by J. C. Eaton
Sure enough, I spied my mother standing next to Cecilia. It was impossible not to miss them. With my mother’s flaming red hair—her latest color choice following the mulled wine fiasco—and Streetman sporting the green-and-tan-plaid doggy sweater he won at the Irish leprechaun contest on St. Patrick’s Day, they were a stark contrast to the woman dressed entirely in black: Cecilia. And by entirely, I mean entirely—black pants, a long, black coat, and a black cloche. Oh, and a black scarf, too, in case the ensemble needed more color.
True, it was the end of March and the days were considerably warmer, but the mornings were downright frigid. My mother’s car was the only one parked at the far end of the lot. Both women stood facing the small train tracks that circled around an idyllic village complete with tiny houses, stores, a school, and a church.
With her hands hugging her hips and Streetman’s leash wrapped around one of them, my mother looked as if she was surveying the aftermath of a hurricane. Cecilia, on the other hand, stood perfectly still, her hands in the pockets of her coat. As soon as they heard my car pull up, they turned.
“Okay, I’m here!” I shouted to be heard above the slamming of the car door. “Where’s this supposedly dead body?”
The minute he heard my voice, Streetman positioned himself between my mother’s legs. She waved me over to the edge of the display and pointed. “Well, doesn’t that look like an arm to you?”
“Where? All I see are train tracks and little houses.”
“Take a closer look under those benches at the far side of the tracks. On the right. Looks like an arm is protruding.”
I squinted and stared. Just past the benches was a drop-off that morphed into some sort of a garden area with lan-tanas, boxwoods, and Mexican bird of paradise plants. “Like I said on the phone, Mom, it could be anything. Did either of you try to get a closer look?”
“With Streetman, I couldn’t,” my mother said. “He’d pee all over the expensive trains and next thing you know, the Rec Center would be sending me a bill for damages.”
Cecilia, who was still standing upright with her hands in her pockets, shook her head. “I was afraid I’d trip over the train tracks, and to get to the benches from the other side, I’d have to climb that steep incline. Who puts benches where seniors can’t even get to them?”
I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll venture across the tracks and take a look. I don’t feel like walking all around to the other side.”
“You should be fine,” Cecilia said. “The trains don’t start running until nine forty-five.”
“Seriously? These trains run?”
“Of course they do,” she said. “The electricity is hooked up to the same lighting as those pole lamps. And the only reason I know is because last year the lighting went out, and the Rec Center people took their own sweet time fixing it. It was only when the Railroad Club pitched a fit about the trains not being able to run that they fixed the electrical circuit. Or whatever it was.”
“Great. Good to know. Give me a second.”
I climbed over a small bed of granite rocks and sidestepped across the first set of train tracks. “Did you mention this to anyone else who walked here this morning?”
“I didn’t see anyone else. Everyone’s walking at the new setup on Meeker Boulevard. They installed some cushy material and posted flashing lights so you can tell how fast you’re moving.”
“Why do people need to know how fast they’re walking?”
Cecilia and my mother both shrugged.
Then my mother spoke. “I have no idea. Another way to spend money around here. Look around, Phee, do you see anything yet?”
“How can I? I’m still in the middle of the setup. Give me a minute.”
The ground wasn’t meant for walking or, in this case, trespassing across a costly model train exhibit. I took my time, making sure my feet were steady as I maneuvered around small rocks, assorted pebbles, and an abundance of gravel. Finally, I was in full view of the bench with the questionable object beneath it.
I bent down, leaned forward, and caught my breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. For a moment, I thought I detected the scent of cinnamon rolls, but it dissipated quickly. Maybe I was hungrier than I thought.
“What?” my mother shouted. “What do you see?”
