by J. C. Eaton
“Three? Three women? Wilbur gave three women that charm?”
“Three that we know of. That scoundrel could’ve purchased those charms by the dozen.”
“Oh my gosh. This is awful. Awful. Unless, of course, those charms were some sort of swag. You know, the promotional stuff vendors give away at events. Maybe this is nothing.” Who am I kidding? Not with that engraving on the back.
“I don’t think so. Cecilia took a close look at the charm with a magnifying glass and it’s fourteen carat gold.”
“Yeesh.”
“You can say that again. Poor Cecilia. She was barely coherent the first time she called me, and I didn’t know who it was. Her words were so garbled, all I heard was something that sounded like ‘disaster.’ I thought someone was having a stroke and told the person to call nine-one-one. When Cecilia called me back the second time and explained, it all made sense. At least she was more composed that time.”
“That’s good, I suppose. Did she arrange meetings with them? It would probably be best if she met them on different days, or at different places.”
“Too late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cecilia got so flustered she told each woman to meet her at Bagels ’N More the day after tomorrow. At seven in the evening.”
“All of them at once? Can’t she call and change the arrangements?”
“No. Because in all her flusterment—is that a word? It should be—well, needless to say, Cecilia neglected to get their names and contact info.”
“Oh brother.”
“Mark it on your calendar, Phee. In bold ink. You won’t want to be late.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. This was your idea. Your brainstorm. You need to be there, along with the rest of us.”
“Please don’t tell me all the book club ladies are going.”
“Even your aunt Ina. And you know how busy her schedule is. Mark it down. Seven this Wednesday. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be a catfight. Next time run these things through me. I know how these women are.”
“I, er, um . . .”
“Seven o’clock. Bagels ’N More. The day after tomorrow.”
With that, the call ended, and I stood motionless at Augusta’s desk. I couldn’t get over the fact that three women all claimed to have lost a gold, train-shaped charm that was still in its little robin’s-egg blue pouch. And worse than that, how were they going to react when they realized their precious memento wasn’t one-of-a-kind?
“You look like you’ve seen the cable bill, hon,” Marshall said when I returned to the breakroom. “Don’t tell me it really was your mother on the phone.”
I nodded and let out a long, slow breath. “You won’t believe this. None of you will. The owner of the little blue jewelry pouch contacted Cecilia. But there’s a glitch. Um, well, a real glitch, if you must know. Three different women called her.”
Augusta nearly spat out a piece of her bagel. “Damn. The goings-on in those senior communities are worse than the reality TV shows.”
“They are the reality shows,” I said. “Fortunately, no one has chosen to film there.”
Marshall walked to the mini fridge and grabbed a Coke. “Whoa. Now Cecilia’s stuck with three meetings.”
I winced. “Not exactly.” I went on to tell them how flustered and flummoxed Cecilia had gotten and how her state of mind had prevented her from thinking straight.
“Holy mackerel!” Augusta let out. “You mean to tell us all three women are meeting with her at once?”
“Oh it gets better. Trust me. Not just Cecilia. The entire Booked 4 Murder Book Club will be there. At Bagels ’N More the day after tomorrow. At seven.”
Nate shuddered. “That’s a scene I’d like to miss. Tell your mother to take copious notes and share them with us.”
“She won’t have to.” Then I gave Marshall one of those what-can-I-do looks by widening my eyes and shrugging. “Because this entire thing was my idea, my mother laid on the guilt, insisting I be there.”
“Hey, this may turn out to be a good thing.” He returned to his seat and picked up the remains of his bagel. “It may bring us closer to discovering whether there was another woman who wanted to get even with Wilbur for cheating on her.”
Augusta plopped her elbow on the table and leaned toward Marshall. “Cheating on her? The other woman? What about on his wife?”
“It’s okay, Augusta,” I said. “Remember, we’re trying to exonerate the wife. We need to find the jealous, hot-tempered floozy who was really responsible for the whack on Wilbur’s head.”
