by J. C. Eaton
Then, Leslie Sackler made a move I never expected. She leaned over her desk as if to reach for something and knocked over a framed picture. Whatever I said seemed to make her particularly jumpy.
“Sorry about that,” she said, avoiding my question. “I’ve been meaning to get these papers better organized. Hold on, what you need is in the file.”
She walked over to a wall in the back of the office that housed a large file cabinet. Quickly, I leaned over and stood the framed photo upright. It was two girls, college aged, standing under a sign that said, GO LAWRENCE UNIVERSITY VIKINGS. Their faces shot out at me as if someone had fired a flare gun. Mystery solved. The driver of the beige SUV was Leslie Sackler, and she was Jeanette’s college friend. But why wouldn’t she acknowledge it?
By now Leslie was on her way back to the desk, and I took my chance with another bold move.
“I straightened up your picture.” I looked closer at the banner above the girls. The line underneath the slogan read, CLASS OF 1982. Then I changed the subject completely, hoping she would dismiss the entire incident.
“So, will I find the directions pretty understandable on these documents?”
“Detailed, but clear enough. Why don’t you look them over and give me a call. My numbers are on the top—office and cell phone. Maybe we can set an appointment in a few days to see how our office can help you.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I stood and took the packet. “I really appreciate your time. Especially without notice. I mean, I’m sure you must be inundated with work and family and all.”
“Work maybe, but I’m single. Never married. Just me and my four-legged buddies.”
“Well, I’m sure they keep you busy enough. Thanks so much, Leslie. I’ll be in touch. Have a great day!”
“You as well.”
I sprinted to the doorway like a spaniel on its way to the park, turning my head as I grabbed the doorknob. Leslie was already back at her desk and on the phone. Too bad this wasn’t the lottery. I would have placed a bet she was dialing Jeanette Tomilson.
Chapter 21
I had to get to a computer and I had to do it quickly. My mother’s relic of a system would take forever, and I certainly didn’t want anyone from the Sun City West Library to see what I was doing, so that meant finding a library in Sun City, a short distance from West Valley Home Mortgage Solutions. What the heck did people do before iPhones and GPS? A quick little Safari search and I was on my way. As it turned out, I was pretty close to that city’s main library on Ninety-ninth Avenue.
I headed south on Pleasant Valley Road and located the building in less than a half hour. If desert beige was the palette of choice in my mother’s community, white was the favorite in this one. The library, along with the other buildings in an enormous recreation center, was gleaming white with a sign that could be seen from the International Space Station. I grabbed the closest parking space and headed inside. With the exception of two women who were checking out books and a few people milling about, the place was practically empty. If it wasn’t for the fact that the library was carpeted, I swore I’d be able to hear my own footsteps. It was like being back in school. Only this place didn’t have signs that said, “No gum” and “Keep hands, feet and objects to yourself.”
Immediately, I found an empty computer and logged on to the free library Internet service. Then, fumbling for my credit card, I purchased a $4.95 monthly subscription to a specialized data site in order to check a source. A few quick clicks and I was all set. Except for one small detail. The information needed to be printed. I noticed the librarian standing a few feet away and motioned for her to approach. I was too afraid to leave the computer for even a split second for fear the program would turn itself off.
The small gray-haired lady with a round face and sweet smile told me it would cost a dollar for the printing. I couldn’t hand her the money quickly enough. I was so ecstatic I would have given her ten dollars. With the paper in my hand, I logged off of the computer, walked back to the car, and drove to my mother’s house. I had barely set foot in the door when her voice sounded from the other side of the house.
“So, what did you find out at the library?”
“I didn’t go there yet.” Well, not the Sun City West one. “I had to check out something else, and you’ll never guess what I found out. I even have pictures.”
“Pictures? As in photos of people having affairs or doing something scandalous? Who? Which one of the ladies?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother, nothing like that. I have a yearbook photo, well, actually more than one, of Jeanette and the owner of the beige SUV. The woman’s name is Leslie Sackler, and you’ll never guess what.”
