Booked 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Aaagh.”

  She had a point. I hated the thought of digging through someone’s trash, but then again, if I could link that empty box of cane sugar to Thelmalee’s death, I’d have part of the book curse figured out. After all, it wasn’t as if someone was going to confess to all of this nonsense.

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll go after dinner. That’ll give me enough time to get back for the evening news. Did they say what time the librarian would be on?”

  “At six. So, let’s eat a bit earlier. At four-thirty. That’ll give you an hour. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No, I have to stay here. What if one of the book club women calls? Or Streetman needs to go out? You’ll be fine, honey. It won’t get dark until seven or so. You’ll be back way before then. In time to see what that Gretchen Morin has to say.”

  I shrugged as I tossed the empty water bottle into the recycling basket by the laundry room.

  “It’s almost four now, Mom. I’m going to answer some e-mails and then review my wardrobe.”

  “Your wardrobe?”

  “Yep, for the finest garbage-rooting, trash-sifting outfit I can find.”

  * * *

  At precisely 5:36, I pulled into the parking lot of Nolan and Nolan. It was totally empty. There were no lights on in the office. I followed the side driveway to the rear of the building and, sure enough, I found myself looking straight at two small white and red Dumpsters.

  I got out of the car quickly and put on a long pair of obnoxious yellow rubber gloves my mother had been saving for “something major that needs to be cleaned.” I walked over to the first Dumpster and lifted the lid—recycling. Nothing but bottles, cans, and lots of cardboard boxes. If I’d bothered to take a closer look, I would have seen the recycling emblem on the side of the Dumpster. Yet another reason why I wasn’t cut out for investigative work.

  “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre” was waiting for me one Dumpster over. At least I prayed it was. I lifted the lid and peered inside. A few heavy black plastic bags and a bountiful supply of white kitchen-size trash bags. It has to be the kitchen size. Go for it.

  Opening a sealed plastic trash bag while wearing heavy rubber gloves was impossible. I did the next best thing. I ripped a small hole on the top and moved all sorts of paper products around. Used coffee cups, wooden stir sticks, napkins, plates, and a few paper containers from a Chinese restaurant. No sugar cane box. On to the next bag. Same story, only this time it was two small pizza boxes. I had barely punched a hole into the third bag when I was blinded by blue and red headlights. The sheriff’s posse!

  If my daughter could have seen me leaning headfirst into a Dumpster, yellow rubber gloves up to my elbows and police car flashers on my rear end, she’d be doubled over in hysterics. I couldn’t believe my own mother, her grandmother, had put me up to this; and I, for one, wasn’t laughing.

  A deputy in his late fifties or early sixties got out of the car and walked toward me. Not a volunteer posse member, but a sheriff’s deputy. I could read the large yellow lettering on his vehicle. MCSO. Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. The volunteer posse cars looked the same but didn’t have those letters. I knew the posse handled routine matters like conducting welfare checks and responding to nuisance calls. Serious matters were relegated to the deputies. Terrific. They sent the big guns after me.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to go through the Dumpsters. Got a call from dispatch. The people living in the complex behind you got suspicious. Thought you might be planting something dangerous.”

  Ma’am? When did I become a ma’am? Must be these garbage-rooting clothes.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I know. I know. But I have no choice. You see, I was at the realty office today and I made myself a cup of coffee. When I was done, I threw the stirrer and some napkins in the trash. And I think my gold bracelet came undone and went in there with it. By the time I realized, the office had closed. I really, really need to find that bracelet. It was a gift from my mother and she would be, um . . . let’s just say it wouldn’t go over well.”

  I wiped moisture from my eyes, hoping the deputy would mistake it for sentiment and not what it really was—sweat.

  He took a breath and looked at his watch. “Okay. You can have a few more minutes.”

  “Thank you so much. I know I’ll find it.”

  “I’d stay to give you a hand, but I’ve got another stop to make. Don’t take all night. I’ll be swinging back by here.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. I understand. I appreciate it. And please tell the residents behind us they have nothing to worry about.”

