Molded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Thank you, Mr. Aquilino. This gives me a good idea about what we’re dealing with. I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I have some information.”

  Then I broached the topic I was really interested in, Sharon Smyth. “Ordinarily, these kinds of things are dealt with by the management in conjunction with the authorities, but I imagine, given that awful murder, everyone is focused on finding the killer.”

  Not that I thought the man could so much as swat a fly without getting winded, but I studied his reaction. No sign of discomfort whatsoever.

  I pressed on. “Did you know her well?”

  “Not that well. I thought she was one of the more normal ones. Until she bought that Quentin Dussler clay jar. You would’ve thought it was made of gold or something the way she carried on. First, she made a big deal telling everyone about it, then she wondered why it got stolen. Hells bells. A Quentin Dussler jar. She hated the guy. Go figure.”

  “Wait a second. She knew him?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He made her life miserable a few years ago when she was in the clay club. Berating her, criticizing her work. She was in a damn club for crying out loud, not medical school.”

  “So you knew her from the clay club?”

  “Yes, along with the thirty or forty other members. I used to be in that club, too, but molding clay when you’ve got arthritis is impossible. I had to give it up. Sharon had a real talent for it, in spite of what Quentin Dussler used to say.”

  I brushed a strand of hair from my brow. “You don’t suppose. . . ?”

  “That she killed him?”

  “I wasn’t going to phrase it like that.”

  Mario lifted his walker and gave it a thud. “How many ways can you phrase it? Killed? Offed? Murdered? Wasted? Polished off? And no, I don’t think she did it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t.”

  I decided not to press it. “Uh, about that clay club . . . my mother and one of her friends joined recently. In fact, they roped me into going over there last night to sift through all the unclaimed pottery pieces and get them ready to donate to charity. I guess that’s something they do a few times a year.”

  “Last night? You went last night?”

  I swore the man almost looked stunned. “Usually they do the clean-outs in July and October. Must be they changed the schedule or the racks were getting overloaded. Damn snowbirds with their unfinished stuff. Clogs up space for everyone else.”

  “Especially that back closet,” I said. “I don’t think you would’ve appreciated seeing it. Or smelling it, for that matter. I guess that’s what happens when someone wraps plastic on the wet clay and sets it in there.”

  “They cleaned out the back closet, too? All of it?”

  “Um, yeah. Why? You’ve been in the club. Weren’t they supposed to?”

  Mario scratched the back of his neck with such force I thought his skin would peel off. “Only if the pieces didn’t have WIP signs under the plastic.”

  “WIP?”

  “Work in progress. It means leave it the hell alone.”

  Thinking back to last night, I remembered seeing some of those slips of paper. They had fallen out of the plastic and gotten tossed into the garbage.

  I made some sort of weird grimace and swallowed. “I don’t think the ladies knew what those slips of paper meant. All of the pieces were set out in the front room to be fired. I imagine they started today and will continue firing the greenware this week.”

  “Aargh. No one ever pays attention to anything.”

  “It wasn’t intentional.”

  “Never is.”

  I was hoping to find a way to ask him what he was doing in Sharon Smyth’s apartment that night (or day, depending upon how you looked at it), but there was no graceful way to slip it into the conversation. In fact, I wasn’t even sure the man actually was in her apartment. After all, I had heard it from Trudy and she heard it from “a very reliable source,” whoever the heck that could be. I might as well have picked up that little morsel of information at the monthly Bagels ’N More brunch with the book club ladies. Worst of all, Nate was counting on me to find out something. And he didn’t want me to be clumsy about it, either.

  Well, you can’t have it both ways. “There’s no tactful way to say this. Well, maybe there is, but—”

  “Say it already. I’m not getting any younger standing here and gabbing.”

  “Were you and Sharon Smyth involved romantically?”

  Mario’s jaw dropped. “It’s that crazy Yolanda from the fourth floor, isn’t it? Old bitty can’t keep her yap shut about anything. Maybe people show up at other people’s doors when they run out of laxative or need a damn pain pill.”