“Enough with the guessing. Just tell me.”
“Leslie Sackler is from Wisconsin. And not only that, but she and your neighbor Jeanette were college roommates and I think . . .”
“Phee, you can tell me all of this later, but you need to get over to the library. Our library. Now. If you wait any longer, most of the people will be gone. The place is like a tomb after three, so hurry up. Jeanette and her roommate can wait.”
I threw my hands up in the air, muttered something I’d rather not repeat, turned around, and went back to the car. A tsunami had nothing on my mother.
True to her word, the Sun City West Library was packed. Not like its counterpart in Sun City, where I had used the computer. I slipped into my mother’s library unnoticed and headed straight for the fiction aisles. An elderly couple was arguing whether or not they had read one of the Tom Clancy novels, with the man finally saying, “Well, if you can’t remember, Bernice, then what’s the harm of reading it again?”
I moved to another aisle where a similar conversation was taking place. Only this time it was over a Thomas Perry novel. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a crowd of people in the reference section. And by crowd, I mean at least fifteen or more. Two clerks were trying desperately to offer assistance. I elbowed my way into the mess and shouted, “What’s going on?”
One of the clerks looked up. “Everyone wants information about curses, jinxes, and evil eyes.”
I didn’t have to ask why. I already knew. However, just to cover my tracks and provide the “official answer” to my mother, I asked why all of a sudden everyone was interested in curses.
The clerk looked at me as if I’d been living under a rock. “Haven’t you heard? Rumor has it that there’s a cursed book floating around, and it’s got everyone on edge. From now on, I only plan to read books written by well-known authors. No sense taking any chances.”
I leaned in closer to get a look at the woman’s name tag, when all of a sudden a woman’s voice shouted, “YOU’RE HARRIET PLUNKETT’S DAUGHTER! HARRIET PLUNKETT’S DAUGHTER. YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER! I HEARD YOU CAME HERE TO INVESTIGATE THE CURSE.”
The voice bellowed through the library like a subway car grinding its way to a full stop five stories below the ground. In that instance, I wanted to be ground into the dirt five stories below, too. And I looked just like my mother? I didn’t think I looked anything like her at all. I always thought I favored my father’s side of the family.
The woman screamed again, “HARRIET PLUNKETT’S DAUGHTER!”
I had to get out of there. To make matters worse, I didn’t want to run into the librarian. I had to think fast. I couldn’t very well walk all the way back to the entrance because that was where the counters and reference desks were, not to mention, her office. My only option was to head for the small door straight ahead and pray it didn’t open into a storeroom.
Horrors. It opened into a semidarkened media room where a PowerPoint presentation was about to begin. The screen read, Wealth Management from Saving to Sudden Windfalls. Before I could grasp the implication of the program, I heard a familiar voice and cringed. It was Herb Garrett.
“Hey, pretty lady! Hurry up and grab a seat. I got here early so I wouldn’t miss anything the speaker had to say. Is your mother coming?”
�
�I, uh . . . I mean, no. She’s not coming. And I walked in here by mistake. I was looking for the restroom.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “It’s shorter to go out through those double doors in front of the room and into the computer section. There’s a restroom there. Sure you don’t want to stay for the program? According to the promo I got in the mail, it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“I’m sure. I don’t have any wealth to manage.”
“Hey, hey. You never know when you’ll hit the jackpot.”
“Trust me. I won’t be hitting it anytime soon. Catch you later.”
Wasting no time, I shot out of the room and walked past the aisles of computers until I saw a door that led to the outside parking lot. A door that didn’t have an alarm. I imagined that this was one of the last libraries that hadn’t caught up to the rest of the world regarding security.
So much for picking up library chatter. All I heard were the discussions about whether they’d read a book and bits of advice straight out of the thirteenth century, thanks to the crowd in the reference section.