  “Shall do.”

  The deputy got back in his car and I turned around to look at the apartments, trying to suppress the urge I had to give them an old-fashioned Bronx salute. Instead, I made a grunting sound and went back to the plastic bag with the recently punched hole in it. No dice there either. More plates, cups, and crumpled pieces of paper. There had to be a week’s worth of office litter inside the Dumpster, and I was getting annoyed. After all, the bag I wanted should have been on the top. I decided to take another approach and reach for a bag that was off to the side, figuring that maybe it started off on top of the bigger bags and rolled over.

  I tore into that one full force, only to have liquid shoot up into my face. Damn! Full cups of coffee. Who threw away full cups of coffee? By now I was really getting exasperated. I was certain the people living in The Presidential Arms complex were watching my sideshow intently. Who wouldn’t? It was probably the best reality show on TV that evening.

  Mumbling a few choice words, I tossed the coffee-filled bag back into the Dumpster and grabbed the bag that was on the other side. I had to make it quick for fear the deputy sheriff would be circling back any minute. Like a desperate gambler, I muttered, “Come on, baby, Mama needs a new pair of shoes,” and ripped the side seam of the bag wide open. PAY DIRT! The sugar cane box was inches from my hand. I unzipped the Vera Bradley and stuffed the cardboard box inside, grinning like a toothless baboon who’d just been given a bowl of mashed bananas.

  YAHOO! I was absolutely ecstatic as I flung the Vera Bradley over my shoulder and tossed the white plastic bag back into the Dumpster along with the yellow gloves. That’s right, Mom. I’m throwing them away. I’ll buy you a new pair. I’m not going to wash these out! I was about to walk back to my car when I realized a piece of trash had fallen on the ground. It was an e-mail message someone had printed out. Part of it was missing, including the address, but the sentence I saw was enough to convince me there was more to the sugar cane box.

  Listen, it’s getting out of control. I’m afraid

  someone is really going to be murdered.

  And put a muzzle on your—

  A muzzle on your what? Your wife? Your husband? Not a dog. Who? Too bad the paper was torn so I couldn’t see the rest of the message.

  I jumped into the car and headed right out of the parking lot. Good night, Presidential Arms, because the real reality show is about to begin.

  Chapter 15

  “Mom!” I shouted, shoving the front door wide open. “I found it! I found it! And that’s not all!”

  “SHH! That news segment is coming on. What took you so long? Never mind. You didn’t miss anything. Quick. Sit down. The empty box isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Turn the sound up. I need to wash my hands. I was rooting through a Dumpster. A Dumpster!” I was practically screaming.

  “Shh. Tell me after the show. And whatever you do, don’t try to move Streetman from the floral chair. He’s likely to snap off your fingers. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he rests.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t bite.”

  “He doesn’t. Unless you disturb him. Then he snaps. Snaps, mind you, not bites.”

  “Yeesh. I’ll take the armchair.”

  Plunking myself down, I stared at the TV screen and watched as the feature was introduced. Typical studio set
ting for an interview. Gretchen Morin stood out as soon as the segment began. Her long blond hair framed her shoulders and hung gracefully over her sleeveless blue dress. She was seated on a stool facing Nina Alvarez, the evening anchor. Both women were holding copies of The Twelfth Arrondissement.

  “I’ve DVR’d this,” my mother whispered. “In case we need to review it.”

  I was about to say something when Nina Alvarez spoke.

  “This evening we’re pleased to welcome Gretchen Morin, the librarian at Sun City West Library, for what’s turning out to be quite the book stir. I’m holding a copy of a little-known gothic romance-mystery that some of its readers believe put a curse on them. Gretchen, can you tell us more?”

  “Certainly, Nina, and thank you for inviting me. The book, The Twelfth Arrondissement, is just that—a gothic romance-mystery by an upcoming author, Lily Margot Gerald.”

  At that point, Gretchen held the book in the air as if it were a royal baby being put on display for the realm. She cleared her throat softly. “Having read the book, I can tell you it has a moving plotline, well-developed characters, and some interesting twists and turns.”

