Booked 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “I think you’re overreacting. Besides, I can’t just up and fly to Arizona.”

  “Knowing you, Phee, you’ve got plenty of vacation and personal days. I’m right, aren’t I? Besides, you can get away from that awful Minnesota weather and enjoy the sunshine out here.”

  “The weather’s fine in Minnesota. It’s September, for crying out loud. You’ll see me in December. Liked we planned.”

  “December is too late. Call me tomorrow to let me know what flight you’re on.”

  “Mother, I am not—”

  Drat! She’d already hung up, and I wasn’t about to call her back. I took off my blazer and slacks, and slipped into my favorite worn jeans and an old sweatshirt. Then I grabbed some leftover lasagna from the fridge and popped it into the microwave. No sooner did I press the Start button when the phone rang again.

  Unbelievable. Is there no stopping her from driving me insane?

  I debated whether or not to answer and decided to let the machine get it. Nate’s voice was loud enough to drown out the sound of the microwave. I quickly picked up the receiver.

  “Sorry, Nate. Couldn’t get to the phone fast enough. What’s up?”

  “Thought I’d give you a head start, kiddo. I looked up that book, and I have to say, it’s really obscure. I mean, on the Amazon ranking list, it’s got a really high number, and that’s not good. Plus, it’s not even listed with Barnes & Noble. No one’s heard of it. No one’s reading it. Except for your mother’s book club.”

  “Who’s the publisher?”

  “It’s self-published and copyrighted with the author. Also an unknown. So unknown the name didn’t come up on Google.”

  “You didn’t have to go through all of that trouble on my account. Honestly, my mother is just being overly dramatic about this. Although . . . she did call a few minutes ago to tell me another book club member died. She was stung by a bee and died of shock at the large recreation center pool.”

  “So that makes what? Four? Four deaths in less than a month with all of the people having a common relationship? If you ask me, maybe you should fly out there to investigate.”

  “Oh, come on. I don’t have the slightest inkling of how to go about something like that.”

  “Want me to rent an old noir movie for you? It’s really quite simple. You interview, or in your case, talk with the people in the book club, library patrons, and witnesses who were there when one of the women died. Start to put together bits of information that seem to lead up to something. You know, follow the clues. Like I told you earlier today, you already know how to conduct an investigation.”

  “Nate, you don’t really believe there’s a curse related to that book, do you?”

  “Logically, no. Then again, was it a curse that killed those archeologists who uncovered King Tutankhamun’s tomb, or was it a coincidence?”

  “I think it was a virus. Dust spores. Maybe you should be the one to fly out there and commiserate with my mother.”

  “Thank you, no. But I’ll do one better for you. Do you remember Rolo Barnes who used to work in the IT department for us?”

  “Rolo Barnes? The guy who looked like a black Jerry Garcia?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Of course I remember him. Made payroll a nightmare for me. He refused to have direct deposit and insisted that his paychecks be even-numbered only. Boy did that guy have his quirks. Why?”

  “Because no one knows more about cyphers and codes than Rolo. And, he owes me big-time for a matter that I’d rather not discuss. Anyway, I downloaded the e-book version of The Twelfth Arrondissement and sent it to him. He’ll check to see if there are any codes or messages embedded in the text.”

  “Boy, things in your office must really be boring if this is getting your attention.”

  “I wouldn’t say boring, more like routine. And honestly, Phee, what detective wouldn’t want to sink his or her teeth into a good old murderous curse.”

  “One who lives in this century and not the Middle Ages. Anyway, thanks for doing some of the legwork. If I do decide to hop a plane, you’ll be the second one to know.”

  No sooner did I hang up the phone when the buzz of the microwave made me jump out of my skin. I half expected to turn around and see my mother standing there offering to pack my suitcase. Now I was the one getting unnerved. I was positive my mother was being totally irrational about this. Or was she? Nate certainly didn’t dismiss it, and he’d dealt with all sorts of bizarre situations. Still, my mother lived in a senior community and well . . . the likelihood of someone passing away wasn’t unusual, even if the cluster of deaths was.