It was an arm all right. There was no mistaking it. As for the rest of the torso, it was draped precariously over the berm a few feet from the bench. No wonder Cecilia and my mother couldn’t see it. It was almost as if the poor victim had tried to climb up, having succumbed to whatever demise did him in. Definitely a him and not a her. Not many women had dark hair on their arms and hands. Or chrome domes with feathery wisps of hair at the base. But it was the heavy burgundy sweatshirt with the words, “Railroad Dude # 1” on the back that was the dead giveaway. No pun intended.
“Um, I think Cecilia may have hit pay dirt this time.” Then I was immediately sorry for being so insensitive and callous. “I mean, she spotted some unfortunate individual who probably suffered a heart attack or stroke. Better call the posse.”
“Get a good look, Phee. In case it turns out to be someone we know.”
And so much for sensitivity in our family. “It isn’t. I mean, I don’t think it’s anyone I recognize. Not one of Herb’s buddies or any of the men who were in that play with you.”
“So, it was a man?”
“Yes. A man.”
Cecilia crossed herself at least three times while my mother pulled out her antiquated cell phone and placed the call. I was about to work my way back to where they were standing when something caught my eye. I knew from firsthand experience, and the myriad of crime shows I watched on TV, evidence should never be tampered with, so I did the next best thing. I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a few photos.
“You’re not going to post those pictures on that Facebook thing, are you?” My mother’s voice was amplified by the still air, and I was positive half the county would hear her.
“No. Of course not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“It might be nothing, but maybe this person was hit over the head with the bottom of a shoe. I’m taking a picture of a shoe.”
“A shoe isn’t going to kill anyone. And it might have come off one of those homeless people who meander by here.”
“I don’t think this came from a homeless person. I’ll tell you why later.”
A few inches from the man’s head was a woman’s tap shoe, facing up. If I wasn’t mistaken, it looked like there was blood on the tap plate near the toe. Then again, it could’ve been the reddish dirt that was everywhere around here. As far as I could tell, the plate on the heel was clean.
Stepping gingerly so I didn’t upset a possible crime scene, I made my way back to where Cecilia and my mother were standing. Streetman had ventured out from between my mother’s legs and sauntered over to me.
“Look,” she said. “He’s ecstatic to see you.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it ecstatic.”
The dog sniffed my feet and looked up. I bent down, petted him, and told him what a good boy he was. While I petted the dog, I heard my mother on the phone.
“That’s right, Shirley. A dead body. The railroad exhibit at Beardsley. Let Lucinda know, will you?”
“Good grief, Mom! Don’t tell me you and Cecilia called the book club ladies while I was checking out the body? They’ll race over here and interfere with a possible investigation.”
“Only Myrna, Louise, and Shirley,” Cecilia muttered, then turned to my mother. “Still want me to get ahold of Herb?”
I shuddered. “Not Herb! Whatever the two of you do, do not call Herb. He’s like an old maid in pants. He’ll call all his buddies and probably announce it on that radio show he’s got. Pinochle something-or-other. Somewhere between explaining what meld is, he’ll work this discovery into the conversation.”
“Oh my gosh,” my mother said. “That reminds me. Myrna and I will be on the air next week with our murde
r mystery show. Darn that Herb, he’ll beat us to the punch.”
I shot her a look. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Thankfully,” she said, “Paul Schmidt won’t be joining us. He’s going up to Lake Powell on a fishing trip.”
Paul Schmidt, along with my mother and Myrna, as well as Herb, had radio talk shows on KSCW 103.1 FM. It was a local radio station with a commanding reach in the West Valley of Phoenix. A few months ago, in what could best be described as an “on-air debacle,” my mother’s murder mystery show and Paul’s fishing show were scheduled for the same air time. Neither one would relinquish the spot and the end result was a hodgepodge of both shows at the same time. Audiences loved it, and from that time on, they wound up doing some shows together.
“Do you hear that?” I asked. “It’s a siren. The posse is on its way.”
“Not as fast as Myrna,” my mother replied. “That’s her car pulling into the lot. And if I’m not mistaken, isn’t that Shirley’s maroon Buick turning into the driveway?”
