Railroaded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  Rouzoni, G., petty theft

  Tartantian, T., intellectual property theft, terminated

  Vidlesson, M., continued tardiness

  Only two folders caught my attention: A. Ortiz’s unauthorized use of company equipment and T. Tartantian’s intellectual property theft. I immediately read the first letter and laughed. Apparently, Angela Ortiz used the office Xerox machine to make a copy of some recipes. I wondered what disgruntled employee turned her in to management.

  Thomas Tartantian’s letter was no laughing matter. In clear and succinct terms, he was terminated for piracy. The letter began with a legal explanation of intellectual property and went on to provide a detailed explanation of intellectual property theft. Next came the documentation that substantiated Mr. Tartantian’s termination. According to Sherrington Manufacturing, Mr. Tartantian knowingly took “property protected by the intellectual property laws.”

  I read the letter three times and thought about Kenny’s comment at Wendy’s. Could Wilbur have been privy to trade secrets, and that was what cost him his life? Then why wait a few decades to kill the guy?

  My gut feeling told me this was a much more personal deal, but I wondered if Nate and Marshall would have an entirely different take on the matter. Now wasn’t the time to text Marshall. He and his boss were immersed in a much more compelling situation. Instead, I decided to call Lyndy to see if she would be interested in grabbing an early dinner somewhere so I could unload all the stuff spinning around in my head. I figured if she was up and about, she’d answer her cell phone.

  “Hey, Phee. You must have read my mind. I was going to give you a call this afternoon. I’m dying to find out how that murder investigation is coming along. I’ve got a zillion errands to run, but we can do a late, late lunch or early, early dinner. Call it whatever you want.”

  We decided on a neat, little sushi and steak place that had a happy hour beginning at three. And while I was no fan of sushi, their tempura was unbelievable. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty full. Saturdays were like that around here. Unlike back home in Mankato, where dinner was eaten at a proper dinner hour and lunch was served midday.

  “I never thought I’d be right on the money with my theory about how the guy died.” Lyndy reached for a pan-fried dumpling and took a small bite. “How awful. I mean, the electrical shock and then WHAM! Getting hit over the head. Are they still pretty sure it was the tap shoe?”

  “Bowman wasn’t so sure at first. He was convinced it was death by electrocution until the coroner’s report agreed with you—blunt force trauma inflicted after the guy was stunned. Now he’s touting the tap-shoe theory. Face it, other than the Phillips head screwdriver, there’s not much to go on. Not that the screwdriver was used as a weapon, but it may be corroborating evidence. Worse yet, Roxanne’s petrified it’s her screwdriver.”

  “Really? Her screwdriver?”

  “Yeah. Seems tap dancers are always screwing the loose cleats back on their shoes. Often enough, according to Roxanne, that they carry those screwdrivers in their bags. Anyway, last night when we foraged through those storage units I told you about, Roxanne went to look for her screwdriver and couldn’t find it. She was certain it was in her bag.”

  “Yikes. If it turns out the screwdriver at the crime scene is hers, that will cinch it, won’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. I don’t think she killed her husband, but I’m not a Maricopa County detective. They go strictly by the evidence.”

  “What do Marshall and Nate think?”

  “They’re hoping to find other evidence once they get back from that case in Tucson.”

  “Did that friend of your mother’s ever find out anything from those Rhythm Tappers?”

  “Cecilia Flanagan. And the answer is no. Not yet. And get this. The woman who replaced Roxanne sprained her ankle, and with that Spring Fling Thing coming up pretty soon, the Rhythm Tappers gave those solos to Cecilia. Cecilia Flanagan. Can you imagine?”

  “Wow! She must be in her glory.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t exactly describe it that way. Cecilia in her glory would be reading a book in the library with her black cardigan sweater buttoned all the way up to her neck.”

  Lyndy laughed and grabbed another dumpling. “We’re awful. Talking like this.”

  “Yeah, but at least it won’t go any farther than this table. One good thing about this whole murder case is the fact that my mother has stopped nagging me about the wedding. True, I want the case to be solved and Roxanne exonerated, but if I could keep my mother’s attention on something other than the upcoming nuptials, it would be fantastic.”

