going. I’ve kept both of you way too long. I’m sure you have other activities or things you’d rather be doing. Remember, if you hear anything that upsets you or, worse yet, if you see something questionable, call me. You have the office number, right?”
As I stood up, I recited a line that every physician’s office, dental practice, and optical place used ad nauseum. “If it’s an emergency, hang up and call nine-one-one.”
“Hummph, it must be seven already,” Gertie said. “Tina and Tanya are leaving for the day.”
I glanced to my right and the two blondes walked to a small parking lot reserved for employees. Must be they worked a ten-hour day. I’d met Taylor, the weekend receptionist, but I wondered who manned the reception area at night.
“Say, who takes over the front desk when the regular receptionists are gone for the day? Is someone there all night?”
Gertie was still eyeballing the blondes. “No. They have a sign that says ‘Call the house manager in case of emergency’ and phone calls go into his apartment.”
“The house manager?”
This was the first time I had heard of such a person. Did Nate and Marshall know there was a house manager?
“It’s more like a twenty-four-hour maintenance person. You know, if someone’s toilet gets clogged in the middle of the night or someone locks themselves out. The maintenance manager gets to live here rent free plus a salary and meals.”
While it sounded like a cushy job, I knew it wasn’t. That poor guy probably hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years.
“What’s his name?”
“Good question,” Gertie said. “Everyone just calls him Tiny Mike.”
“Anyway, have a nice night, ladies, if you can.”
When I got home, I called Marshall and told him about Tiny Mike. It turned out they did have his name on the staff list under maintenance—Michael Melroy. He’d been with the Lillian for over a decade. Ex-army, divorced, no priors. So much for that tidbit. The next revelation was more promising.
“I found out something about that water bottle.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It was for a celebration that happened months ago. Residents aren’t being served water in those bottles anymore, but guess who’s still using the leftover ones? The staff. Gertie and Trudy said they’ve seen the receptionists and the cleaning staff with those commemorative bottles. So, you know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”
“One of the staff members took a fairly recent drive to Punkin Center?”
“You bet. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I am. Whoever stole Sharon Smyth’s clay jar figured out what those numbers on the bottom really meant. Or maybe they knew all along and that’s why they took the jar in the first place. According to the Gertrudes, Sharon was bragging all over the place about her special find from the Creations in Clay. Suppose, for a minute, that someone at the clay club realized the mistake that had been made in selling Sharon that jar and had to find a way to get it back. Sharon never would have resold it, so—”
“It was an outside job with some inside help?”
“That’s my latest theory, and I’m sticking to it.”
“It’s a solid theory for the theft, all right, but it doesn’t explain her murder. The jar was stolen way before she was killed.”
“Hey, I can’t be expected to figure out everything.”
“You’re still one step ahead of most of us.”
Chapter 21
“Stop fussing and meet me at the clay club room when you get out of work today. It should only take you ten or fifteen minutes to see what I’ve done. Lucinda wants to show you her pieces, too. Right now, they’re greenware. That means they’re unfired, but we’re putting them in the kiln for their first firing tonight. When they come out, they’ll be bisque and we can glaze them.”
That was the gist of the phone conversation I had with my mother du
ring my afternoon break. I made the mistake of calling her to find out if she thought Cecilia would be willing to share any information she had about Mario Aquilino, especially since she knew him from her church. My mother said she’d ask and then immediately tried to rope me into rendering an opinion about her clay artwork.
“I decided to do hand-building for my first piece rather than use a mold. You’ll have to tell me what you think.”
It was a trap and there was no way out. The closest I’d come to seeing my mother’s art was when we played a game of Pictionary. “A stalk of celery?” “No, Phee! It’s a monk praying. Can’t you see that?”
The thought of having to say something about her first creation in clay was giving me a case of mild indigestion. “Fine. Fine. Ten minutes. I want to get home in order to take a quick swim. The weather’s perfect this time of year.”
