Dressed Up 4 Murder, page 26
“The contest committee wants the entire family to be part of the celebration,” my mother said when she phoned me a few days after the competition. “All you and Marshall have to do is sit there and wave. Streetman will be on my lap like a perfect gentleman.”
Yes. Those were her exact words. “Streetman will be on my lap like a perfect gentleman.” In whose world?
Weather-wise, it was an absolutely splendid afternoon for a parade. Temps in the high seventies and abundant sunshine. A perfect Saturday for the year-round residents and the last of the snowbirds to enjoy the final hoop-dee-lah before the summer heat kicked in.
My mother, Marshall, and I boarded the decorative float that was pulled by a neat little T-bird, compliments of the Automotive Restoration Club. My mom and the dog had the seats of honor up front, with Marshall and me directly behind them. Our entourage was four floats down in the lineup and headed to Meeker Boulevard, a major street that crisscrossed the city. The book club ladies were all on hand to watch the event, including my aunt Ina, who had managed to convince my uncle Louis that he couldn’t afford to miss Streetman’s claim to fame. In addition, Nate came as well. According to Marshall, “the poor guy simply ran out of excuses.”
Everything went smoothly for the first fifteen minutes or so as the float made its way down the street. Residents who lived on Meeker Boulevard had set up chairs along the sidewalk to enjoy the show. Still, I had this unsettling feeling that something was about to go wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, but by the time we reached the intersection of Meeker and 135th Avenue, my stomach was in knots.
The parade continued down the street a few yards past the spot where the book club ladies and Nate were gathered. That was the moment when Streetman lifted his head in the air and began to sniff.
I poked Marshall in the arm. “The dog’s sniffing the air. This can’t be good.”
“Relax, hon,” he whispered. “It’s a gorgeous day. He’s probably enjoying the fresh air.”
The float moved gracefully past the rows of attached houses to the section of the street with single-family homes and large side yards. More fold-up chairs along the street and even more people.
The dog’s nose was still in the air, but he hadn’t budged from my mother’s lap.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said to Marshall. “Besides, the parade ends at Stardust Boulevard and that’s only a few blocks away. It’s not as if he’s about to—Oh my God!”
In that instant, Streetman jumped from my mother’s lap and onto the side of the float. The structure was only a few feet from the ground and the dog had no problem taking the next leap to the road. From there to the sidewalk and over to someone’s side yard.
“Stop the parade!” my mother yelled. “Stop the parade! Streetman is loose!”
Shouts of “Loose dog!” could be heard everywhere, and without wasting a second Marshall and I bolted from the float. My mother was already on the sidewalk screaming for her dog. By that time, Nate had charged down the street followed by Shirley and Lucinda.
“Look,” I said. “He’s headed to the house with the row of agaves in front.”
Just then my mother shrieked, “Streetman, no! Streetman, no!”
Streetman had made his way to the side yard and tugged furiously at a tarp that was covering what looked like a barbeque grill. Marshall, my mother, and I were only a few yards away. All of us shouting at the dog. Unfortunately, Streetman had developed selective hearing and ignored us.
Nate, Shirley, and Lucinda were now in our immediate vicinity.
“Lordy, Harriet, can’t you do something?” Shirley asked.
My mother shook her head and grabbed Shirley’s arm. “He’s found another crime scene. That’s all there is to it. Streetman has found another dead body. He’s become a regular cadaver dog.”
In that second, a portly-looking man in gray Under Armour sweats literally flew out of the house and over to the tarp. It was too late. Streetman dove under it and emerged with something in his mouth.
My mother was inches behind the man and her voice permeated the air. “What’s he got? What’s he got? Don’t tell me it’s a body part!”
I widened my eyes and took a good look. Streetman’s mouth was clamped into the middle of a very large fish. The tail appeared at one end of his face and the eyes and fins at the other.
“My salmon! My freshly imported Alaskan salmon!” the man bellowed. “I set it under the grill in a pail while I got ready to grill it.”
By now, the fish had broken into two halves that fell on the ground. Streetman snatched one of them and growled. The last time I had seen him do something like that was in the Stardust Theater when he rooted through some old costumes.
“Um, I don’t think you’ll be able to retrieve your fish,” I said to the man. “The dog’s kind of territorial when it comes to food.”
“Whatever that salmon cost,” Marshall said, “we’ll be happy to reimburse you.”
The man looked at the four-legged leprechaun and burst out laughing. “Nah. I’ll just grill a steak. Besides, I haven’t had such a good laugh in ages. Looks like that little dog found his pot of gold, huh?”
“Think we can get him back on the float?” I asked my mother.
“Grab that other fish part and wave it in front of him.”
“Ew!”
“It’s just a dead fish, Phee; it could’ve been worse.”
Actually, it was. We appeared on the evening news since one of the parade spectators videoed everything and sent it to KPHO, where it also appeared on their Facebook page. The photo showed me dangling a large fish tail and the caption read: “That’s a leprechaun, lady, not a trained seal.”
At least they got the not trained part right.
Don’t miss the next exciting (and hilarious) novel in
the Sophie Kimball Mysteries:
Broadcast 4 Murder,
coming in
November 2020.