  “I think it was smart of you and Marshall to go low-key on it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll save the blushing bride days for my daughter, if and when she ever decides to tie the knot with someone. Frankly, I’m still twitching over my Aunt Ina’s wacky wedding, and that was what? Two years ago. Yeesh.”

  “Tell me, what’s your next step? On the investigation, not the wedding.”

  “I really need to dig up the background on Thomas Tartantian. If Wilbur had anything to do with the guy’s termination, or if Wilbur was extorting money from him, it would be a darned good motive for murder. Much better than some model railroad aficionado upset because the club’s expansion plans didn’t call for the gauge size they liked or, worse yet, the jilted Choo-Choo Chick theory.”

  “I liked the jilted Choo-Choo Chick theory.”

  “Forget it. This one’s much more substantial.” I took a sip of my Coke and nabbed a batter-dipped shrimp from the tempura tray. “You know, on second thought, maybe I should drop this gem on Marshall’s lap. He and Nate have access to all sorts of databases that are only available to licensed detectives.”

  “Or you could get a head start with one of those fourteen-dollar-and-ninety-four-cent background check companies and go from there.”

  “Drat. You know me too well.”

  CHAPTER 22

  As tempted as I was to plunk down the lousy fourteen-plus dollars on a cookie-cutter background check late last night, I decided to hold off until I spoke with Roxanne later today. My mind was fuzzy from the bizarre circumstances surrounding her husband’s death and the ever-growing suspect list comprised of Choo-Choo Chicks, model railroad aficionados, and possible jealous Rhythm Tappers who coveted Roxanne’s solos. To top things off, a new list of suspects emerged: the recipients of reprimand letters from Wilbur’s former place of employment. And why on earth he had copies of those letters was one conundrum I didn’t feel like dealing with on a Sunday morning.

  Instead, I took a polar-bear plunge with the other brave souls in Vistancia’s pool. Polar bear in Arizona terms, that was. The pool might have been heated to eighty-seven degrees, but the outdoor temperature of sixty-four felt like sixty-four below zero.

  I rationalized it was good for my physical and emotional well-being. If I didn’t, I would have had to admit I was nuts. Even for a former Minnesotan, who once thought nothing of wearing cutoff jeans and cotton T-shirts in fifty-degree weather.

  When I returned from the pool I stuck a chuck roast in the slow cooker and ate a handful of pretzels. At least there would be a decent meal waiting for Marshall when he got back. If he made it back that afternoon. The last conversation I’d had with him didn’t sound too promising, and so far no calls or text messages. Normally, I’d reach out to him, but it sounded as if the last thing he and Nate needed was an interruption.

  My head had cleared and I decided to give the reprimand letter list another look-see. This time I read all the letters and reached the same conclusion as before. The only letter that mattered was Thomas Tartantian’s. And geez, who was turning these people in? Not that I condoned pilfering rubber bands or some extra paper clips, but honestly, the way the reprimand letters read, one would have thought the culprits walked off with the office Nespresso machine.

  I put the folders back in a neat pile and was about to grab a snack when the phone rang. Marshall! Without even
bothering to check the landline’s caller ID, I picked it up and offered the cheeriest of hellos before I realized it wasn’t Marshall.

  “It’s Aunt Ina! You sound chipper today, Phee. And you’ll be even happier when you hear what I’m about to tell you.”

  Define “happier.” “Um, hi, Aunt Ina. What’s up?”

  “You know that clarinet player who got slapped with the restraining order? Montrose Lamont? Well, Louis had a gig with him last night, along with some other men, and afterward, when he’d had enough alcohol to loosen up, he told Louis he’d seen Wilbur Maines paying off someone by the name of . . . hold on a minute, will you . . . LOUIS! What was that man’s name? Big Scootie? Big Scottie? What? . . . Oh, I’m back, Phee. Sorry about that. The man’s name—and it must be his nickname—is Big Scuttie. Maybe Wilbur was being blackmailed, and when he couldn’t pay up this Big Scuttie murdered him.”

  “Golly, Aunt Ina, I’m not sure—”

  “You and Marshall can thank me later.”