A moment later Nate’s cell phone vibrated and he pulled it from the pocket of his pants as if the thing was about to explode. “It’s a text from Bowman. With a cc to Marshall. He and Ranston are on their way to arrest Roxanne.”
“Really?” I said. “They couldn’t wait a few more lousy days for the celebration of life? It’s not as if Roxanne poses a threat to anyone.”
“No, but Bowman’s like a kid in a candy store. He got lab results back from the bottom of that tap shoe and the bottom of the screwdriver found at the scene. Not only was the screwdriver the exact size to fit the screws on the cleats, but both had trace elements of the same debris.”
“Of course they did!” I shouted. “They were found on the ground. The ground. You know. Dirt.”
Nate wiped his brow and rubbed his neck. “I can’t give you the technicalities, but according to Bowman’s never-ending text, the gunk found on the shoe and the screwdriver wasn’t from dirt on the ground.”
Augusta reached for the chive cream cheese container and grabbed a knife. “Guess that settles that. Maybe it’s just as well Wilbur’s tribute is on hold. It could have turned into a fiasco if more lip-locking women came out of the woodwork. The three of them who’ll be meeting with Cecilia may be the tip of the iceberg.”
I rolled my eyes and didn’t say a word.
Marshall stood and put his napkin in the trash and the Coke can in our recycling bin. “Gotta meet with Evelyn. Don’t look so glum. What’s that old adage? It’s not over until it’s over, or something about a fat lady singing? When I’m done setting up the minicam, I intend to do some deeper delving into those eleven names you found in Wilbur’s files. Jilted spouses are one thing, but long-term grudges make for motives, too.”
He gave me a wink as he left the breakroom. A minute or so later I heard the front door to our office open and close.
“All that fuss for a memento.” I looked at Nate. “Roxanne’s allowed one phone call. Think she’ll contact our office?”
Nate shook his head. “More than likely her defense attorney. She must have reached out to one of the names I gave her by now. Roxanne didn’t strike me as one of those women who would be unprepared. Besides, I’ve worked with those lawyers. We’ll get a heads-up. Trust me.”
Funny, but when most people said, “trust me,” it had the opposite effect. But not as far as Nate was concerned. If he had reason to believe something was going to come to fruition, he was usually right. And the heads-up he expected came late in the afternoon with a phone call from Jane Ellis-Engle, Roxanne’s criminal defense attorney. Her firm had an outstanding reputation in Phoenix, and I later found out Nate had done some investigative work for her in the past. That was the good news.
The bad news was that the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office had a pretty solid case against Roxanne, beginning with the tap shoes. According to Jane, Roxanne insisted she hadn’t used those tap shoes in years and, in fact, was pretty certain she had donated them to charity. However, with one shoe showing up in her closet and the other at the base of her late husband’s head, it wasn’t looking too good.
“Any chance we can visit Roxanne while she’s at the Fourth Avenue Jail?” I asked Nate when he told Augusta and me about Jane’s phone call.
“I knew you’d ask that. Excluding their legal counsel, inmates are allowed one thirty-minute visit per week. And only two people per visit.
Marshall and I can’t very well burn two ends of a candle, so it’s best if we keep a distance. After all, we’re still on interview duty as far as Bowman and Ranston are concerned. But there’s no reason why you can’t pay her a visit. Hours are from eight to eight, but I’d stay away from anything in the evening. Pick a morning and come in here late. It’s fine.”
“You know my mother will insist on joining me. And she’ll find out, one way or the other.”
“Harriet’s pretty astute. Not a bad idea if she joined you. But make sure she knows dogs aren’t allowed. And if she walks out of the house carrying a large tote bag, have her turn around and deposit the contents inside.”
“No problem.” And lately it wouldn’t just be the dog in the tote. It’ll be Streetman with a boom box and dance music. “Much as I might regret this, I’ll give her a call and get it set up for tomorrow or Wednesday the latest. I’ll let Marshall know. Hmm, I wonder how his research is coming along. I never asked.”
Nate rolled his neck. “He logged into idiCORE before he left to check on those eleven names. Between that and the TLO database, he’s bound to pick up something.”