“Good. By the way, tonight’s clean-out night.”
I am not going to allow myself to get coerced into cleaning out anything. “Huh? Clean-out night?”
“Yes. A few times a year, club members clean out the old pieces that have been gathering dust on the shelves or, worse yet, cobwebs in those storage cabinets. They’re pieces that were made by members who are no longer active. That’s a nice way of saying dead. Well, not all of them have died. Some have moved, others decided not to stay in the club. . . .”
“I get it. I get it. So, do you just throw them out? The pieces, I mean.”
“No. If they’re greenware, we fire them. If they’re bisque, we glaze them. Then we donate them to the Empty Bowls in Phoenix for their annual fund-raiser.”
“Empty Bowls. I seem to have heard of that.”
“It’s a national thing now. The bowls are either sold as is or sometimes the organization holds a dinner and fills them with soup. People eat a meal and take the bowls home with them. The proceeds go to feeding the homeless.”
“Hmm. Sounds like a neat charitable thing but, like I said, I’m only staying for a few minutes.”
So much for that. I should’ve known better.
At five forty-six, I walked into the clay club room. It was the second time I’d been there. The first was a week and a half ago when I had the tour from Diane, the monitor on duty. This time there was a different monitor on duty, a heavyset man who appeared to be in his sixties. I introduced myself and told him I was looking for Harriet Plunkett and Lucinda Espinoza.
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “They’re in the back room cleaning out some cabinets.”
One person was seated at a potter’s wheel and another at a workstation. Two ladies were in the back of the room sorting through items on some of the shelves. I figured they were cleaning out the old pieces.
Lucinda burst through the doorway from the back room, followed by my mother. Both of them were wearing work aprons over their clothing, and, while my mother made sure the outfit she had underneath that apron was stylish, Lucinda looked as if her apron was being used to cover up a crumpled paper bag. My mother immediately walked to one of the workstations and came back holding her objet d’art.
“Well, what do think?” she asked. “You won’t see many of these around.”
Thank God. “Um, yeah. It’s very original. It’s a bowl of sorts, with handles. Right?”
“It’s a serving platter, and look closely at the handles.”
I bent down to study the piece, hoping she’d explain what I was looking at. “Uh-huh. Very unique, Mom.”
“I thought so, too. I think it’s a good likeness of him. You don’t come across handles shaped like a dog’s face, do you?”
Goodness. So that’s what it is. Streetman’s bust incorporated into the grips for the platter. Yikes.
I smiled and nodded. There were no words that came to mind. At least none I dared use. Lucinda showed me one of her creations, too. It was ajar. A lopsided, ugly jar. At least it was easily recognizable.
“Once these are fired,” she said, “your mother and I will glaze them. To be honest, I was really nervous coming back to the club room once our names were found on that note. But this place is always so busy, I don’t think anyone would commit a murder in here.”
My mother gently placed her platter back on the workstation table. “Did Nate or Marshall ever find out where that note came from? We’ve been wracking our brains out with this.”
“They’re working on it. That’s all I can tell you.”
My mother grunted. “That’s all the sheriff’s department says, too.”
“You called the sheriff’s department?”
“Ever hear the expression about the squeaky wheel? I don’t want those bumbling deputies to stick that note in some file and forget about it.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
“No, I have to worry about lunatic killers.”
Just then, a petite woman with bluish hair poked her head out from the back room. “Harriet? Lucinda? Can either of you give us a hand moving some of the larger pieces to the front room?”
“It would go so much faster if you give us a hand, Phee.” My mother grabbed my arm and ushered me into the back room. “This should only take about ten minutes, tops.”
“I, er, um . . .”
Lucinda all but shoved me into the narrow, musty-smelling room. “You’re an angel to help out.”
Ten minutes. I am only going to be here for ten more minutes.