  “Did Uncle Louis happen to find out where this transaction took place?”

  “Hold on. LOUIS!!!”

  I held the receiver away from my ear and waited.

  Aunt Ina was back on the line in a nanosecond. “He must have gone into the bedroom. No sense having you wait on the line. If I find out, I’ll let you know. I was going to call Roxanne and tell her myself, but I didn’t want to get her hopes up.”

  “Good idea. Good thinking.”

  “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but Louis and I are going to an art reception in Scottsdale this afternoon. A new artist from Berlin, who only paints while naked, with his eyes closed. Fascinating oil paintings, although Louis finds the colors somewhat disturbing.”

  I find the whole idea disturbing and I hope he doesn’t plan on giving a demonstration. “Okay. Have a wonderful time. And thanks for calling.”

  My aunt’s revelation put a whole new spin on a motive for Wilbur’s death. But I seriously doubted Big Scuttie was the one responsible. The fact that Wilbur was seen handing the guy money could have been anything. Railroad club business, money owed for something Wilbur purchased from Big Scuttie, or even a gambling debt. For all any of us knew, Wilbur could have been one of those serious card players who got in over his head. I’d certainly come across a few of those. I made a mental note to ask Roxanne if Wilbur owed anyone a substantial sum of money. However, I never got the chance when the three of us met at my mother’s house later in the day.

  “Forget the file-folder information,” my mother announced as soon as I got in the door. “We’ll get to it later.”

  Roxanne was seated in one of the floral chairs and Streetman was under the coffee table. Upon closer inspection, I realized my mother had set out an assortment of juices and a tray of cheese, crackers, and pepperoni. No wonder the dog was poised and at the ready if something were to drop.

  I waved hello to Roxanne and turned to my mother. “What do you mean?”

  Before my mom could answer, Roxanne motioned me over to the chair next to hers. “I can’t believe I’m such a dunderhead. People will be convinced I murdered my husband. The file-folder info can wait. Wilbur’s celebration of life can’t. Not if I want to keep my head above water. I was in the process of planning a celebration of Wilbur’s life to be held at the Railroad Club room this week and it never happened. When that Neanderthal of a deputy put me in handcuffs I completely forgot about the memorial plans. I’ve done nothing! Absolutely nothing! Everyone will be convinced I’m a cold, calculating black widow.”

  I reached for a cracker and was about to put it in my mouth when Streetman got up on his rear legs, circled around, and whined. I wondered if that was the “doggy dance” my mother had told me about. “Fine, you can have this one, but only this one.” I gave him the cracker and then leaned toward Roxanne. “No one will think that. Lots of people don’t have funerals or memorials for their loved ones.” They take the money and run. “People will understand.” They won’t.

  She shook her head. “Not in this case. I’ve got to get that celebration planned and completed by week’s end and I hardly know where to begin.”

  My mother sat on the couch and proceeded to put a few pepperoni slices between two crackers. “Now do you see why the folders have to wait? We’ve got to get Wilbur’s celebration planned immediately. And whatever you do, don’t let your aunt Ina in on this or Roxanne will wind up with some New-Age, hippie-dippie thing that will leave all of us in a state of shock.”

  “No problem there,” I said.

  “Roxanne’s going to contact Grace Svoboda and Evelyn Watross at the Railroad Club tomorrow. They’re the ones who manage the room. Once she gets a definitive date and time for next week, she can give that to the caterer.”

  I snatched another cracker and closed my hand around it, hoping the dog wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, he did. Streetman got up on his hind legs and twirled around a few times. Then he whined. I acquiesced and handed him the cracker. “What caterer?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re trying to work out, Phee,” my mother said. “We need to decide. Bagels ’N More always puts on a nice spread, but so does the Homey Hut. Then you’ve got the usual fanfare from all those chain restaurants, not to mention private caterers.”

  “Um, I really don’t want to sound sexist, but that club is mostly men, and they’ll probably be happier with pizza and wings as opposed to bagels and spreads.” Or worse yet, those little cucumber sandwiches from the Homey Hut.

