by J. C. Eaton
“From what you’ve told me, Roxanne said she brought those tap shoes to the Resale Shop. If so, how did one of them get back in her closet?”
“Oh my gosh. I totally forgot about that. I was going to track down Tracee Pearl, who volunteers at that shop, to ask her. Honestly, I feel as if my mind is a cafeteria tray and the more I load it up, the more food falls off. And don’t tell me it’s an aging process or I’ll scream.”
“Relax. I think that’s how great minds work.”
CHAPTER 34
Sunday came and went like a windstorm, and other than a phone message my mother left regarding Shirley tracking down the “two harpies who bad-mouthed Cecilia” and giving them a “good tongue-lashing,” Marshall and I were back at the office on Monday before my eyelids fully opened. He had to meet with a few clients and Nate wasn’t expected to return from Sierra Vista until later in the day.
“I have no choice,” I said to Augusta when we took a break. “H/O scale meets this Thursday and I’ve got to attend.”
Augusta bit into her donut and motioned for me to keep talking.
“I know. It’ll be dreadful, but I’ve got to find a way to speak with Tracee Pearl about Roxanne’s tap shoes.”
“Sure you’re not developing a liking for model railroads?”
“I’ve got to admit I like the cute little villages and towns they build around the tracks, but as far as all the work that goes into it, I’d be exhausted. And keeping it dust free—forget it. No, I need to find out what she knows about those tap shoes Roxanne brought into the Resale Shop last fall. I have a hunch they were never sold.”
“You mean you have a hunch Tracee took them.”
“Uh-huh. And used them to frame Roxanne. After all, she was pretty upfront with Nate about her relationship with Wilbur.”
“Locking lips is one thing. Killing the guy is another. And what about stashing the evidence? I’ve got news for you. She’s not going to offer up a confession, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“I’m not going to come right out and ask her about the tap shoes. I’ll wheedle it out of her slowly and watch for her reaction.”
“Sure you don’t want to rent a polygraph machine?”
“Very funny.”
Later that morning Marshall informed me jury selection was taking place for Roxanne’s trial. Apparently, Deputy Bowman couldn’t wait to shoot off a text message.
“How long does jury selection take?” I asked Marshall.
“It can take two or three days or even over a week. Remember, they have to select jurors the prosecution and defense agree to. That’s not always easy.”
“For Roxanne’s sake, I hope it takes so long they reschedule the trial date.”
“Not likely, but I have great faith in Rolo’s ability to get us some answers.”
“I’ll be working on some answers, too. Thursday. At the H/O scale work session.”
“Another fun night with your mother and the book club ladies?”
“Lord no! She doesn’t know I’m going and I intend to keep it that way. Look, I realize Nate ruled out Tracee Pearl as a suspect, but I’m not so sure. Think he’ll mind if I chitchat with her about tap shoes she might have sold last fall at the Resale Shop?”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure he won’t mind. Nate’s not territorial like Bowman and Ranston. Thank goodness. And it won’t surprise him if you pick up on something he didn’t. People have been known to give different impressions depending on who they’re talking to and the circumstances.”
“Of course there’s still the matter of how one of those shoes wound up back in Roxanne’s closet, unless Wilbur and Tracee did some lip-locking at his house while Roxanne was out.”
“Good luck finding that out.”
“O ye of little faith.”
“I’m not so sure that’s what that Bible verse was intended for, but I give you credit for perseverance.”
As things turned out, I needed all the perseverance I could get. We all did. The next three days didn’t bring Williams Investigations any closer to tracking down the real culprit, but on Thursday morning the office received a cryptic email from Rolo that read, “No stone goes uncovered. On the chase at last.”
“Is that supposed to be something like, ‘The crow flies at midnight’?” I asked. “Because if it is, I’m lost.”
Nate and Marshall broke up laughing. “It means he’s getting closer to locating Thomas Tartantian.”
“We’re not the CIA,” Augusta said. “He could just say that.”