  “So you and Sharon weren’t involved?”

  “For your information, Miss Kimball, I stopped swapping saliva with women when I moved into this place. Last thing I needed was to have a heart attack. Does that answer your question?”

  I stood there, momentarily dazed before I could mutter a word. Finally, I said something coherent. “Well, er, um, thanks again for meeting with me. I’ll be sure to keep you posted.”

  I returned the folding chair to the corner of his living room and closed the door behind me. I didn’t know who was more embarrassed, Mario Aquilino or me. And as far as my boss was concerned, I planned on telling him I handled the matter with a certain amount of finesse. My next stop was the reception desk. I had one more issue to deal with.

  Tanya and Tina were conversing with each other as I exited the elevator. I walked over and leaned against the desk. “Hi! I’m hoping you can help me out. Can you tell me where the house manager resides?”

  Tanya looked up. “His apartment is on the ground floor, immediately to the right of the elevators, but if someone needs service, they’re supposed to fill out a form or contact us if it’s an emergency.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go let them know.”

  I headed to the elevator and took it one floor up. Then I used the stairwell to get back to the ground floor. The house manager’s residence was easy to spot. The sign on his door could be read from a thirty-foot distance. MICHAEL MELROY, HOUSE MANAGER. I knocked and waited.

  “Mr. Melroy?” I asked when he opened the door. “I need a minute of your time.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You can’t possibly be a resident here. So, whose daughter are you?”

  Tiny Mike was enormous. Tall. Wide. Muscular. I figured he had worked years in construction.

  “Actually, I’m here on behalf of an acquaintance of mine. Mario Aquilino.”

  “Hmm, I was in his place not too long ago. Everything should be fine.”

  “Um, yeah, that’s just the thing.” I leaned an elbow against his door frame. “Did you happen to change the filter in his air-conditioning unit?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I try to do that sort of thing when the residents are in the dining room or attending a major function. Why? Is he having trouble with the AC? He didn’t say anything.”

  “No, not the AC, but the paintings under the unit were disturbed. No damage, but put in the wrong place. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “Oh crap. Of all things. I should’ve left a work tag on his door. I ran out of them when I got to his floor and didn’t feel like going back to get them.”

  “Work tag?”

  “When I enter a residence to do maintenance, I leave a tag on the door to let the tenant know I was there. I should’ve realized Mario would know someone was in there. Even if everything was completely intact. That guy has some sort of radar. I swear, he can tell the minute he walks in the place. Don’t ask me how.”

  “So something did happen?”

  “I accidentally bumped into the wall with my ladder and the two paintings fell. I checked them over carefully and nothing was broken. I even made sure to wipe them with a cloth so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints. Then I put them back. Even. Perfectly even.”
<
br />   “But you didn’t put them back in the right order. The birds face each other.”

  “Oh brother. Is he pitching a fit up there?”

  “He was worried someone with not such good intentions entered his residence.”

  “Oh holy crap! I’d better speak to him. I’m surprised he didn’t report it to the management.”

  “Um, from what I hear, the residents are kind of wary reporting anything to the management.”

  “Yeah, I can’t explain it either, but there’s a weird vibe going on.”

  Vibe. I hadn’t heard that word in years. “Anyway, you’ll talk to him, right?”

  “I’ll buzz his place right now. Hey, you don’t suppose he’ll complain to the management about me, do you? I’d hate to get in trouble over this.”

  “I kind of doubt it. He seems like a nice guy. I think he’ll be relieved it was you who entered his apartment and not some ‘whack job.’”

  “Yeah, that sounds like him. I appreciate you letting me know. Thanks, Miss . . . ?”

  “Oh. Kimball. Phee Kimball. And you’re welcome.”

  I went back up the stairs and down in the elevator in case the blondes got suspicious. The L’Oréal sisters, as Taylor called them, were still fast at work on their computers.