And don’t miss the last Sophie Kimball Mystery,
Molded 4 Murder,
available now from your favorite bookstore and
e-retailer.
Turn the page for a sneak peek
at this delightful mystery!
Chapter 1
Office of Williams Investigations, Glendale, Arizona
Augusta, our receptionist/secretary at Williams Investigations, looked up from her computer and straightened her tortoiseshell glasses. “Hey, Phee, two ladies called while you were at lunch and wanted to schedule an appointment with you for this afternoon.”
“With me? Did you tell them I’m the bookkeeper and not an investigator?”
Augusta sighed. “They already knew that and said it didn’t matter. Said they met you on a plane a year or two ago. They couldn’t remember.”
Two years ago. That sounded about right. My mother was insistent I use vacation time from my job at the Mankato, Minnesota, police department and fly out to Sun City West, Arizona, because she was convinced the members of her book club were going to die from reading a cursed book. The only thing cursed was my trip.
I moved closer to her desk. “Oh my gosh, Gertie and Trudy from the Lillian. It’s a residential resort hotel of sorts. Very elegant.”
“Don’t know about that, but those were the names they gave. No last name.”
“I think it’s Madison. Did they mention what they wanted to see me about?”
“Theft. They said someone’s been pilfering things from their retirement complex. So much for elegance, huh?”
“That sounds like something they should be taking up with the Lillian’s management company, not me.”
“I got the feeling there was more to it. Anyway, I scheduled an appointment for two thirty. They want to be back at their place in time for the four o’clock seating for dinner.”
“Four? That’s almost as bad as my mother’s five thirty. What is it with these people and their obsession about eating at a certain time? Sure, I’ll see them, but only as a courtesy. Geez, when Nate retired from the police force in Minnesota and started this firm, I came on to do the books, not the investigations.”
“And yet . . .”
“I know. I know. Things sort of happened.”
“Uh-huh. By the way, Nate got called a little while ago to confer with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office on a recent homicide. They didn’t come right out and say ‘homicide,’ but you know that’s what it is or they wouldn’t have insisted he rush over to Sun City West.”
“Sun City West? Yikes! That’s where my mother lives. I’m surprised she hasn’t called. She usually gets that news long before it reaches us.”
“Yeah. About that . . .”
I let out a groan and waited for Augusta to continue. “She called all right. I was just about to get to it. Good thing I remembered my shorthand from high school. Here goes. ‘I left you more than one voice mail, Phee. Arlette from the Cut ’N Curl is going on vacation for three weeks. She didn’t say anything to me when I was in last week. Myrna found out about it this morning when she went in for a trim. Three weeks! Who’s going to touch up my hair? Are there any good salons near you in Vistancia? I refuse to have Cecilia drag me to one of those cheap seven-dollar haircut places. God knows what kind of color I’d wind up with. Call me. And don’t forget to mark your calendar for the Creations in Clay on June thirtieth. ’”
Augusta read the entire message without pausing to take a breath. For that matter, I didn’t take one, either. I expected to hear some awful news that would link Nate’s possible murder case to someone my mother knew. The last time that happened, my mother and her friends hired Nate to investigate because the sheriff’s department was “moving like geriatric slugs.” I prayed to the gods that whatever Nate was called to consult on wouldn’t involve my mother or the Booked 4 Murder book club.
“So that was it? Hairdresser on vacation and the Creations in Clay?”
“Yep. That’s all she said. You can breathe again. So, if you don’t mind my asking, what on earth is the Creations in Clay? Some sort of exhibit?”
“Sort of, with tentacles. The Creations in Clay is the annual pottery and clay event in Sun City West. It always takes place right before the summer heat kicks in. It includes a juried art show and lots of booths where the clay club members sell their creations.”
“That sounds nice. I didn’t know your mother was interested in juried art.”
“Up until a few months ago, she wasn’t. Then one of her book club ladies read this article about people whose artistic talents don’t begin to show up until they’re in their seventies or eighties. Like Grandma Moses. Or that lady from the seventeen hundreds who discovered decoupage. Anyway, one of my mother’s friends convinced her to join the clay club because, and I quote, ‘Molding clay could be the conduit to our hidden artistic talents.’ ”
“Really? She said that?”
“Actually, if you want to know the real reason, I think my mother intends to make dog bowls for Streetman. Don’t ask.”
Augusta tried not to snicker, but we both started laughing.
I finally caught my breath. “It’s only May, so she has lots of time to make that spoiled Chiweenie of hers a complete place setting. Well, I’d better get back to my accounts before Gertie and Trudy get here. And especially before Marshall returns from that missing person’s case in Buckeye. I don’t want him to think I stand around gabbing all day.”
“So, how’s it going between the two of you?”
“Geez, you’re beginning to sound like my mother. Seriously, for someone dating in her forties, it’s going great.”
It was hard not to smile and get all dreamy eyed. I didn’t want to jinx anything by saying it out loud, but boy, was I glad Nate hired him. Imagine, Marshall and I worked all those years for the Mankato Police Department and neither of us knew we were both interested in dating each other. Maybe Nate figured it out all along and that was why when it came time to hire another investigator for his firm, Marshall was his first choice.