Nate rubbed the nape of his neck and retrieved his coffee cup from the Keurig. “It would take all the fun out of it.”
Just then the phone rang, and Augusta picked it up. “For Mr. Williams or Mr. Gregory. It’s Deputy Bowman, and he wasn’t all that specific.”
“I’ll do the honors,” Marshall said to Nate. “No sense letting your coffee get cold.”
The four of us watched for any reaction from Marshall as he listened to Deputy Bowman. The call didn’t last but a minute before Marshall thanked him and hung up.
“What?” I asked. “What was he calling about? Did the real killer confess?”
“No. The forensic report came back on the substance found on those rocks at the crime scene.”
“Nail polish! I knew it. Augusta was right. It was clear nail polish. But it couldn’t have been Roxanne’s because she uses shades of coral and red. And Candace Kane seems to wear greenish-blue polish, so—”
“It wasn’t nail polish, Phee,” Marshall said. “Or glue. It was the residue from the liquid smoke they use to make those trains look like real steam engines when they go around the track. Anyway, Bowman and Ranston aren’t all that concerned about it. They figure the residue could have been there a while from old train runs. After all, it was near the junction box, where Wilbur was working before that blow to his head.”
“Won’t they even consider the possibility someone from the club was with him? Maybe that person had the jar of liquid smoke. My mom and I saw cartons of it in Wilbur’s storage unit. Those jars are small. Only two ounces.”
“The only possibility they’ve considered is Roxanne,” Nate said. “The call was an investigation formality, that’s all. Try not to look so grief-stricken, Phee. This isn’t over yet. We haven’t exhausted all our leads.”
“Me neither. Starting with Tracee Pearl tonight.”
* * *
Well, Nate was right about one thing. No way was Tracee Pearl the petite woman with the pixie hairdo. Wig or no wig. Tracee was built like an Amazon. The last time I’d seen muscles like that, they belonged to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Next to her, Myrna was the epitome of frailty and charm.
Tracee was wearing a sleeveless, navy tank top and jeans. Her hair hung shoulder-length against the tank top, unlike the tight bun Nate had observed when he spoke with her. If it wasn’t for the readers hanging on a long, gold chain around her neck, I would have mistaken her for one of those Hollywood police officers on Blue Bloods, FBI, or NCIS: Los Angeles. It seemed tank tops, tight jeans, and a badge on the waist was the new uniform for female officers. Tracee certainly fit the bill.
It was only when Big Scuttie addressed her at the front table that I realized who she was. Her chest hung inches from the table’s surface, and I was afraid she’d fall over. “Honestly,” she said, “here’s the receipt. I had to go to Hobby Bench this week anyway. Couldn’t the G-scalers purchase their own Mega-Steam Smoke Fluid?”
“Come on, Tracee. It’s no big deal. I knew you were headed over there, so I told Grace you’d pick up a bottle of the cinnamon-roll scent. You know how they are about scented smoke. Especially Grace. You’d think they were setting up for a church social, not a train run.”
“Never mind. The club owes me ten dollars and ninety cents. That includes the tax. And what was her big hurry? The Midnight Run’s not for another week.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? You know how anal retentive that woman is. Everything ha
s to be just so.”
Suddenly I remembered what Marshall had observed when the alert went off on the minicam by the showcase. He was convinced Grace brought her own bottle of antibacterial cleanser rather than use anything the club had purchased.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Cinnamon-roll-scented smoke fluid? I knew there were scents, but not any that resembled a pastry shop.”
“Phee, right?” Big Scuttie asked. “You were here last week. With your mother. Does this mean you’re interested in joining our club?”
Tracee stepped aside so BS and I were face-to-face. “I’m still trying to learn more.”
“That makes sense. This is Tracee Pearl, by the way. She’s been a member of our club since—”
“I’ll cut you off there,” Tracee said. “Before you tell her it was before George Washington was born.”
I laughed and shook her hand.