The petite woman tottered off to the front room, leaving my mother, Lucinda, and me to deal with moving the large pottery pieces. We removed them from the open metal shelves in back to an area reserved for them adjacent to the kilns.
“Whew! That looks like we’re about done.” I placed some sort of urn on the counter.
My mother blocked the only path between me and the front door. “Don’t go yet. There’s a walk-in closet in the back room, and it may have some heavier pieces. Five more minutes isn’t going to ruin your evening.”
No, it’s probably ruined already. “Five minutes. I really want to get in a nice swim.”
Lucinda propped the closet door open with her foot as my mother and I stepped inside. Stale air and dampness permeated the area.
“When was the last time they used this space?” I asked.
Lucinda leaned forward and took a whiff. “Not in a while, I’d wager. Hang on. I’ll move that heavy wastebasket over and use that to keep the door from shutting.”
The second she walked off, I expected the door to slam behind her, leaving us in darkness and mold. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. The door remained open on its own. I found the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.
Most of the shelves had pieces that were still wrapped in plastic, but there were a few chalky grayish bowls and jars. All they would need was some glaze and another firing. The “hot” firing, according to my mother.
“If we move at a steady pace, we can grab something, march it out to the front and line up to get another piece,” she said. “This will be over in no time.”
And it would have been, had it not been for Lucinda, who decided to read the markings on the bottoms of the bisque pieces and recite them out loud.
“E. Stevens. I wonder if that was Edith. She passed away two years ago.”
“Audrey Manger. I don’t know her.”
“F.S.M. Who could that be?”
It went on and on until most of the pottery had been removed from the walk-in. The two ladies who had been at the workstations in front had gone home for the night and, other than the three of us, only the monitor and the diminutive woman remained.
“Looks like we’re done,” I said. “Or at least I’m done.”
“We’ve got four more pieces, Phee. Just grab that large bisque bowl and put it near the kiln on the right.”
“Fine, Mom. One large bowl coming up.”
I don’t know what prompted me to do so, but, for some inexplicable reason, I picked up the bowl, set it down next to the kiln, and then picked it up again to see if anyone had
signed it. If nothing else, Lucinda would have another name to announce.
It took me a few seconds to process the name beneath the bowl. Mainly because the person who inscribed it into the soft clay had pressed down so hard as to create rough ridges along the sides of the letters. The date underneath the name was easier to read. The artist created the bowl four years ago.
At first I couldn’t believe what I was reading, but there was no mistaking it. The name inscribed on that pottery piece was none other than Sharon Smyth’s.
“Mom! Lucinda! Take a look at this bowl!”
I held the thing upside down and all but shoved it in their faces. “See what it says? It says Sharon Smyth. How many of them could there be? It had to be her. She never once indicated she used to belong to this club. And check the date out. It was four years ago. Four years. Who stops coming to a club in the middle of a project?”
Lucinda gave my mother a poke. “Maybe something happened four years ago. Maybe something to do with Quentin Dussler. What do you think, Harriet?”
“Hmm. An affair gone sour . . .”
“Oh no,” I shouted. “Not the affair thing. And if it did go sour, why did she wait four years to do him in? Because that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That Sharon Smyth killed Quentin and then someone killed her.”
“Do you have a better theory?”
“No, not yet. Come on, look at the bowl, will you? It’s her name all right, isn’t it?”
My mother studied the signature like an Egyptologist would study hieroglyphics. “Take a picture of this with your phone, Phee. Hurry up. You’ve got to see if the signature matches her handwriting.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
The only sample of her writing I’d seen was her rendering of the Quentin Dussler signature with the squiggly lines beneath it. Aka—the coordinates. Hardly a match for comparison.
My mother put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “By now those deputies have been through Sharon Smyth’s apartment. Not to mention your boss or that boyfriend of yours. One of them can compare the handwriting with some grocery list she wrote or notations in her address book.”
I had to give her credit. She was as astute as she was exasperating, and it made me feel as if everyone had better deduction skills than I did.