“Glad to hear it.” Augusta clicked the mouse and looked at her computer screen. “I’d better get back to work, too.”
Within seconds, I was working on my billing and filing. The time went by so quickly I hadn’t realized it was two thirty until Augusta knocked on my door frame.
“The ladies who called are here to see you. Do you want me to send them right in?”
I stood up and followed her out. “I’ll get them.”
Gertie and Trudy were facing the window and turned when they heard my footsteps. Their hairdos looked a bit different from the last time I saw them. Short silver curls with hints of blue. Perfectly styled. Same could be said for their identical outfits. It almost looked as if the two of them were standing at attention.
I rushed over immediately. “Hi! It’s nice to see you again. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
Gertie shook her head. “No thanks. We’ll be eating soon and we don’t want to ruin our appetites. The Lillian has a marvelous master chef and tonight is tilapia night.”
“It’s always tilapia night, Gertie,” Trudy said. “They have that on the menu every night.”
Augusta, who had returned to her desk, sat bolt upright and gave me one of her unmistakable looks.
I turned the other way and ushered the sisters into my office. “Please, take a seat.”
There were two chairs in front of my desk, and I moved my chair to the right of the computer so it wouldn’t obstruct anyone’s view as we spoke. “So, tell me. What’s going on regarding the thefts? I understand that’s why you came to see me.”
“It is,” Gertie said. “It most certainly is. You show her the list, Trudy.”
Without wasting a second, Trudy opened a large floral handbag and took out a folded piece of paper and began to read it.
“Mildred Kirkenbaum, one spool of purple yarn, Emily Outstrader, two cans of tuna, Warren Bellis, one jar of olives. The green ones without those red things in them. Mabel Leech, one fountain pen and some paper clips, Norma O’Neil, a five-dollar bill, Sharon Smyth, a small clay jar she bought from the last clay club art show, and Clive Monroe, a box of tissues and his lifelong membership pin to the Elks.”
“Uh, is that it?”
Trudy nodded as she handed me the list. “As far as we know. And we’ve been asking. From the minute Mildred told us about the purple yarn.”
“What about you and your sister? Are any of your items missing?”
“Not that we know of,” Gertie said. “But sometimes you don’t know if something’s missing until you go to use it.”
I had to agree with her on that one. I’d spent entire afternoons looking for stupid things like razor blades, the extra packet of dental floss I swore I had, and my reward card for a local restaurant that I only frequented once in a while. Most of the time the items in question turned up days, weeks, or months later, in places I never expected. I wondered if the same could be said for the residents of the Lillian, but I didn’t want to sound as if I was dismissing the two sisters who had made a point of coming to our office.
“Is this the first time something like this has happened? Or the first time people felt it should be reported?”
Gertie and Trudy glanced at each other before Gertie spoke.
“The first time. We’re certain. Those residents, who happen to be friends of ours, have lived there much longer than my sister and me. That’s why we’re so concerned.”
I edged forward in my chair. “A theft is a theft no matter how small or valuable the item is, so why didn’t your friends report it to the management?”
“They didn’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Trudy said.
Gertie gave her sister a poke in the arm. “Tell her the real reason. Go on.”
Trudy started to fiddle with the strap on her handbag. “If we reported it, the manager would think the thief was one of the staff members. I mean, they have keys to our apartments in order to clean them and change the linens. Not to mention the regular maintenance. The staff members do all sorts of extra things for us like helping us put groceries away if we go shopping or move furniture around. Some of them even help residents with their hair if they have time. All of that will come to a stop if they get hauled in by the residence director.”
“My sister’s right,” Gertie said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say the staff plays favorites, but those of us who remember them during the holidays or tip them once in a while get better attention, if you know what I mean.”
I bit my lip and waited for a second. “Is it possible these thefts were committed by another resident and not a staff member?”
The sisters shrugged simultaneously.
“Maybe, if someone was careless enough to leave their door open or unlocked. That happens sometimes. But the people we mentioned, the ones on the list, were all insistent they locked up whenever they left their apartments, even if they were only going down the hall to get their mail,” Gertie said. “And it isn’t as if any new residents have moved in lately. The last one was Florence Shiver, and she moved in at least nine months ago.”
“Well,” I said, “this is troubling. Look, as you know, I’m the office bookkeeper and accountant, not an investigator, but I would be willing to speak discreetly with your residence director, without letting on you were the ones who called me. I’d be doing this unofficially. As a friend. Would that be okay with you? For all we know, maybe the director is aware of something going on.”
“Do you have to show her the list of names?” Trudy asked.
I shook my head. “No. I’ll type up a list of the items and go from there. How does that sound?”
Gertie opened her handbag and took out a twenty-dollar bill. “We’re willing to pay you.”
I honestly felt as if I was about to blush. Talk about feeling uncomfortable. “No. No. Please put that away. It’s not necessary. I’ll get in touch with the management and I’ll let you know what I find out in a few days. Did you need me to call a taxi service for you?”