  “Have a nice day,” I shouted, but neither of them bothered to look up.

  Chapter 24

  “Mario Aquilino wasn’t dangerous.” I phoned Marshall later that evening. “He was cranky and ornery but harmless. Oh, and here’s the best news of all. I solved the mystery of his switched paintings.”

  I went on to tell Marshall about the entire evening, including Mario’s take on Sharon Smyth and my brief conversation with Mike Melroy (aka Tiny Mike), the house manager. I was about to mention the odd comment the guy made about the vibe at the Lillian when Marshall beat me to it.

  “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s kind of an unsettled feeling at that place. And I’m not talking about the murder. When Nate and I interviewed the residents, most of them were feeling as if something had changed, or was about to change, but they couldn’t quite explain.”

  “Yeah, I know. Gertie and Trudy said the same thing. Oh geez, I probably should call them and let them know about Mario’s paintings. That’s one less thing they have to worry about.”

  We ended the call, finalizing our plans for tomorrow night—trying out the new Greek restaurant in Surprise and maybe a moonlight swim back here. I immediately dialed Gertie as soon as I said good night to Marshall. She sounded more annoyed than relieved.

  “So that’s all it was? Tiny Mike forgot to leave a work tag on the door? He should know better. And of all the apartments here, it had to be Mario Aquilino’s. Do you have any idea how fastidious that man is?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Tanya and Tina from the front desk posted a letter on all the residents’ doors a little while ago. It was regarding those thefts that have been going on. Kimberlynn Warren wrote it herself. Very official. She said some of those thefts weren’t thefts and that the items have been located. Not all of them, but most. I suppose, from now on, no one will believe us about anything. They’ll think we’re just a bunch of old dolts.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. There’s still the matter of someone going through people’s drawers and, of course, the murder. I imagine that will be an ongoing investigation for a while. Anyway, will you please let your sister know I called?”

  “She’s sitting three feet away from me, poking my arm. It would be hard not to let her know you called.”

  In the background Trudy said, “Hurry up, NCIS is coming on.”

  Gertie thanked me for calling and I told her I’d keep in touch. Finally, I could kick back and turn on the TV, too. No sooner did I grab a tangerine from the fridge and start to peel it when the phone rang. Now who? I had been with my mother and Lucinda yesterday, so it couldn’t possibly be her. Hopefully. I glanced at the caller ID and lifted the receiver. It was my aunt Ina.

  I hadn’t spoken to her since our escapade in the high desert last Sunday. Perhaps she was calling to find out how the investigation was going.

  “Phee! Louis remembered something about Quentin Dussler and thought you should know. It was a few years ago. Before Louis and I met. Louis was still working for that cruise line. Bless my Louis, he has the memory of an elephant. I’ll get right to the point. A last-minute traveler came on from Zeebrugge to Fort Lauderdale. A special boat had to take him to the ship because cruise lines don’t dock in Belgium. The big transatlantic ports are Amsterdam and Copenhagen. Anyway, the guy was Quentin Dussler. For some reason, he decided to take a transatlantic voyage back to the States instead of flying. And he wouldn’t take a plane to one of the ports.”

  “All of a sudden Louis remembered that?”

  “Not all of a sudden. He was taking out the recycling and noticed the headline about Quentin’s murder. That’ll serve him for letting the newspapers pile up without reading them. But you know how musicians are, their minds are always elsewhere. Well, the paper had an old photo of Quentin and Louis recognized him.”

  “Louis came across thousands of passengers. Why on earth would he remember Quentin Dussler?”

  “I asked him the same thing. Seems your uncle was at the bursar’s office waiting to make a withdrawal from his account. You know what a gambler he was. Anyhow, this Quentin Dussler arrived and insisted the bursar stop everything and get him a safe deposit box. And not just any box. One reserved for passengers whose contents are so valuable they require additional security.”

