by J. C. Eaton
Then someone shouted, “Where are the cinnamon rolls? I smell cinnamon rolls.”
When I looked at the parking lot again the sheriff’s car was gone. A few minutes later Nate and Marshall found me in the crowd.
Marshall gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered, “Grace is on her way to the posse station. A tow truck is coming for her car. It’s really wedged in.”
“Good. People will think it’s the flat tire.”
“For the time being. I guarantee someone will pick up the chatter on Bowman and Ranston’s scanner and KPHO or another local station will have it on the ten o’clock news.”
“Your fiancé is right.” Nate looked around. “Much as I hate to say this, we really should let your mother know what’s going on. She’ll find out soon enough. We might as well be upfront.”
I locked my fingers together and pressed so tight I was afraid my knuckles would turn white. “You do realize she’ll blab it to all the book club ladies. Heck, that will take thirty seconds. They’re all here. And Herb. He’s here, too, somewhere. I spotted him earlier with some of his pinochle guys.”
Then something came to me out of the blue. “I have an idea. I’ll tell her Marshall and I are going to stop by her house when this is over so we can chat about our wedding ceremony. Believe me, she’ll want to talk. We can tell her then.”
Nate laughed. “I’ll head over to the posse station and call you folks in a bit.”
Sure enough, my mother was ecstatic when I mentioned going back to her house. “We should ask your aunt and uncle to join us, too. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
A fresh pot of coffee. Aunt Ina and Uncle Louis don’t know how lucky they are.
“Oh,” she added, “before I forget, the book ladies decided to meet for brunch tomorrow at ten. Join us if you don’t have to work.”
I mumbled something about invoices, billing, and spreadsheets.
“Okay, see you at the house.”
I was positive Evelyn wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut, but it didn’t matter. Once Marshall and I, along with Aunt Ina and Uncle Louis, finished our coffee and our discussion about the wedding, my mother turned on the nightly news. As Nate predicted, the “Breaking News” banner flashed across the screen and one of the anchors announced, “This just in. An arrest has been made in the Wilbur Maines murder that took place in Sun City West. That’s all the news we have at this point. For details, visit our website, and be sure to tune into our station tomorrow morning for the early bird segment.”
“Actually,” Marshall said, “that’s the real reason we came back here. We wanted you to know firsthand who committed the crime. It was Grace Svoboda, from the Railroad Club.”
My mother gasped. “So, it wasn’t a flat tire after all. What was it? Did she attempt to knock off someone else at the Midnight Run?”
My uncle Louis added another teaspoon of sugar to his coffee and stirred. “Montrose told me she was going to be arrested, but I figured it was hearsay.”
“Not this time,” I said. “But what I don’t understand is her motive. She certainly wasn’t having an affair with him.”
Marshall took out his phone and glanced at us. “Only one way to find out. Nate was on to something back at the park, but we didn’t have a chance to talk. I’ll catch him at the posse station. Give me a minute.”
He stood and walked to the counter while my aunt and my mother offered up enough motives to keep most hard-boiled detective authors in business for quite a while. And when they weren’t offering motives, they were offering bits of cookies to Streetman.
“Rolo’s perseverance paid off,” Marshall said.
“That’s the cybersleuth our office uses,” I quickly added. It was easier than saying, “The international hacker who has thus far managed to elude Interpol, the CIA, and the FBI.”
My mother grabbed a cookie, broke it in half, and handed a piece to the dog. “Well, don’t just sit there, tell us why she did it.”
CHAPTER 39
“Revenge,” Marshall said. “One of the oldest motives in the book.”
“Revenge? For what?” I was still stymied.
“Remember those reprimand letters you found at Wilbur’s storage unit?”
“Uh-huh. But Grace’s name wasn’t on them.”
He smiled. “I know. That’s because she never worked for Sherrington. But she did live in Des Moines, where Catapult Construction Equipment is located. And Catapult is where Wilbur enjoyed another stint as a manager.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You will. Seems Wilbur’s penchant for pettiness when it came to workplace rules didn’t disappear when he took his new job. Too bad he didn’t keep copies of those reprimand letters in his storage unit.”