“Carry a red ribbon with you to avoid the evil eye.”
“Put a mirror faceup under your bed if you plan on having children; facedown if you don’t.”
“Place pepper and garlic on your doorstep to prevent intruders.”
I turned the AC up in the car and tried to digest the implications of a rumor spreading faster than a grease fire. By the time I walked into the house, I was exhausted.
It felt great to plop down on my mother’s couch and stretch out my legs. But it wasn’t as if I could actually relax. My mother was hovering over me, waiting to hear what I had gleaned.
“The library was a complete bust, unless you consider running into Herb Garrett some sort of prize. Boy does he think he’s a regular ladies’ man.”
“It’s all bravado, Phee. If it makes him feel younger, what’s the harm? And what was he doing at the library? That’s the last place I’d expect him.”
“Attending a program on wealth management.”
“I’ll be darned. I didn’t think Herb had that much money. Then again, he’s probably trying to figure out how to manage what he has. Never mind about Herb. Did you find out anything else?”
“No, only the facts we already have. The indisputable facts.” I made sure to emphasize the word “indisputable.” “Josie Nolan planted the sugar so Thelmalee would get stung, and I’m pretty sure Jeanette and her former college roommate, Leslie, are responsible for Edna Mae’s death. But motives? Shouldn’t I have found at least one motive?”
“I’ll give you a motive, if you want one. Make that two—jealousy and revenge. Would you like to hear my theory?”
Whether I wanted to hear my mother’s theory or not, I was going to, so I just nodded.
“I’ll bet you anything Thelmalee was having an affair with Josie’s husband and she figured out a way to get Thelmalee out of the picture.”
“That’s preposterous. All this time you’ve been after me to come up with evidence. Evidence. Evidence. Evidence. Like a broken record. And here you go, coming up with some theory that reads like a Danielle Steel novel.”
“I’m entitled to my theories. And you wouldn’t knock it if you saw Thelmalee.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say, if Helen of Troy was ‘the face that launched a thousand ships,’ then Thelmalee was the body that brought them all back!”
My jaw dropped wide open, and I was speechless. Luckily the phone rang and we didn’t have to continue the conversation. I flipped through the channels and re-ran the events over in my mind while my mother was otherwise engaged with who-knows-who.
“Phee, were you listening? That was Shirley. Calling to tell me she and Lucinda contacted everyone in the club to make sure they’ll be at Wednesday’s meeting.”
“And?”
“They’re all coming.”
“That’s great. I’ll either have everything figured out by then, or I’ll make such a fool out of myself you’ll have to move to another retirement community. And if any of this is going to work, I really need Josie Nolan and her sunbathing entourage to attend. Plus Jeanette’s pal, Leslie. Oh, and Jerry White. He needs to be there as well. So how do I manage that?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“At least I’m pretty certain of one thing. There was no curse. Just a nifty little diabolical plan to turn an unknown book into a best-seller overnight. But I still need proof. Proof it was all about the money. The money . . . Oh, good Lord—the money! That’s it! I’ve got to make a call.”
Before my mother could say a word, I jumped up and reached for the cell phone in my bag. Then I scrambled for my contacts list and dialed Nate.
“Nate! Oh, I’m glad I didn’t have to leave a voicemail.”
“Why? What happened?” he said.
“My brain finally kicked into gear, that’s what, and something dawned on me. Something we should have looked into days ago.”
“Okay. Tell me.”
“The Twelfth Arrondissement was self-published, right? By a Lily Margot Gerald, right?”
I wasn’t giving Nate any time to answer as my mind raced ahead.
“Well, if you’re self-published, the royalty payments have to go into your bank account, or an account you set up. Not to a publisher. Traditional publishers give you advances or quarterly payments. If you can find out where the money is going for every copy of that book, then we’ll know who the real author is. And I, for one, am putting my money, so to speak, on Gretchen Morin. So can you do it, Nate? Can you find out before Wednesday?”
