by J. C. Eaton
“If they wanted the state to look like California, they should have stayed there.”
I chuckled to myself as I followed the signs to I-17 North and joined the rush-hour traffic. My mother had won this battle. It took me forty-five minutes to get to Bell Road, a major street that spans the entire length of Phoenix. From there it was another twenty miles to the West Valley, which meant another forty-five minutes in traffic. At least there were lots of options for a quick meal. I settled on one of my favorite places—The Black Bear Diner. It resembled an old Adirondack cabin with its knotty pine walls and tables, and was about as far removed from Southwestern style as anything could get. No matter how many times I visited Arizona, it never disappointed me with its juicy burgers or mile-high stacks of multi-grain pancakes. Today was no exception. By the time I wiped the warm burger juice from my lips, I was ready to face the traffic again, hoping it would thin out. It didn’t. It took me close to an hour to get into my mother’s development, or “the compound,” as the residents referred to it.
I should have expected as much. September was a golden time for road construction in Arizona and it seemed as if every intersection was getting a makeover. My mother lived on the farthest side of Sun City West, near U.S. Route 60. Behind her, it was still desert—no malls, no housing, just coyotes, javelinas, and killer sunsets.
The glare was piercing my eyes as I turned off the main street and headed toward her block. Her section of Sun City West was Phase III, built in the mid-1990s. Unlike Phases I and II that began in the seventies and eighties, her phase didn’t have the air-conditioning units on the roofs of the ranch-style houses, nor the rows of giant palm trees and fake grass lawns on each street. Instead, the developer let her area retain the desert ambience that brought people here in the first place, and she had central air-conditioning. Prickly-pear cacti and saguaros stood out on the gravel lawns. Unfortunately, there was no escaping the ceramic coyotes with bandanas or the quails sporting bow ties that seemed to be everywhere. So much for style.
A quick right turn and the light intensified. It took me a second or two to realize it wasn’t the sunset. It was the pulsating lights from the combination of a sheriff’s car, a fire engine, and an ambulance.
My God! Is it at her house? Has something happened?
Before I could get any farther, a deputy signaled for me to make a left turn onto another street. My mother’s block was closed. At least from this direction. Thankfully, I knew the neighborhood well enough to swing around the block and approach my mom’s house the other way. A small crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk, but it was impossible to tell which house was the one in question. I pulled over and parked. It wasn’t my imagination. The emergency vehicles were situated in the middle of the block, right where my mother’s house stood.
No smoke. No burning smells.
My mind didn’t rule out the myriad of other reasons why the response vehicles were stationed by her house. Heart attack. Home invasion. Stroke . . .
In a flash, I raced out of the car, slammed the door behind me, and ran toward the house. Someone was yelling something behind me, but I was too distraught to turn around. It was only when I was a few yards from the ambulance that I realized it wasn’t my mother’s house. It was the house directly across the street from her.
“Slow down, Phee! You’re liable to have a stroke!” My mother’s voice drowned out every other sound on the street.
She rushed toward me, the color of her hair intensified by the lights. It looked reddish blond, if there even was such a color. Unlike me, with the soft highlights from my ash-brown hair, my mother hadn’t seen her natural hair color since she was thirteen and discovered peroxide.
“Mom!” I turned and gave her a hug as we stepped out of the road and back to the sidewalk. “What’s going on? For a minute I thought it was your house!”
“The house is fine. I’m fine. For now.”
She was quick to stress the “for now.” “I don’t know the details. I heard it from Herb Garrett, who lives next door to Jeanette. Poor Jeanette. You remember Jeanette Tomilson, don’t you?”
“Oh dear. Your neighbor died.”
“No, no, Jeanette’s not dead. But it was a close call.”
I didn’t say a word.
“So, like I was saying, I got this straight from Herb. You met Herb once, didn’t you? He’s right over there with one of the deputy sheriffs.”
In the dusk with the lights flashing, it was impossible to tell which one was Herb. Rather than ask, I nodded in agreement as my mother went on.
“Jeanette had just come back from shopping and put all of her groceries away. You know, you have to do that right away or things will melt. Then she sat down to watch a double episode of Family Feud. It’s much funnier since Steve Harvey took over the show. After Family Feud, she turned on one of those stupid sitcoms and must have dozed off. Then, all of a sudden, her smoke detectors came on. Well, not the smoke detectors, the other ones—the carbon monoxide detectors. And good thing Jeanette has one of those home alarm systems, because it rang straight into the sheriff’s office and they dispatched a car.”
“So it was a gas leak?” I asked.
My mother shook her head. “No, not a gas leak. It was her car. That new KIA she bought. It was still running with the garage door closed.”
“What? Who leaves a car running in a closed garage?” I was flabbergasted.
“Well, certainly not Jeanette. She swore up and down she’d turned the engine off.”
“Maybe she got confused . . . forgetful. You know.”
“Jeanette wasn’t befuddled. For heaven’s sake, Phee, she’s only fifty-five! It was attempted murder. That’s what it was. Herb spoke to her just before the deputy sheriff arrived. She had to turn her car off in order to use the house key to unlock the door that goes into her pantry. The house key was on the same ring as the car key. Someone must have broken in from the side door of the garage.”