“How did they get here so fast?” I was all but screeching.
“Shirley was on her way to the Creative Stitchers when I called. I’m not sure about Myrna.”
Within seconds, Myrna Mittleson parked her car next to mine, got out, and marched toward us. I swear, the woman looked even taller than she did the last time I saw her. Maybe it was the beehive hairdo and all that spray. “Where’s the body, Harriet? Quick! Point it out before the posse arrives.”
My mother and Cecilia stretched out their arms as Shirley approached.
She took a breath and let it out in a huff. “Lordy! What a tragic way to start a morning. Was it a heart attack?”
Myrna walked to the train exhibit and stood on the balls of her feet. “Where is it? I don’t see anything.”
“Under the bench,” I said.
“Looks like a tree branch, if you ask me. Are you sure?”
I did a mental eye roll. “Yeah, I’m sure, Myrna.”
She surveyed the scene and folded her arms across her chest. “Posse’s taking its time.” Then she looked at Cecilia. “Were you the one who called them? No wonder they’re taking their time.”
Before Cecilia or any of us could respond, the unmistakable sight of blue and red flashers on a Sun City West Sheriff’s posse vehicle came into view.
“Satisfied?” Cecilia asked Myrna.
“I suppose.”
Streetman plastered himself against my mother’s leg and she bent down to pet him. “The trauma must be getting to him.”
I tried not to groan. “What trauma? He doesn’t even know what’s going on. He’s not close enough to get a good whiff of the body. Not like the last time.”
“Shh! The deputy’s walking over here.”
“Okay. While you and Cecilia tell him what you discovered, I’m going to walk back to my car and call the office. Nate and Marshall should both be there.”
Shirley latched onto my wrist. “Oh Lordy, Phee! You don’t think it’s a heart attack at all. It’s murder, isn’t it? A full-blown murder right in the middle of the railroad exhibit.”
CHAPTER 4
Nate and Marshall were tied up with clients, so I told Augusta what was going on. “Tell whoever gets freed up first to call me.”
“What did the body look like? Could you tell if it was foul play?”
“Geez, Augusta, you’re sounding like the book club ladies. And no, I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t even see the face. Just the back of the guy’s head and one arm. But I did see a tap shoe, complete with those metal cleats on the bottom, a few feet from the head.”
“I’ve heard of dancing on a grave, but not before they got there. Think it was the murder weapon?”
“I’m not sure, but—wait a sec. I’ll email you the photos I took. Just in case.”
“In case of what? It’s not our investigation.”
“No, but if it turns out to be a suspicious death, it might wind up on our plate. The county deputies can barely keep up with the city homicides, the recent rash of hit-and-runs, and, lest I forget, the drug-related crimes. Done! I sent you the email. Forward it to Nate and Marshall.”
“Will do. And while I’m at it, want me to get a new placard for your office that reads ‘Sophie Kimball, Detective-in-Training’?”
“Very funny. See you Monday, Augusta. And thanks.”
I slipped my iPhone into my pocket and walked straight ahead to where my mother and her friends were standing. The deputy was making his way across the model train tracks.
“To the right,” my mother yelled. “Over more. About three more feet.”
Then Myrna, Shirley, and Cecilia added their commentary.
“Watch out you don’t knock over the church steeple! Step back. You need to step back.”
“Now you’re going the wrong way!”
“No! To the right. The right!”
The last time I heard directions like that, I was in the third grade and playing a game of “Hot and Cold” with my classmates.
“He’s not mapping out the Louisiana Purchase!” I announced. “Let him be. He knows where to look.”
Finally, after what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, the deputy waved to our group and shouted, “I’m calling this in.”
“What does that mean?” Cecilia asked.
I spoke slowly and enunciated every word. “That we can expect more cars.”