  “I think Phee makes a good point,” Roxanne said. “Besides, pizza is easy, and one of those restaurants won’t need a lot of lead time. A week should be fine. They can also bring the soft drinks. I’m not supplying alcohol.”

  My mother nodded and stood. “Let me get a pad and pen to write this down.” She walked toward the kitchen.

  “While we’re waiting,” I said to Roxanne, “maybe I can read you the list of names from those folders and you can tell me if any of them jump out at you.”

  “I, er . . .”

  “I’ll read them off fast. Here goes.”

  From Albus to Vidlesson, I read off the names as if it was a high-school honor roll. Roxanne furrowed her brow and didn’t make a move. “Tartantian. I remember hearing that name. It was a long time ago. Wilbur was on the phone with someone, and at first I thought he said, ‘tarantula.’ I asked him about it when he got off the phone and he said, ‘Not tarantula, Tartantian.’ He told me it was a guy who worked in his office. That’s all I know.”

  Just then, my mother returned with her pad and pen. “I suggest Florencia’s Pizza on Camino del Sol or Ray’s Pizza on Grand.”

  “I’ll call for prices and confirm,” Roxanne replied. “Now what? I’ve never planned a celebration of life before.”

  My mother put the pad on the coffee table and moved the pen around in her hand. “Think of it as a birthday party without the cake or games.”

  “Uh, what my mother means is, someone speaks about the deceased’s life and then other people say some nice things. Sometimes there’s a slide show or a PowerPoint presentation.”

  Roxanne opened her mouth slightly, but no words came out.

  I decided to keep going. “Sometimes someone plays the guitar or sings a song. Then everyone eats.”

  Finally she spoke, but her words were choppy, and it sounded as if she might cry. “All I envisioned was a quiet little get-together with food. Not a production with slides or, worse yet, some computer thing.”

  “See what you’ve done, Phee,” my mother whispered. “You’ve upset her.”

  “I, I . . .”

  Roxanne wrung her hands and sighed. “It’s okay, Harriet. Phee didn’t upset me. This whole mess has taken its toll on me. I can’t get to sleep without spraying lavender mist on my pillow. And even then, I lay in bed wondering if that horrid deputy is going to break down the door to arrest me again.”

  “Um, I’ve been to a few of these memorials or celebrations”—some worse than others—�
�and keeping it simple is a good idea. Maybe just a big poster board with photos of Wilbur and some fond memories. You don’t need a fancy program.” Or, heaven help us, a singer. Why did I even mention that?

  Roxanne took a sip of her juice and nodded. “Maybe Grace or Evelyn will think of something when I speak with them. Maybe even a farewell train run in Wilbur’s honor.”

  “Good,” I said. “Glad that’s all settled. Anyway, about those file folders and the photos, I was wondering if—”

  “I knew anything about those people?” Roxanne asked. “Because I don’t. Wilbur never shared office information with me. Or any information, for that matter. Otherwise I’d have a darn good idea which Choo-Choo Chicks he was messing with. Listen, I know this is an uncomfortable situation for you because your boss and fiancé were hired to assist the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. But I’m willing to take my chances if you are. I didn’t kill my husband and maybe, just maybe, someone in one of those file folders did.”

  My throat suddenly felt tight. “Are you asking me to share this with them?”

  “Only them. The people in the file folders. Not those dreadful deputies.”

  There were only eleven file-folder names. Not that daunting of a task to see if any of them now resided in the area. And even though the offenses were minor, I was a firm believer in that old adage, People have killed for less. I was also a believer in Ricky Ricardo’s often-quoted words, “Lucy, you’ve got some ’splaining to do.” And once Marshall got home, I’d have lots of ’splaining to do myself, beginning with the storage unit escapade and culminating with a new to-do list for the Wilbur Maines investigation.

  CHAPTER 23

  Given what little Roxanne knew about her late husband’s business, I doubted she would have known anything about money crossing hands between Wilbur and Big Scuttie. I put that thought on the back burner and instead tried my own hand at matching my mother’s Sun City West phone book directory with the eleven names from the file folder. My mother couldn’t shove the directory at me fast enough when I left her house. “Here, this will get you started.”