“That still wouldn’t explain how they got the keys to start the car,” I said.
“Who cares how they did it. Don’t you see? Someone was trying to kill her.”
“Don’t tell me . . .”
My mother’s voice was slow and deliberate.
“Jeanette Tomilson is in my book club. And she’s a fast reader.”
Chapter 4
We walked inside my mom’s house as the response teams finished up outside. The fire department had opened the windows in Jeanette’s house to air out the place, while the onlookers stayed to watch.
“Do you want something to eat?” my mom asked as I rolled my carry-on into the front foyer. A small flash of brown fuzz scurried across the room and ducked under the couch.
“What was that? Did you get a cat? A dog? Since when?”
“Oh my goodness. I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? That’s Streetman. He’s a long-haired miniature chiweenie.”
“A what?”
“Chihuahua-Weiner dog. Recent rescue. The owner went into assisted living and no one would take him. He’s only two years old but has more behavioral issues than a fifteen-year-old boy in reform school.”
“Um, I don’t think they have reform schools anymore, but . . . what kind of issues? He doesn’t bite, does he? Or pee all over the place?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. He’s a bit neurotic, that’s all. You’ll see what I mean. Give him time and he’ll warm up to you. Just don’t go sticking your head under the couch.”
“That’s the last thing I feel like doing.”
I glanced at the couch and slowly took in the rest of the place. The house looked the same as the last time I visited. No noticeable changes in a year—the cozy living room with its comfy sectional and floral chairs, the round oak kitchen table that faced the street, and my mother’s latest assortment of Southwestern tchotchkes. It was as if I had never left.
“So, yes or no? Want a bite to eat?”
“I grabbed a hamburger on the way here, but I could use a cup of cof
fee.”
“I can brew a new pot or reheat the leftover coffee in the microwave.”
“Reheating’s fine. I’ll get a cup. Want some, too?”
A few minutes later we were munching cookies and drinking whatever brand my mother had picked up on sale. Streetman ventured from his hiding place and positioned himself in front of my mother, who bent over to pet him.
“So, now do you believe me about the book curse?” She popped a small butter cookie into her mouth, but not before breaking off a piece for the dog. That done, she adjusted the strand of pearls that hung over her embroidered teal tunic. Even sitting in her own home, my mother refused to look sloppy. She would never resort to wearing a T-shirt or, God forbid, jeans. Nope, Harriet Plunkett, all five foot four of her, was from a different generation. One that was still struggling with her daughter’s casual style. I could swear she was eyeballing my graphic tee.
What the heck. It was a long plane flight and the days of wearing white gloves are over.
“Like I told you before, Mom, I think these are all unrelated incidents. The fact the ladies are all reading that book has nothing to do with it.”
“Then what about the e-mails we got?”
I had to admit, that part was baffling. Even Nate Williams felt the same way. We spoke about it briefly the day before I flew out west, and I could recall every word of our conversation.
“Call it whatever you want, kiddo, but sending an e-mail like that is harassment. If you can find out who sent it, you’ll know if it was a prank or if someone had darker motives.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that, Nate?”
“Same thing I told you a few days ago. Snoop around. Ask questions of the neighbors and friends of each of the victims. Think of it like filling in the edges of a jigsaw puzzle.”
“What about the two ladies who died in the hospital? The HIPAA laws will never let me talk with hospital staff.”
“Staff? No. But you can ask other patients and visitors.”
“I simply don’t have the inclination for this. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“It’s no different from tracking down a bill that some police officer left on your desk with no name or information.”
“Phee! Phee, are you listening to me?” My mother’s voice was like a razor. “I’ve been speaking for five minutes and you haven’t said a word.”
“Sorry, Mom. I must be tired. I’ll go unpack my stuff in the guest room. Everything’s still in the same place, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. The only thing I changed was that awful pullout couch in my sewing room. I bought a daybed in case you ever visit with a gentleman friend.”
“If I ever have a gentleman friend, I don’t think he’d be sleeping in the daybed.”
My mother shot me a dirty look but didn’t press it, and I quickly changed the subject. Talking about my love life, or lack of it since a miserable divorce nineteen years ago, always made me uncomfortable.
“Give me a few minutes to freshen up and unwind; then we can talk about this so-called investigation you want me to conduct.”
By the time I had unpacked and washed up, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a small notebook in front of her. Kinsey Millhone, Stephanie Plum, and Miss Marple would have been impressed.
“I have everything all written down for you, Phee. The names, addresses, and information about the ladies in my book club who were murdered, or nearly murdered in Jeanette’s case.”
“Mother, we don’t know they were murdered.”
“That’s beside the point. As I was saying, I have everything organized for you. I wasn’t sure if you wanted it alphabetically or by the date they died, so I have two versions. I hope you can read my handwriting.”
I was half tempted to tell her an Excel spreadsheet would have been easier, but I decided against it.
“Um, gee, thanks, Mom.”