  I hated thinking about getting old and at approaching forty-five, I still considered myself years away from middle age. I had no gray hair and still looked decent in a high-waisted two-piece swimsuit, although I shied away from thongs and skinny bikinis.

  I ate my dinner quickly, threw on a light jacket, and headed out for a quick walk before it got too dark. The river side of Sibley Park was only a few blocks from my house and strolling down the trail that bordered the water always seemed to help me unwind. The maples, elms, and oaks were starting to show the first signs of autumn, but the spruces and pines held steadfast to their greens and blues. In another few weeks they would be the only ones with any color left. Soon I’d need a heavier jacket. Then a polar fleece one. And then . . . Ugh. The heavyweight down coat that wouldn’t come off until April. If I was lucky.

  I had to clear my head, but, unfortunately, the walk wasn’t working. All I succeeded in doing was giving myself more time to think about death, curses, and my mother’s perpetual nagging. She wouldn’t give up. When I returned from the park and turned the key into the front door, the annoying beep sounded from my answering machine.

  Not my mother again! I swear I’ll have the landline disconnected.

  I glanced at the clock on the microwave: 8:37 p.m. Almost a quarter to seven in Sun City West. I pushed the button on the phone and sure enough, my mother’s voice exploded like a cannon.

  “One more thing, Phee. I know you think there’s no such thing as curses or hexes, but I wanted to remind you about the summer when you were eight. You may not remember it, but I do.

  Of course she remembers it. The woman must have an eidetic memory. She probably remembers everything I did or said. Yeesh.

  I took a long breath as her message rambled on. I expected the machine to cut her off, but it didn’t.

  “The water pump went out on the car and cost us a fortune; then the dryer broke and was beyond repair, so your father and I had to shell out money we didn’t have, and then that rotten storm swept through Mankato and the tree in front fell, taking our bay window with it.”

  I recalled the tree falling into the front window but pulled up a blank as far as the car and dryer were concerned. What any of this had to do with unexpected deaths in Sun City West was beyond me.

  “For six weeks, we were jinxed. That was the only explanation. And you know when it ended? Well, I’ll tell you when it ended, Phee. It ended with the tree. That was the third thing. Jinxes always come in threes. But this is different. This is a book curse. A curse! God knows when it will end. We’ve already had four. And that’s why you have to come out here and figure it out. Four dead women aren’t figments of my imagination. And you don’t want your mother to be number five. Understand?”

  I understood all right. The curse had reached me. Across the phone lines and into my living room. My mother would nag, demand, and whine like a fourteen-year-old girl whose cell phone was confiscated by the vice principal. Dinnertime or not, I pushed the Redial button on the phone. She picked up before it even finished ringing.

  “So, did you make those reservations?”

  “No, Mother, I didn’t make reservations. I’m sorry those ladies passed away, but there’s no such thing as a book curse. Only Wes Craven could have come up with something like that.”

  “Who’s Wes Craven? Don’t tell me he’s someone you’re dating.�
�

  “I’m not dating anyone, Mother. And never mind about Wes Craven. He was a director of horror films who passed away.”

  “I’ll bet he was reading that book. Well, are you coming or not?”

  She’d gotten me so rattled I mumbled the four possibly worst words in the world: “I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  Seventy-two hours later, I was hoisting my carry-on bag into the overhead bin of the plane.

  “You did the right thing,” my daughter Kalese said when I called her from the airport. “Poor Nana Harriet must be scared out of her mind.”

  “Scared isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but ‘out of her mind’ is getting close.”

  I gave the bag an extra shove and watched it teeter for a second before it landed on its side. Like the canvas carry-on, I was a pushover, too.

  Chapter 3

  Sun City West, Arizona

  It was a three-hour flight to Phoenix, with no amenities, unless you considered a self-paid box lunch one. I opted for the Snickers bar in my bag and bottled water as I gazed out the window. At least I wasn’t stuck in the middle seat. I was joined by two impeccably dressed whitehaired women who appeared to be in their late eighties or early nineties. Their pale blue tops with a hint of sparkle on the collars and their matching gray pants gave them a modern look. One of them wore a fringed navy scarf around her neck, while the other sported a large abstract necklace. The one with the necklace took a seat in the middle and smiled. Perfect dentures or excellent oral hygiene over the years. I made a mental note to keep flossing.