“Too bad the rest of us are stuck with public records.”
“I keep telling you, Phee, get your detective’s license; then you can join the rest of us who get stiff necks from the tension.”
“Not on your life. Bookkeeping and amateur sleuthing are all I can handle.”
CHAPTER 27
“This is going to make for one long, miserable day,” I said to Marshall as we left for the office on Wednesday morning. Marshall in his car, me in mine. “I’m picking up my mother at nine and we’re heading over to see Roxanne. If that’s not bad enough, I’ll be taking part in a Monty Python show at seven.”
“What?”
“I’m trying to be funny. It’s the only way I’ll survive the day. I can’t even begin to imagine what tonight will be like when Cecilia’s cadre of prize contenders shows up at once. I immediately thought of Monty Python, but even his comedy troupe couldn’t come up with something like this.”
“Relax, hon. Take it one thing at a time. First Roxanne, then Cecilia. Meanwhile, I was able to pull up some interesting, but not necessarily promising, leads on the recipients of those reprimand letters.”
“Really? You think one of them might have had a genuine motive for knocking off Wilbur? I mean, it’s been years, but still . . .”
“Nothing definitive yet, but I’ve got some calls to make and more digging around to do. By the way, I’ve been monitoring the Railroad Club’s museum room, and so far nothing. I set up the motion detector to signal me if someone gets within a foot of that showcase. As far as I can tell, not even a dust mite’s been in there. If nothing else, the minicam should give Evelyn some peace of mind for a while.”
“Lucky Evelyn. She’ll be the only one.”
* * *
It was a little past ten when my mother and I signed in to the Fourth Avenue Jail. The building was even drearier inside than it appeared from the street. I seriously doubted the Count of Monte Cristo would’ve traded his abode for this one.
“Whatever you do,” I whispered, “don’t get into any conversations with the guards. I doubt they have a sense of humor.”
“This is worse than the TSA. We’re not the ones under arrest.”
“Shh. They have to make sure we’re not bringing in any contraband.”
A few minutes later my mother and I were seated in a small room with a counter and two chairs that faced a closed window. Next to the window was a phone with an extra-long cord.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” my mother said, “you would think we were visiting a hardened criminal.”
“Um, Roxanne has been arrested for murder, not shoplifting. We’ll take turns talking to her on the phone.”
In spite of the god-awful orange uniform Roxanne had on, complete with a black silk-screened “MCSO Jail” on the front, and I imagine an even larger one on the back, she looked pretty good. No bags under her eyes or anything. Even her hair was decently styled. She picked up the phone from her side of the wall and spoke to my mother. I couldn’t hear what Roxanne was saying, so I gave my mother a little jab.
“Tell her we only have thirty minutes. Can’t waste it on chitchat.”
My mother turned to me. “The woman’s distraught. I have to let her vent.”
“Let her vent when we leave. Give me the phone.”
My mother handed me the phone without a word.
“Roxanne, we don’t have much time. I’m sure your lawyer will take care of all the legal stuff, and I know for sure Nate and Marshall are working like crazy to find the real killer. But I need you to think about that tap shoe for a minute. You said you were pretty sure you donated that pair to charity, and yet one of the shoes was in your closet. Are you sure it was that particular pair of shoes?”
“Of course I’m sure. That shoe had large cleats. Large cleats are used by beginning tap dancers, not seasoned dancers like me. We use tiny cleats at the tip of our shoes and the heel. I had no use for those shoes anymore, but they were in excellent shape for a beginner. Tap shoes are very expensive, you know, so beginners sometimes buy lightly used ones secondhand.”
“Okay. Fine. What charity did you donate them to? Think back. Goodwill? Salvation Army?”
Roxanne shook her head. “I always donate to the Sun City West Resale Shop. It’s by the posse station. Goodness. Our club alone gets over twenty new members a year, not to mention all those middle and high schoolers who take tap dancing lessons around here. Anyone could have bought them.”