  “What about the curse, Gretchen?” Nina broke in. “Can you tell us about that?”

  Gretchen looked a bit put off. “The novel was selected as a book of the month by the Sun City West Booked 4 Murder book club.”

  At which point my mother pointed a finger at the screen and yelled, “Liar!”

  “Shh. I want to hear this.”

  Gretchen went on. “Unfortunately, shortly after the club members started to read the book, four of them died unexpectedly and a fifth had a close encounter with death.”

  “Here it comes, Mom. Here it comes. Nina is going to push her for more information.”

  “Shh. Now you’re the one who’s interrupting. Listen.”

  The TV banter continued. “Oh my goodness, Gretchen. No wonder it got the reputation of being cursed. When you say these club members died unexpectedly, can you expound on that for our viewers?”

  “I don’t have police or hospital reports, but I do know one of them died in a car crash, two died in the hospital, and one succumbed from a bee sting. Oh, yes. Another was almost poisoned by carbon monoxide.”

  “Whoa. That’s enough for me to select another book for my fall reading. Seriously, do you think people are overreacting about this alleged book curse?”

  “I most certainly do. As I mentioned before, it’s a quality book that deserves a large readership.”

  “If that’s the case, how come no one has heard about the book?”

  “That’s not unusual. It takes up-and-coming authors quite a while to get noticed. Even the famous ones, whose names are bandied about, were unknowns at one juncture in time.”

  “True. True. But none of them had books associated with such a high number of deaths. What percent of the book club passed away since they began reading the book?”

  “About thirty percent.”

  “So approximately one-third. I would venture that number is more than an anomaly. And that number doesn’t include the person who nearly died. Correct?”

  Gretchen stared into the camera. “Yes.”

  “You said earlier you thought this was a well-written book. Did you notice anything unusual about the book? Hidden messages? Spells?”

  “No, nothing of the sort.”

  Nina Alvarez leaned closer to Gretchen. “Let me be quite frank. Do you believe the book is cursed in any way?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Well, it’s certainly getting that reputation. I wouldn’t be surprised if people purchase it to send to their enemies.”

  Like a well-planned paid advertisement, Gretchen held up the book again. “Books cannot be cursed. And if people do buy the book for nefarious purposes, all they’ll find is an interesting novel, well worth reading. Again, no book curse. This is the twenty-first century.”

  “And there you have it, viewers. No curse. Still, I’d put a warning on the jacket—Read at Your Own Risk. Thank you, Gretchen, for joining us this evening. Oh, and by the way, when will the book club be discussing this novel?”

  “At their meeting this Wednesday in the library.”

  “Can anyone attend?”

  “Absolutely. We have a large room and lots of chairs.”

  “Get out your event calendars, folks. This may be one meeting you might enjoy attending. I know our news crew will plan to be there. And now, over to you, Kimberly, for the weather.”

  The screen changed abruptly and a tall, slender woman with short dark hair approached the weather map and began to talk. My mother clicked the Mute button just as the phone rang. I leaned back and watched the visual as I listened to my mother’s end of the conversation.

  “Yes, we just finished watching it.... Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . . I thought so, too. That witch wants everyone to read the book. Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . . No, no, I don’t think you need to bring your priest to the book club meeting. It’s a book club, not an exorcism. Uh-huh. Okay. Sure. Talk to you tomorrow. Uh-huh. Bye.”

  “That was Cecilia Flanagan from the club. You haven’t met her. If you join me tomorrow at the food bank, you’ll get to meet her and her sister.”

  “The food bank?” Now what?

  “Oh, I forgot to mention it. I volunteer at the food bank a few Saturdays a month.”

  “That’s great, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll use that time to track down some more leads. And speaking of which, I’ve got to check that sugar cane box and show you what I found in the Dumpster.”

  I took the sugar cane box from the Vera Bradley bag and went into the guest room to grab the cardboard tab I found under the bush by the pool.

  “This better match. After all I went through tonight, it better match,” I muttered.