  “And Louis remembered all of this?”

  “It’s hard to forget when you’ve got an itch to gamble and are forced to wait while some pompous buffoon—your uncle’s words, not mine—stands between you and the millions you’re about to win.”

  “I see. So, uh, does Louis have any idea what Quentin Dussler might have been guarding?”

  “It wasn’t gambling money. Louis never saw him in the casino. And believe me, your uncle would have noticed.”

  “Was that the only time he saw him? At the bursar’s office?”

  “Yes. And it begs the question. What was Quentin Dussler securing?”

  I wanted to tell her that some people traveled with lots of jewelry. Expensive jewelry. But from what little I knew about this highly temperamental artist, I seriously doubted he was one of them.

  “Hmm, that’s fascinating,” I said. “How many years ago was it?”

  “Hold on.”

  My aunt screamed for Louis and Louis screamed back, “Five!”

  “Thanks, Aunt Ina.”

  “Tell me. Do you think this Quentin stole some priceless piece of art and didn’t want to risk taking it on a plane?”

  That thought had crossed my mind, too. And I was one step ahead. What if he did steal something and the real owner tracked him down and killed him? It was as good a motive as any.

  Before I could respond, my aunt went on. “Have the sheriff’s deputies checked out those coordinates yet? I didn’t figure as much since I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “No, not yet, but they will. Nate managed to convince our county sheriff’s department and they said Gila County was cooperating. I don’t know what they expect to find, though.”

  “Let me know. Oh, have you seen that hideous piece of artwork your mother made? That god-awful bowl or whatever it is with the dog’s picture on it? She’s planning on entering it in the Creations in Clay contest. Heaven help us all!”

  “When is that thing, again?”

  “June thirtieth. And if I were you, I’d mark it on my calendar if you haven’t done so already. Your mother’s becoming quite obsessive about that show.”

  I rubbed my temples with my free hand. “I won’t forget. And thanks again for letting me know about Quentin.”

  My iPad was resting on the coffee table in front of me. I flipped the cover and went into Safari search under “art thefts.” In a matter of seconds, I pulled up the National Stol
en Art File, as well as international listings of stolen art. Nothing in that time frame for Belgium. But that didn’t mean Quentin couldn’t have been in a neighboring country. This was massive. Massive enough for an entire FBI department. Way out of my league. Not that I had a league. But I knew someone who did.

  Marshall must have been sitting on top of his phone because he answered it immediately. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  I quickly told him about my conversation with Aunt Ina and Louis’s recollection of Quentin Dussler boarding that ship and insisting on a highly secured valuables safe. I was becoming more and more animated.

  “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? Rolo Barnes could track down that stuff in a matter of hours.”

  “And how fast can you track down the next sophisticated piece of kitchen gadgetry he absolutely has to have?”

  “I’ll split the bill if it comes to that. So, please?”

  “Relax. I’ll give Nate a heads-up. Seven thirty still good for you tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I sank back into the couch and stretched. Finally, I could look forward to an evening with Marshall that wouldn’t be interrupted.

  * * *

  Our seven-thirty dinner date started out wonderfully the next night but suddenly went awry. I thought I’d seen enough of the clay club room to last me well into the next century, but apparently, I was wrong. We had barely finished our salads at Zorba’s New Greek Cuisine when Marshall got a text from Nate.

  “Good God, no!” were the only words he muttered as the phone was thrust into my hand.

  I stared at the message. “I can’t believe it. A possible break-in at the clay club room and they want you guys to get over there?”

  “That’s what happens when two or more agencies work a case together. They want reps from all parties. Guess what’s next is up to you. I can take you home and drive to Sun City West or you can be part of the fun. If we get out at a reasonable hour, there may still be a burger joint open.”

  The words left my mouth immediately. “Clay club and burgers it is.”

  Marshall motioned for our waiter, paid the guy in cash for our salads, and raced out of there with me at the other end of his arm.