“Can you remember when you donated them? What month?”
“It was last fall. October maybe. Or November. I meant to do it sooner, along with other stuff I had stashed away.”
At that point my mother jabbed my arm, and I figured she was anxious to get in a few words with Roxanne before our time was up.
“Hold on. I’ll give you the phone in a minute.” Then I asked Roxanne another question. “Did you or your husband drop off the donations? Do you remember?”
“I dropped them off. I remember distinctly because two of those Choo-Choo Chicks were volunteering there that day. I don’t know their names, but I’d recognize them if I saw them again.”
I wondered if those were the lip-locking ones Nate had questioned, but I kept mum on that topic. I held up my hand so my mother wouldn’t snatch the phone from me and asked Roxanne one final question. “Was there anything on those shoes that could identify them as yours?”
“My initials,” she said. “RM, hand sewn under the tongue of the shoe. Those were very expensive tap shoes at the time. What I don’t understand is how one of them wound up back in my closet.” Because Bowman and Ranston will say they never left and you’re making the whole story up.
“If we figure that out,” I said, “we may be one step closer to nailing your husband’s killer.”
“Don’t give her false hopes.” My mother snatched the receiver and cleared her throat. “Wilbur’s celebration of life can’t take place without you. It would almost be an admission of guilt. Do you want me to contact the Railroad Club and Florencia’s to postpone it?”
I couldn’t hear Roxanne’s response, but when my mother said, “No problem whatsoever, I’ll take care of it,” I knew the grand send-off would have to wait. Hopefully not indefinitely.
Suddenly the door to our visiting room opened and a woman’s voice announced, “Five more minutes.” The door closed before I could get a good look at the timekeeper. All I saw was the back of a gnarly gray uniform.
We said our goodbyes to Roxanne, told her not to worry, and got out of the Fourth Avenue Jail as if we were fugitives on the run.
“Do you think there were bedbugs in that room?” my mother asked as soon as the jail door closed behind us.
“Ew,” I groaned.
As if on cue, both of us dusted off our clothing and gave our bags a good swipe, too. I ran my fingers through my hair
as we walked toward the car and thought about it.
“Yes or no?” my mother asked again. “You know, they found bedbugs at Sky Harbor’s Terminal Four and at the AMC Theatre in Peoria last year.”
I shuddered. “Those places have upholstery furniture. In case you forgot, we sat on metal stools against a Formica counter. I seriously doubt bedbugs were nesting in there.”
As logical as my reasoning was, I still couldn’t get the image out of my head.
My mother was worse. “Check my back, Phee. Are there any bedbugs climbing on it?”
“No, none that I can see. They’re not microscopic. If one of them was on you, it would be visible.”
Again I dusted off my shoulders vigorously and patted down my legs. Two passersby paused to look at me, but I ignored them. “I think we’re okay, Mom. Let’s hit the road.”
“As soon as I get home, remind to call Evelyn or Grace at the Railroad Club to postpone that celebration. I need to call Florencia’s, too.”
“Maybe that celebration won’t need to be postponed indefinitely. Maybe tonight’s meeting or whatever the heck you want to call it with Cecilia and those women will get us the results we need.”
“The most it will get us is some woman admitting to an affair with Wilbur, not hitting him over the head with his wife’s tap shoe.”
“It’s a start.”
I dropped my mother off at her house and peeled out of there before she had a chance to invite me in for lunch again. “I’ve missed too much time from work already,” I’d said. “I can’t hang around. I’ll grab a burger on the way back to the office and I’ll see you tonight.”
As soon as I reached the end of her block, I pulled over and called the office.
Augusta picked up immediately. “Please tell me you’re not still at the Fourth Avenue Jail, requesting bail money or something.”
“Very funny. Listen, are either of the guys in the office?”
“Mr. Williams is. Mr. Gregory left to meet with those deputies.”
“Okay. Can you get Nate to the phone?”
“Hold on.”
The line went quiet and I held my breath until I heard that familiar voice. “Hey, kiddo. How’d it go at the jail?”