“Whoa, slow down, Phee. Take a breath. Without any prompting on my part, Rolo had already looked into Gretchen’s bank accounts. There are no deposits from any book companies. The only income she receives, via direct deposit, is from her paycheck.”
“Oh.” I felt as if someone had just let the air out of all my tires. “I still think it’s her.”
“Then you’ll have to shake the tree a bit more.”
“Shake the tree? Where’d that line come from?”
“You’ve never heard that expression? Means you need to find more evidence.”
“Phooey. You sound just like my mother. Look, what if some of these deaths are totally unrelated, yet somehow are connected? You know, like that old Hitchcock movie, Strangers on a Train. You should be familiar with that one.”
Nate chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a basic course requirement for criminology.”
“Seriously? Hitchcock?”
“I’m just teasing. Sorry. But yeah, I’ve seen that movie and what you’re saying makes perfect sense. Sometimes we find isolated events that don’t seem to have any relationship with anything else, only to learn later on that they were connected after all.”
“Nate, I need to find out where that money is being deposited. Who’s pocketing it from every sale of that lousy book? I know this goes beyond cyphers and codes, and I don’t want you to get in trouble, but you said Rolo had already looked at Gretchen’s deposits. Does that mean he’s looking elsewhere?”
“I’m sure of it. I can picture him now, slugging down some awful sludge from his new juicing diet and hacking into banking numbers, routing numbers, and God knows what else. If there’s something out there, Rolo Barnes will find it. Heck, he’ll probably unearth the latest book distribution numbers from Amazon and Barnes & Noble before their CEOs ever see a report.”
“I’m at my wit’s end, Nate. I need the info, but I don’t want you or Rolo to be in any jeopardy.”
“Calm down, kiddo. I won’t, and Rolo’s so far ahead in this game no one’s going to catch up to him. You still have forty-eight hours. Which brings me to my next question. What are you going to do on Wednesday?”
“A grand finale like Miss Marple or Columbo, but without the finesse or the bumbling.”
“Ah, pick one and go for it.”
I thanked him profusely, pushed the End bu
tton, and looked at the expression on my mother’s face. I couldn’t tell if she was awestruck or horrified.
“Whatever you do, Phee, do not embarrass me.”
“Embarrass you? That’s the least of my worries. What I need to do now is get a copy of Edna Mae Langford’s death certificate. It won’t be easy. Arizona is a closed record state.”
“What does that mean? That it’ll cost me an arm and a leg if we need legal records?”
“No, well, maybe, but that’s not the point. Only family, lawyers, or private investigators can get a copy of the death certificate. I think it’s going to show a connection between Jeanette Tomilson and Edna Mae. But I’ll never be able to prove it without that death certificate. I’m sunk.”
“Not necessarily. I have connections, too, you know. Bernie Alan from the SunGlow Mortuary. That’s where they kept poor Edna Mae’s body until they shipped it to Wisconsin. And, for your information, Bernie happens to like me.”
“And you think because he likes you, he’s going to give you a copy of the death certificate? He’ll lose his job.”
“I don’t need a copy. I just need to see what’s on it. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll give Bernie a call.”
“How can you be sure he’ll do this?”
“That man has been asking me out for over a year. I’ll just make it a prerequisite for a dinner date.”
“Mother, you’re horrible. I can’t believe you’d do something like that.”
“It’s better than rooting through garbage. And besides, I haven’t had a decent steak in months.”
I couldn’t believe my mother. Then again, I couldn’t believe all the kooky things I’d done in the past week either.
Chapter 22
If I was going to pull off my grand Agatha Christie–style finale at Wednesday’s book club meeting, I desperately needed Josie Nolan to be in attendance, along with Jerry White and Leslie Sackler. Somehow I’d need to convince all of them to attend, and I had less than forty-eight hours to accomplish that miracle. I was all but chewing my nails over this while my mother fixated on the television lineup.