Sure enough, another Maricopa County Sheriff’s car arrived, only this time it wasn’t a posse car. It was one of their official vehicles, and it was followed by a county coroner’s car. No sirens, but enough flashing lights to ensure anyone coming out of a club room at Beardsley was certain to investigate.
Within minutes, a substantial crowd had engulfed the entire area. But that wasn’t the worst part of it. The official deputy car was driven by Deputy Bowman, the one who’d investigated the other unfortunate deaths in Sun City West and had had more than one unpleasant encounter with my mother’s dog.
“That’s not Streetman, is it?” He walked toward us. “That dog better be leashed and muzzled.”
As soon he said the word “muzzled,” my mother scooped up the dog and pressed him to her chest. “I’ll have you know, my little man is working on socialization, something you might want to consider for yourself.”
“Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Plunkett. Dare I ask what brought you to a possible crime scene? Oh, never mind. I don’t have an hour to sift through everything. I’ll find out from the posse volunteer. Whoever notified the posse needs to stay here so we can get a statement.”
With that, he headed to the posse car, where the volunteer was now standing, and my mother gave me a nudge. “Did you hear what he said? ‘An hour to sift through everything’? Is he implying something?”
“He doesn’t have to imply it. It’s pretty obvious. You and your friends take forever to get to the point. My gosh, the last time Cecilia was questioned by the posse, she stopped and gave the deputy a recipe for brisket.”
By now, the coroner had parked his van directly in front of the model train exhibit and walked to where the posse volunteer and Deputy Bowman were standing. I couldn’t tell what was going on because the men blocked my view of the body. Next thing I knew, the coroner walked back to the van, got in, and exited the parking lot.
“Do they intend to leave the body right there?” Myrna asked.
I watched as the van turned left on Beardsley Road. “No. Looks like the coroner’s going to remove the body from the other side of the exhibit. Just below the incline. It’s steeper, but they won’t have to sidestep over the train tracks and model village.”
Myrna put her hand under her chin and shook her head. “Darn it. I can’t see anything from here.”
“Not much to see,” I said. “The coroner’s getting out of the van and his assistant, who must have been in the passenger seat, just opened a side door and is unloading a gurney.”
Suddenly, another posse car pulled into the lot and a secon
d posse volunteer approached the scene. This time, a woman. With a medium build, gray hair pulled into a bun, and round, black glasses. Within seconds, the two posse volunteers, along with Deputy Bowman, had cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape.
“Lordy!” Shirley exclaimed. “That man must have been shot. Or stabbed. Or—”
I took a few steps to where she was standing and shook my head. “It’s just a precaution. Until they finish their investigation. Most likely it was natural causes.” Except for maybe those heavy-duty cleats on that shoe, but I’ll be darned if I open that Pandora’s box in front of my mother’s friends.
I was so fixated on the process involved to move a dead body from its resting place into a van, I hadn’t noticed Deputy Bowman had left the two posse volunteers and skirted around the crowd until he spoke from directly behind me.
“I said, Miss Kimball, may I please have a word with you?”
“Huh? What? Sorry. I was kind of engrossed.”
My mother and her friends were a few feet from me and had inched closer as soon as he spoke.
“Uh, maybe we should have this conversation in my car. If you don’t mind,” Bowman said.
“Sure. No problem.”
I gave my mother a look and shrugged. “I’ll be right back.”
As we got closer to Deputy Bowman’s car, he spoke. “This is probably a freak accident, or maybe even a medical thing, but there may be some evidence pointing to the contrary. I didn’t want to get into it with your mother and, dear God help me, that group of women that seems to be attached to the hip around here, but can you possibly fill me in on the circumstances surrounding the original call to the posse?”
“I will, if you answer my question. Is that tap shoe near the victim’s head the evidence you were referring to?”
“That old shoe? No. It probably got tossed onto the berm by one of those homeless people we get notified about. I’m referring to—Hmm, you know what I’m about to tell you must remain confidential, don’t you?”