She moved the sign-in sheet closer to me. “About those liquid smoke scents, they now come in all sorts of aromas. Used to be only hickory, pine, cedar, and original smoke—they came up with peppermint, vanilla, bayberry, gingerbread, and even hot chocolate now. Running trains is a big deal during the Christmas holidays, so I suppose the companies that produce the smoke fluid wanted to capitalize on it.”
“I take it Grace has a liking for cinnamon-roll flavor.”
Big Scuttie leaned his head against a propped-up elbow and chuckled. “Let’s just say she has a dislike for anything that smells like the real deal. Oil, grease, smoke . . . you name it. She practically sanitizes this place once the meetings are over. I’ve got a buddy in G-scale who told me all about it. Good thing she didn’t join our H/O group. Usually members stick to one group or another. Except for Evelyn. You might have met her if you were at the G-scale meeting last week. She was the woman howling about the Golden Spike being moved. Got the full story from my buddy.”
“Yes, I was there and I remember.”
“Evelyn belongs to both groups. Too bad she couldn’t pick a team and stay on it.”
Tracee shot Big Scuttie a look. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“All I said was—”
“Forget it. I’m sure Phee doesn’t want to hear it.” Then she turned to me. “Come on, I’ll walk with you into the workroom. I’m designing a new layout that should be up and running by next fall. You can see what I’m up to. I’ve taken over the entire left-hand corner of the room, but no one seems to mind.”
Sure enough, there was a large table on the left and what looked like the beginnings of a track being assembled. Tracee pulled out a folded chair from the alcove and motioned for me to do the same. As I looked around, I noticed various club members painting landscape pieces or assembling train tracks. I recognized a few of them, including Vickie Owen, with her perfectly styled platinum hair and cute little figure. At least Herb wasn’t here to annoy her. I glanced around to see if I could spot Evelyn, but no such luck.
“You’ll have to forgive Big Scuttie,” Tracee said. “He’s not the most diplomatic club member we have, but he’s a decent guy. Which is more than I can say for the late Wilbur Maines. I’m surprised it took this long for his wife to do him in.”
CHAPTER 35
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. Without even trying, I had the opening I needed to pry into Roxanne’s tap shoes. I just hoped I’d be more tactful than Walker Scutt. “Yeah, about that I’m not so sure. True, the news said a tap shoe with large cleats was the murder weapon, but I heard Roxanne donated those shoes to charity. To the Resale Shop in Sun City West.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Um, the news, I think.”
I tried to gauge her reaction, but it was hard to tell. No faint blush. No eye twitch. Nothing. I prayed the brunette in the Resale Shop hadn’t mentioned my visit to the store. I hadn’t given her my full name or my nickname, but I couldn’t take anything for granted and had to watch what I said to Tracee.
“Oh well,” I said. “You know how these stories get around.”
She gave me a nod and tapped her teeth. “Hmm. I volunteer at the Resale Shop, and come to think of it, I remember one of the gals talking about selling a pair of tap shoes last fall. Around October. She thought the woman who bought them did so as part of a Halloween costume.”
“What made her think that?” I asked.
“Because the woman resembled Aunt Bee from Mayberry R.F.D., only older. She didn’t appear to be the dancing type. And it was around the time when the Rec Center held its annual costume party.”
I bit my lower lip slightly and tried not to sound too anxious. “Maybe she bought them for someone else.”
Tracee shook her head. “Nope. The volunteer told me the woman tried them on and mentioned something about a bunion.”
Argh. I might as well join Nate and Marshall in the dead-end club.
There was the off chance the woman made it appear as if she was buying those shoes for a costume when she really had other, more nefarious plans. Then again, I was tracking down a possible suspect, not writing a mystery novel.
“Anyway,” Tracee went on, “if it wasn’t the tap shoe, it would have been something else. Wilbur had a horrible habit of leading women on. At least I didn’t take him seriously, but, between you and me, he was a damn good kisser.”
“So, you, uh, er, um . . .”