My uncle Louis moaned and leaned into the table. “I’m not getting any younger. Get to the point.”
Marshall nodded. “Grace’s brother worked for Catapult. Over twenty-five years and no problems until Wilbur cited him for piracy. Same deal as Thomas Tartantian, only Grace’s brother didn’t become CEO of a major company. He lost his job, his wife divorced him, and he died a few years later, broke and living in a halfway house. And get this: after all was said and done, it was determined the man never pirated anything. But by then it was too late. Wilbur retired with a decent pension before the company could fire him for misconstruing information.”
The room got so quiet the only noise was the dog chewing on one of his toys. I steepled my fingers and took a breath. “How on earth did Rolo find all of that out?”
“The guy’s a shark. Only instead of hunting prey, he hunts information. He hacked into a multitude of business and industry databases, not to mention the usual government ones, and made connections. That’s how he narrowed down the killer to Grace.”
“You mean to tell me all we had to do was sit back and wait?”
“Heck no. Honestly, hon, you put us all to shame by solving the case with old-fashioned sleuthing.”
“Yeah, but without the motive. Glad we’ve got Rolo on speed dial. Might as well add IKEA, too.” Then I looked at my aunt. “Rolo likes to be paid with kitchen gadgetry.”
“Forget about Rolo for a minute and think about Roxanne. They should release her right now,” my mother exclaimed.
Marshall groaned. “It’s the weekend. And that involves paperwork. It’s not like TV or the movies. If she’s lucky, she’ll be out on Monday.”
* * *
Sure enough, Marshall was right. Jane Ellis-Engle, Roxanne’s criminal defense attorney, had all charges against her client dismissed. She picked Roxanne up on Monday afternoon and drove her back to Sun City West.
In the days that followed, the news of Grace’s arrest traveled through my mother’s community like a swarm of bees, only faster. And while I certainly didn’t condone what Grace had done, I understood what drove her to the moment when she picked up the Golden Spike and clobbered Wilbur with it.
According to the news anchors, who ran the story all week long, Grace admitted to donning one of those food handler gloves and using Roxanne’s screwdriver to open the circuit box, making it look as if someone had pried it open and disconnected some wires. She then left the screwdriver in plain sight. When Wilbur arrived to fix the box Grace showed up under the guise that she wanted him to smell the cinnamon smoke fluid and inadvertently dripped some on the rocks. When Wilbur was engaged with the circuit box she used that moment to remove the Spike from under her coat and hit him over the head.
* * *
Roxanne returned to the Rhythm Tappers in plenty of time to prepare for the Fall Follies. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Cecilia, who vowed never to dance in public again. She did, however, keep her tap shoes, according to my mother.
“You never know,” my mother said when I stopped by her house a week later, “the Rhythm Tappers may do a show that calls for ankle-length clothing. Or maybe even a dancing dog. Which reminds me, you never gave me an answer about Streetman taking part in yo
ur wedding ceremony.”
The little Chiweenie looked up from his spot near the coffee table when he heard his name. His ears picked up and his eyes got wide.
Call it a moment of weakness. Or maybe even delirium, but I reached down and patted him on the head. “A short dance. A very short dance. Stick him in your tote and I’ll bring my iPod.”
After all, weddings were supposed to be memorable, weren’t they?
STREETMAN’S WALKING MAP
A Neighborhood Walking Guide to Sun City West
A – Watch out for crazy screaming lady! She goes nuts if Streetman so much as sniffs at her lawn.
B, I, Q, R, U, Z – Danger! Sago Palms. Keep him away from those houses.
C – Go to big red rock on edge of property. Streetman likes to pee on it.
D – Nice jacaranda tree on corner of the lot. Let him sniff there awhile.
E - Go to fence in rear. It’s okay. He likes to visit with the two Pomeranians.