  “Hi,” she said. “Are you stopping in Phoenix or going on to Los Angeles?”

  “Uh, hi. Phoenix. I’m visiting my mother.”

  “We’re going to Phoenix, too. We’re on our way back from a wedding in Minneapolis. Our great-niece. She’s some sort of an engineer and married another sort of engineer. What is it they do, Gertie?”

  The lady with the blue scarf looked up.

  “Technical risk assessment for amusement rides. Whoever thought that could be a career . . .”

  I leaned over and caught her eye.

  “Yeah, the technology keeps changing every day.”

  “One thing I’d like to see them change is the size of these seats. It keeps shrinking every time we get on a plane. And before you say anything, Trudy, I haven’t gained a single pound in fifteen years.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  It seemed odd to me that both ladies had nicknames for the same formal name—Gertrude. I thought about commenting on it but didn’t want to be intrusive. I reached for the safety brochure in the front seat pocket when Gertie changed the subject.

  “Has your mother lived in Phoenix long? Trudy and I have been Arizonians for over forty years.”

  “Um, at least a decade or more. Actually, she lives in the West Valley. Sun City West, to be precise.”

  “My goodness, what a coincidence. Isn’t that a coincidence, Trudy? My sister and I live there as well. At The Lillian.”

  The way she articulated the words “The” and “Lillian” made me wonder if it was a place most people knew of. Most people being everyone but me.

  “The Lillian?”

  “Yes, I’m sure your mother is familiar with it living in Sun City West and all. The Lillian is a premier resort retirement hotel. It’s located right in the center of the city with its own recreation center and amenities.”

  “I see.”

  Trudy leaned over again and I marveled at her tasteful makeup and choice of earrings.

  “Gertie and I are twins, but you probably figured that out already. When we turned eighty-five we promised ourselves that on our ninetieth birthday we would sell our homes and move into The Lillian. It was time to treat ourselves. Gourmet dining, concierge service, housecleaning, linen service, private limousine drivers for appointments, and more conveniences than anyone could possibly imagine. We both have residences on the same floor, and Gertie still has her cat. That is, if Maybelle remembered to feed him.”

  Gertie shot a look at her sister. The same look teachers have been giving petulant kids for centuries.

  “She remembered. She’s not daft. I spoke to her this morning, and Mr. Whiskers is fine.”

  “Anyway, like I was saying, we’ve lived in The Lillian going on four years and love it. We should have moved in when we were young, in our eighties.”

  Young. Eighties. Wow.

  “It does sound wonderful.”

  And please don’t let my mother know about it or I’ll get roped into doing the packing.

  Suddenly a voice came over the loud speaker.

  “ALL CARRY-ON LUGGAGE MUST BE STORED IN THE OVERHEAD BINS. IF YOUR LUGGAGE DOES NOT FIT, PLEASE SEE ONE OF THE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS.”

  Trudy turned to Gertie and grabbed her arm.

  “If only Edna Mae had listened to us and moved into The Lillian, she’d still be with us.”

  Edna Mae. I’d heard that name. At least five times from my mother. If it was the same Edna Mae.

  “Was she a friend of yours? Edna Mae?”

  Gertie looked up, sighed, and touched her sister’s wrist before answering.

  “Edna Mae was a dear friend of ours. Generous and thoughtful. Also independent and stubborn. Not the best housekeeper either. Trudy and I tried to talk her into selling that place of hers and moving into The Lillian with us, but she’d have no part of it. Said The Lillian was for old people. Well, at her age she was no spring chicken either. Don’t you agree, Trudy?”

  Her sister gave a quick nod and continued with the saga.

  “You got that right, Gertie. And her family tried and tried to talk her into moving out of her house. Edna was as blind as a newborn dormouse and was always bumping into things. Anyway, she fell in her own driveway, broke her hip, and died in the hospital shortly after that. Pneumonia.”