  I held the sugar cane box with one hand and the tab with the other. Like a kid whose science experiment just yielded a frothy volcano, I couldn’t control the exhilaration I felt.

  “It’s a perfect fit! A perfect fit! Like Cinderella’s shoe for a murderer. Oh my God, Mom, it’s a match! This proves Josie Nolan was responsible for Thelmalee’s death. And I found another bit of evidence that proves Josie wasn’t working alone. Look!”

  At that point I handed my mother the ripped e-mail I found behind the realty company. “Don’t you see? Josie Nolan’s probably in this deeper than mud in Missouri. I knew it the minute I saw her with the librarian that night.”

  For a brief second, I felt like Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, and Sherlock Holmes all rolled into one package. I could hardly contain myself. “I did it, Mom. I did it. No book curse. Just murder.”

  My mother put the note on the table and muttered two words that instantly deflated my growing ego. “Circumstantial evidence.”

  “Huh? Do you even know what that means, or are you simply saying that because you’ve heard it on TV?”

  “Of course I know what it means, and that’s what we have here—circumstantial evidence. And here’s another word for you—motive. Motive. What motive would Josie or any of those pool women have to kill Thelmalee? Don’t give me that look. You did a great job. A wonderful job. . . .”

  At that point, my mother walked over and gave me a hug. “It’s just that it’s such a small piece in this entire book curse, honey.”

  “Do you think we should call the sheriff’s posse station and let them know what we’ve discovered?”

  “NO! Absolutely not. They’ll just put this stuff in a box somewhere and ignore the whole thing. And for all I know, they could arrest you for tampering with evidence.”

  “Tampering with evidence? Now it’s tampering with evidence? When you wanted me to look for it, it was just finding evidence.”

  “Don’t you need a search warrant or something?” my mother asked.

  “To go through garbage? Which, by the way, was your idea. My God, Mom. You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Look, Phee. Let’s put this evidence in a plastic bin and hold
on to it while you continue your investigation.”

  “You make it sound as if I know what I’m doing. I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, I am. Something in that police department back in Minnesota must have rubbed off on you.”

  Chapter 16

  My mother had already walked the dog and left for the food bank by the time I had gotten out of bed, showered, and dressed. Sitting at the kitchen table, I couldn’t help but mull over the fact she volunteered in her community. And by mull over, what I really meant was, feel guilty. Truth of the matter was, I hadn’t “given back” to my community since my daughter started college.

  In the flurry of years between my daughter’s elementary school and high school graduation, I had participated in countless bake sales, bowl-a-thons, dance marathons, car washes, raffles, and anything else that raised funds for the needy, the sick, and the four-legged. But with my daughter on her own as a first-year teacher in St. Cloud, I centered on work and work only. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had become much more insulated. That was, until I signed on for my new role as de facto investigator for cursed books. Crazy as the situation was, I was beginning to think of it as some sort of community service. After all, I wasn’t getting paid, and I certainly wasn’t getting a promotion.

  The cream blended into my coffee as I thought about a possible motive for Josie and the sunbathers, but none of it made sense. Could it have been a real-estate deal gone bad? I’d read about those things and even saw versions of them on 48 Hours. Still, it wasn’t adding up. Not yet, anyway. No sooner had I lifted the cup to my mouth when I saw the familiar red and blue flashers out the window. The sheriff’s posse? Now what?

  Taking a quick gulp, I walked over to the window for a closer look. Not the posse. It was the fire truck and they had stopped in front of Jeanette’s house again. My first thought was that someone had succeeded in murdering her. Make that 35%, Gretchen.

  I grabbed my set of keys and made sure the door locked behind me. No sense inviting trouble if indeed some nutcase was making the rounds of the neighborhood. Besides, Streetman didn’t strike me as much of a watchdog. I headed straight across our terra-cotta path to the sidewalk and hurried across the street. Amazing. Herb Garrett was already standing in front of the fire truck and waved his hand to acknowledge me. He appeared to be holding in his stomach. I was afraid he’d lose his breath any moment.