F, G, H- Golf ball alert! These houses are on the golf course. Who knows when one of those balls makes it to the street? Keep a wide berth.
I - Hissing cat in the front window. Only a concern when the window’s open.
J - Toad sanctuary. They have a water feature that attracts Sonoran Desert Toads. Keep Streetman away.
K - Three nice boxwood beauties that Streetman likes to pee on. It’s a rental and so far no one has complained.
L - Steer Clear! They use rat poison around the house. I know because I watched their exterminator one morning.
M, N, O - These are his favorite locations for business. Take more than one bag.
P - Don’t go past this house. Streetman doesn’t like to walk much farther. Unless you want to carry him.
S - Very nice lady from Myrna’s bunco group lives here. She gives Streetman treats.
T - Steer clear. They had a beehive in this area last year.
V - Just like letter P. Streetman doesn’t like to walk much farther than this house.
W - Watch out for speeders on this corner. Tighten leash.
X, Y - Streetman will sometimes do his business here. Or maybe even a second time after M, N, or O.
Streetman’s Walking Map
Keep reading for a special excerpt of Broadcast 4
Murder by J. C. Eaton!
BROADCAST 4 MURDER
J. C. EATON
All of Arizona’s Sun City West heard Sophie “Phee”
Kimball’s mom scream bloody murder, but it’s up to
the reluctant sleuth to find the killer . . .
Phee’s mother, Harriet, is going to be a star! At least, that’s how the Sun City West retiree describes her chance to host a live radio program of her book club’s “Booked 4 Murder Mystery Hour” on Arizona’s KSCW. But instead of chatting about charming cozies, Harriet ends up screaming bloody murder over the airwaves after discovering the body of Howard Buell, the station’s programming director, in a closet—with a pair of sewing shears shoved into his chest.
The number-one suspect is Howard’s ex-girlfriend Sylvia Strattlemeyer, who believed she was going to host a sewing talk show before Harriet was offered the spot. But not only do the fingerprints found on the scissors not match Sylvia’s, they belong to a woman who passed away twenty years ago at the age of ninety-seven. Now, with the whole town on pins and needles, it’s up to Phee to stitch together enough clues from the past to uncover the identity of a killer in the present . . .
Look for Broadcast 4 Murder, on sale now.
CHAPTER 1
Harriet Plunkett’s House, Sun City West, Arizona
Myrna Mittleson, all five-foot-nine of her, charged out of my mother’s house and nearly bumped into me on the walkway. “Oops! Sorry, Phee! I’m in a rush to get to the beauty parlor. God bless the state of Iowa!”
It was a Saturday morning in late January, and I was returning a large salad bowl I had borrowed for a neighborhood dish-to-pass party. Before I could utter a word, Myrna blew past me and raced to her car, a nondescript beige sedan. God bless the state of Iowa? I knew my mother’s Booked 4 Murder book club friends leaned toward the eccentric side, but for the life of me, I had no idea what Myrna was talking about.
The door to the house was still ajar and my mother stepped outside.
“Did you hear that?” I asked. “Iowa? I thought she was from Brooklyn.”
My mother ushered me inside. “She is. But right now we’re enamored with the state of Iowa.”
“Huh? Why? I don’t get it.”
“Quick! Come in. Close the door behind you before Streetman runs out. I think I heard a bird chirping and he’s likely to run after it.”
I looked around the room and spied the little Chiweenie sitting on the couch, trying to tear off what looked like a Christmas tree plastered to his back.
“Um, I don’t think so. And what’s he wearing? Is that supposed to be a Christmas tree with a hoop skirt under it?”
“It’s one of Shirley’s designs. We’re getting an early start for the Christmas in July program.”
“Good grief! The holiday event was only a few weeks ago.”
“You have to plan early in these retirement communities.”
“Your dog is planning early. Look! He pulled off one of those dangling ornaments.”
My mother groaned, walked over to Streetman, and removed the costume. “We’ll try later,” she said to the dog.