“Relax. We swapped saliva, that’s all. I’m not proud of it, but it wasn’t the end of the world either. And I had no reason to do him in. Unlike his wife. I suppose she reached her limit with his affairs. Can’t say I blame her. Did you know he was even seeing two women from this club at once? And that was long after we were done with our brief whatever you’d call it.”
“Two more women?” I asked.
“Don’t look so shocked. This is a senior community, not a monastery. About a month before Wilbur was found dead he was seen making out in the workroom after an H/O scale meeting. To top it off, he was with another Choo-Choo Chick in the parking lot after the meeting ended. They couldn’t get into his car fast enough. Can you imagine?”
Not only can I imagine, I can probably recite their names. Or at least provide a decent description.
My mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton. “Um, that’s terrible. Then again, those kisses probably didn’t mean much. It’s not as if he gave those women diamonds or anything.”
“Not diamonds, but I heard from Evelyn that at least one of them was seen wearing a gold train charm around her neck, and I seriously doubt she bought it for herself. Boy, does that get me riled. Damn cheapskate never bought me anything. Not even a pack of gum. Still, he did get my heart rate up, and I suppose that’s good for the health.”
“So, you never found out who that woman was? The one with the gold chain?”
“Evelyn, who happens to be as prissy as they come, refused to tell me because she didn’t want anything to ‘compromise our lovely work relations in the club.’ Oh brother. Needless to say, I kept eyeballing the women around here, but I’ve never seen anyone wearing that charm. Not that it matters. Still, I’m curious.”
Fat chance I’d be able to get Evelyn to spill the beans. Cecilia is on her own for now.
“Hey, Tracee!” someone shouted. “Got any extra sheets of extruded foam? I left mine in the truck and don’t feel like walking back.”
“There are some in the closet. Just replace it, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe Evelyn was right,” Tracee said. “We do need decent working relationships around here.”
I pulled my chair closer to the layout table and watched as Tracee placed small pieces of track in a loop formation. “Too bad the setup at Beardsley has to remain fixed. I’d love to design a new layout for the G-scale. Between you and me, it’s not very imaginative.”
“I really didn’t take a good look at it. I was there when Wilbur’s body was discovered.”
“Oh. How awful. Are you an early morn
ing walker?”
“No. I’m an early morning sleeper if I can help it. My mother’s friend is the walker who came upon the body and then called us.” More or less. “From what I saw, it looked as if Wilbur was repairing something in a circuit board.”
“Wilbur was always repairing, tweaking, or fiddling with that circuit board. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if someone deliberately messed with it so they could get Wilbur out of the house at an ungodly hour to fix it.”
“As in premeditated murder?”
“Murder?” Tracee dropped the small pliers from her hand and looked ashen. “Oh no. That’s not what I meant at all. I figured someone messed with the guy. That’s it. Wilbur could be such a pain in the butt at times. No, I think Roxanne killed him. True, Big Scuttie and Montrose were ticked about the restraining orders, but not to the point of murder. My money is on something much more personal. Anyway, I told all this to one of the detectives on the case.”
“Uh-huh. I heard the Sheriff’s Office and their consulting detectives were interviewing all the club members.” I wonder how long I can pull this off before she finds out I work for one of those consulting detectives.
“I’ll say. I had the pleasure of two such interviews. Although the second one was short. The detective inquired about my whereabouts that morning. Lucky for me, I spent the night at Talking Stick Casino. Ever go there?”
“It’s on my list.”
“Hey, speaking of lists, put the Midnight Run on yours. It’s a week from tomorrow at dusk. Real neat community event, and it only happens twice a year at Beardsley Rec Center. We run the trains, and unlike their regular runs, we use smoke fluid to make them appear like real locomotives. Of course this time the air won’t be permeated with an authentic scent like oil or wood. Thanks to Grace, who’s in charge of this spring’s event, our trains are going to smell like the corner bakery.”
“Uh, yeah. I kind of overheard you and Walker Scutt when I came in.”
“Then you know the aroma of cinnamon rolls will fill the air and everyone will be asking where they can buy them. Grace should have thought of that. We could have made good money.”