“You can get started first thing tomorrow morning. Not that I’m telling you how to begin, but I do know Cindy Dolton takes her dog, Bundles, to the dog park every morning at six. She was Minnie Bendelson’s roommate at the hospital before poor Minnie passed. I met Cindy when I stopped in to visit Minnie that first day and got an earful about Bundles and the dog park. Once they lift Streetman’s suspension I’ll be able to take him back there.”
My eyes popped open.
“His suspension?”
“Apparently there were some issues with the previous owner. Streetman is neutered, mind you, but still has a propensity for amorous advances with female dogs. Some of their owners filed a complaint.”
This dog is getting worse by the minute.
“I see.”
“Anyway, I was sure Minnie would be out of the hospital in a day or so, and all of a sudden, she’s dead. Like that. You can find out what Cindy knows when you meet her.”
“Six a.m.? You said six a.m.? That’s when she’s going to be at the dog park?”
“You can’t expect little Bundles to hold it past that hour, can you? Of course that’s when you’ll find her in the dog park. She’ll be easy to spot. She has short gray hair, and Bundles is a small, curly-haired white dog. A poodle mix, I think.”
“What about Edna Mae Langford? Oh, and before I forget, I met two ladies on the plan, twins actually, who were friends with Edna Mae. That is, if it’s the same Edna Mae, and I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Who were the twins?”
“Gertie and Trudy.”
“I don’t know them. Did they give you a last name?”
“No, but they said they live in The Lillian.”
“The Lillian? They must be in their nineties.”
“Um, yeah. I think they said ninety-four. Uh, is that the place people go for . . . um . . . their final decade?”
My mother’s mouth literally fell open.
“I wouldn’t quite put it so bluntly, but it’s the place to go when you want to live the remainder of your life in opulence and comfort. It’s styled after one of those fancy old European resorts. If it’s still standing when I’m ninety, I’ll consider it.”
I gave her a nod. My idea of opulence and comfort was anything above a Motel 6. What have I been missing?
“Anyway, Gertie and Trudy told me they wanted Edna Mae to move to The Lillian.”
“Edna Mae was too young. Still in her eighties.”
Eighties. The pinnacle of youth. Must be the nineties are the cutoff for old age around here.
“So, uh, getting back to her death. She died in the hospital, too. Like Minnie. Of course, getting pneumonia is kind of common after breaking a hip. Strange, huh? And from what I remember about Edna Mae when I met her a few years ago, she used to be a heavy smoker. That probably didn’t help. No book curse there, Mom. And it would be hard to make a case for foul play. Might as well strike that one off the list and save myself some time.”
“With the pneumonia part, sure, but what about the accident itself?”
“Are you saying that someone caused her to fall in her own driveway? How? How could that have happened?”
“How? I’ll tell you how. Edna went outside to get the mail and tripped over a small pile of those gravel rocks from her yard that wound up right in front of the mailbox.”
“Mom, the birds are notorious for uprooting the gravel and small rocks. Every time I visit, I’m always sweeping the patio for you.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t birds this time.”
I sighed as I reached for her notebook.
“If I’m going to get started before six in the morning, this is going to be an early night for me. Let me see the rest of your list.”
I scanned the names and information. My mother had compiled more data than the IRS and DMV combined. Listed were names, friends, relatives, hobbies, and miscellaneous comments, such as “Refuses to use the utensils in a restaurant. Brings her own disposable plastic ones.”
Undoubtedly, retirement had given my mother a new occupation—busybody. I made a mental note to kee
p working until I collapsed at my desk or was carted off on a gurney.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about anyone on the list. One retired teacher, two retired bookkeepers, and two retired homemakers. Typical occupations for that generation. I was about to close the notebook when my mother added one more sheet of paper.
“Oh, this almost slipped my mind. I didn’t get a chance to add this information to the notebook. It’s still on a piece of scrap paper.”
“What is it?”
“A list of their spouses and what they do or did for a living.”
I scanned that list quickly and again, no surprises, unless I considered the large X across one of the occupations to be unusual.
“You have a big X across the pastry chef, Mom. What does that mean? Is he deceased?”
“No, that’s for Jeanette’s ex-husband. They’ve been divorced for years. Told me she couldn’t wait to go back to her maiden name—Tomilson—and didn’t plan on changing it anytime soon. She’s got a boyfriend in the area but keeps it very hush-hush. He might be married for all I know. That could be a motive, you know. I mean, if he was married and his wife tried to kill Jeanette.”
“Even if that were true, Mom, I don’t know how that could possibly relate to the other deaths. Never mind. I’ll get started in the morning and see what I can do. Remember, I’m only going to be here for a little over a week.”
“Then you’ll need to work hard. I’m not going to get a night’s sleep until I have answers.”
“Well, I intend to get them. I’m exhausted.”
Every bone in my body started to creak as I stood. I was about to say good night when I suddenly realized something. “Mom, how do you suppose the person who sent the e-mails got your addresses? Are they listed somewhere?”
“The library has a list for the book club. And they’re listed in the different clubs that people belong to. Minnie Bendelson’s was listed with the Doggie Park Friends Club, Marilyn Scutt’s was listed with the Lady Putters and—”