I shuddered. “Anyway, here’s your salad bowl, and for heaven’s sake, please tell me what’s this business with Iowa. Not another retirement community you’re looking into, I hope.”
“Good grief no! I’m not leaving Arizona. I love Sun City West. Best thing I did was get out of those Minnesota winters. Same deal with Myrna, only she’s from New York.”
I tried not to roll my eyes and nodded as my mother continued.
“Last night Myrna and I got the most wonderful news about Vernadeen Stibbens. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. I was going to call you, but I knew you’d be stopping by on your way to work.”
I was totally lost but used to the way my mother’s conversations circumvented the main idea until boomeranging back to the point. I plopped myself down on a floral chair so as not to disturb the dog’s position on the couch. God forbid I upset that neurotic little ball of fur.
My mother put the salad bowl on the coffee table, grabbed the chair next to mine, and leaned toward me. “Vernadeen Stibbens was asked to be one of the judges for the sewing contest for the Iowa State Fair, and she’ll be on the homemaking committee as well. She still has her condo in Davenport, so technically she’s a resident there. She was one of the judges for that contest back in 1995. Can you imagine? She’ll be reprising her role once again.”
“And you and Myrna are doing cartwheels because someone you know is going to be on a committee? Or worse yet, judging someone’s stitching? I don’t get it.”
“If you’d let me finish, Phee, I’d explain. Vernadeen Stibbens has her own live radio show on KSCW, the voice of Sun City West, every Tuesday morning. Sewing Chats with Vernadeen. Of course, they tape it and run it over and over again during the week.”
“I’m still—”
“Shh! I’m not done. Anyway, Vernadeen will be gone most of the spring and summer because of her role at the state fair. That means Sewing Chats will no longer be on the local airwaves.”
“And that’s a cause for celebration?”
My mother shuffled in her chair and the dog immediately jumped down from the couch. “Isn’t that adorable? He thinks Mommy is going to give him a treat. I can’t disappoint him. Hold on a second.”
My mother walked to the kitchen and returned with a dog biscuit. The dog immediately devoured it.
“Now,” she said. “Where was I? Oh yes, Vernadeen’s show. It was deadly. Topics like nuances of double stitching and harmonious hemming with cross-stitches. Herb Garrett from across the street said he recorded it for nights when he had insomnia. When he found out she had been one
of the state fair judges, he asked how many people she put to sleep with her commentary.”
“I’m still not sure why you and Myrna are so overjoyed.”
My mother patted the dog’s head as she grinned from ear to ear. “Myrna and I are rejoicing because we’ve been asked to take over Vernadeen’s slot on the radio with our own show.”
My jaw dropped and I had to remind myself to breathe. Heaven help us. “Ah-ha! And now the real reason! But what show? What are you and Myrna going to talk about? You don’t sew and Myrna wouldn’t know a cross-stitch from a straight stitch. Now, if you said Shirley Johnson, I could understand. She’s a talented milliner and teddy bear maker, but you and Myrna? Seriously?”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Phee. We’re not going to have a sewing program. We’re going to have our own murder mystery show! No one knows more about mysteries than our Booked 4 Murder book club. Cozies, forensic, hard-boiled. . . You name it, we’ll talk about it. Myrna even has her own little segment planned for elements of suspense.”
“The only element of suspense I can think of is when Aunt Ina finds out.”
“Oy! Don’t remind me. I’d better give my sister a call before she hears about it from the grapevine. You know how people around here can gossip.”
Intimately. I know this intimately. “Um, when do you and Myrna get started?”
“Tuesday morning we’re going over to the radio station to meet with the station manager to find out what’s involved. It can’t be all that hard. If I have any questions, I can always ask Herb.”
“Herb Garrett?”
“Of course Herb Garrett. How many Herbs do I know? He and his pinochle buddies have their own show on Thursday nights: Pinochle Pointers. Once our show gets underway, Myrna and I will have guest speakers from our club. Cecilia and Shirley are already chomping at the bit to do a program about household poisonings as they relate to murder mysteries.”