  It had to be the same Edna Mae. How many fallin-your-driveway-break-a-hip-die-of-pneumonia Edna Mae’s were there? And yet, oddly enough, no mention whatsoever about The Twelfth Arrondissement’s snappy little book curse.

  Told you, Mom. This is a bunch of hooey.

  “I’m sorry about your friend. That must have been awful.”

  “Awful and avoidable. That’s why I’m glad we made the right decision to move.”

  The overhead speaker came on again.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE WILL BE TAKING OFF IN A MATTER OF MINUTES. PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONES AND LAP DEVICES UNTIL WE ARE IN THE AIR. FASTEN YOUR SEAT-BELTS AND ENJOY OUR ON-SCREEN SAFETY VIDEO.”

  “I miss real people standing in front of us and talking,” Gertie whispered. “Anyway, I intend to shut my eyes and get some sleep. Trudy will probably be doing the same thing. That wedding wore us out.”

  By the time the video had ended and the plane was speeding down the runway for take-off, Gertie and Trudy had closed their eyes.

  The flight was too short for a movie, and it was just as well. The screens were always obscured by the light coming in from the windows, and the earplugs were painful. I took out my iPad, selected airplane mode, and started to tap a news App when I realized I had recently installed an App for Kindle but never downloaded anything.

  I’m not afraid of a silly little curse, am I?

  I looked up The Twelfth Arrondissement, paid the $2.99 with my credit card, and waited for a second while it loaded. For a book that purportedly housed a curse, at least according to my mother, the cover was fairly innocuous. It was a lovely picture of a park with trees, grass, and a small bridge, not unlike Sibley Park near my house.

  I wonder how many bodies they’ve uncovered there....

  Bracing myself for something straight out of Edgar Allan Poe, I slid through each page with trepidation, expecting something horrible to jump out at me, but that never happened. Instead, I found myself immersed in some sort of tragic romance. For a self-published book, it wasn’t bad. No glaring grammatical errors and a solid plot with believable characters. I could
n’t, for the life of me, understand what this book had to do with four curious deaths.

  By the time the plane had started its descent into Sky Harbor Airport, I was halfway through the book and still breathing. No sudden drop in air pressure, no one screaming, and no curse. I shut off the iPad and looked at the craggy mountain ranges that surrounded the valley. The downtown skyline got closer and closer until the plane made its final descent and taxied to the terminal.

  “That was certainly a good nap,” Gertie announced as the pilot jammed on the brakes, forcing enough air pressure into my ears to last the rest of the day.

  “Yeah, it was a nice, smooth ride.”

  “Speaking of rides, would you like our chauffer to drop you off at your mother’s house? It’s no trouble. Really.”

  “Thank you. That’s so sweet of you, but I’ve arranged for a rental car since I’ll need it for my stay.”

  I offered to help Gertie and Trudy with their carry-on bags, but they had arranged for wheelchair service. As Gertie pointed out, “It’s such a far walk from the terminal to the baggage claim, our legs would never hold up.” She had a point. I, on the other hand, faced what seemed like countless miles of moving walkways until I finally reached the highlight of terminal three—its steep escalator ride to the ground floor that resembled a trek to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The artwork was spectacular, making it feel as if I was really on a descent into the canyon. Of course the moment I stumbled forward and caught myself, I knew otherwise.

  The rental car kiosks were directly across from the baggage claim, and I secured the keys to my subcompact in record time. A white Honda Fit. It was destined to give my mother a real fit once she tried to squeeze into it, but I wasn’t about to spend a fortune on rental cars. Besides, we could always take her oversize sedan if it turned out to be a real problem.

  As I pulled out of the parking garage, I was nearly blinded by the bright sunlight. My eyes were accustomed to Minnesota’s gray skies and not bright blue ones. Phoenix was actually a valley surrounded on all four sides by mountain ranges. A few cacti were visible from the road, but it was mostly palm trees that gave the area its notable look. Palm trees that were planted by Californians, according to my mother, who’s still griping about it.