Botched 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Um, would you rather cancel our brunch so you can deal with this stuff?” I asked.

  “Not on your life. A few hours aren’t going to make a difference, but, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a raincheck on that hike.”

  Then he gave me another hug, only this one was followed by a fairly decent smack on the lips, before we headed out to the Wildflower Bread Company. Fabulous frittata, great coffee, and wonderful company. I was home by two, with Marshall promising he’d call later and apologizing again for taking off.

  “It’s too good a lead, hon. We never would have figured out who ‘F’ was if you hadn’t had that conversation with Claudia.”

  “So now what?”

  “Nate has already contacted the sheriff’s office, and they’re going to follow up on the note by paying a little visit to Frank Landrow. They want Nate and me to stop by later this afternoon for an update.”

  Another hug, but this time with a longer kiss. This one with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. I watched as he walked to his car and remained standing at the window for a good two or three minutes after he was out of view. Finally, I snapped out of my daze and decided to make good use of my time.

  I threw in a load of wash and began an entirely different investigation—gathering the tax information I needed for the IRS. Sure, the deadline wasn’t until April, but I liked to play it safe and have my forms completed by March. It was one of those weird obsessive things ingrained into my mind by my mother before I even knew what taxes were. It had started with my fourth grade homework. I remember my mother in a floral housedress, hands on her hips, grilling me as if I was withholding a state secret.

  “When is this project due?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “Good. You’ll get it done by next week at the latest.”

  “But it’s not due until a week after that.”

  “What if you have an emergency? Then what? You’ll miss the deadline and fail. Emergencies happen all the time. What if the library gets flooded and you can’t get to an encyclopedia? Or what if, God forbid, the power goes out during one of our winter storms?”

  “I’ll write by candlelight.”

  “Ah-hah. You could get too close and burn your fingers. Finish that project a week early.”

  Yep, that was why I was such a nutcase when it came to deadlines. At least my afternoon was productive, and, by five-thirty, I was ready to make myself a sandwich and turn on the TV. No sooner did I open the fridge when my phone rang. Figuring it was Marshall, I answered right away. That’d teach me for not checking the caller ID. As I heard the voice, I saw the name—Harriet Plunkett.

  “Oh good, Phee. I was hoping you’d be home. Is Marshall with you?”

  “No. He and Nate had to deal with something. What’s up?”

  “Get a pencil and mark your calendar for Thursday night at seven. Herb’s called a powwow and wants all of us to meet. The book club ladies and his pinochle crew. We’re meeting at Bagels ’N More. He reserved the large table. Besides, it’s not crowded in there at night.”

  I was still stuck on the word “powwow.” “What are you talking about? What do you mean a ‘powwow’? And is that a politically correct word to use anymore?”

  “It’s a strategic planning meeting to deal with that ridiculous board proposal that’s coming up next month. Herb and his cronies did some snooping around and found out that four of the eight members on the board are in favor of the eco-friendly park idea. Add Sorrel’s vote to the mix and it would’ve passed. He’s worried that the next appointee might feel the same way Sorrel did.”

  “Do you have any idea who the board will appoint?”

  “Don’t I wish! No. They’ll dig around and scrounge up someone none of us have heard of. They’ll introduce that person at the next meeting, swear them in, and voilà! It’ll be a done deal. When a board member can’t complete his or her term, the board can appoint anyone. No election needed. This is awful.”

  “So, how’s this powwow of Herb’s going to help matters?”

  “Divide and conquer. Those were his words. Well, actually not his. Someone said them once and I think it made them famous, but anyway, Herb figures if each of us gets in touch with a board member we might be able to sway them in our favor. He plans on divvying up the names. Four of the board members were against her proposal, so whoever gets one of those has to convince them to sway another member.”

  “Let me get this straight, and, by the way, I think it was Julius Caesar who penned that divide and conquer quote. Herb is asking his buddies and your book club friends to each contact a rec center board member out of the blue and pressure them into changing their vote. That is, if they intended to vote in favor of that ridiculous idea.”

  “I wouldn’t use the word ‘pressure.’ It’s much too negative. We’re supposed to use diplomacy. And if we manage to shift enough votes in our favor, it won’t matter who the next appointee is.”

  Thank goodness I was at the other end of a phone line because my eyes were rolling around in their sockets like balls on a roulette wheel. “Okay, I get it. But I don’t think those board members are going to be all that thrilled to get phone calls from people about the issue. That’s what the meetings are for.”

  “Who said anything about phone calls? The way Herb has it figured out is really quite clever. We find out their hangouts, their habits, you know, all that stuff, and then unobtrusively bump into them at different places.”

  “This is sounding worse by the minute.”

  “In less than a month, the very atmosphere and lifestyle in Sun City West could change drastically. We need to be heard.”

  “I know this is hard for you, Mom, but backtrack for a minute. Sorrel Harlan was found murdered on the golf course. If anything at all happens to one of those board members, guess who the number one suspects will be? Let Herb write a letter to the editor or something. Maybe even speak on the local radio station. This plan of his could backfire bigtime.”

  “You can tell Herb that yourself. On Thursday. At seven. At Bagels ’N More.”

  “This meeting has nothing at all to do with me. I live in Vistancia, remember?”

  “Your mother happens to live here. And if you don’t want her moving in with you in Vistancia because her neighborhood got overrun with a brigade of lollipop-licking children and graffiti-tagging skateboarders, you’ll come to the meeting.”

  “Ugh.” It was all I could say. My stomach was practically in knots when I hung up the phone. Thirty seconds later, it rang again. I was positive it was her.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this to the extreme? You make it sound as if everyone under the age of thirty should be put on the no-fly list.”

  “The what? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh my gosh. Marshall. I thought it was my mother. We had a horrible conversation.”

  “I guess. From the sound of it. No-fly list and all.”

  I told him about Herb’s powwow and the crazy plan he hatched to thwart the eco-friendly park proposal.

  “Yeah, you were right to tell your mother to proceed with caution, and, in this case, maybe not proceed at all. Sorrel’s death was a homicide, and until the killer can be apprehended, it’s best to play it safe. The sheriff’s department has already questioned the board members, but they’re delving deeper into the matter, and Nate and I may be asked to assist with that part as well.”

  “Are you saying they suspect a board member?”

  “Right now, they suspect everyone.”

  “How’d it go tracking down Frank Landrow?”

  “I’ll give you the full-blown version tomorrow, but let’s just say this case gets more and more muddled by the minute. Say, I owe you a hike, don’t I? How about making a full day of it next Sunday? Heck, we can even start on Saturday night.”

  “The parks close at eight.”

  “Who said anything about the parks?”

  Chapter 9

  It was a typical nonstop Monday, and I didn’t get
a chance to talk to Marshall until midmorning. He and Nate had client appointments, and I had enough work piled on my desk to keep me out of everyone’s hair. Augusta stopped in around ten to let me know she was going to the donut shop during her break and asked if I wanted anything.

  “One glazed donut isn’t going to kill you,” she said.

  I figured the sugar would give me energy, which, in turn, would translate to productivity, which could then be construed as calorie burning. I took her up on the offer. What I didn’t expect was a two-for-one donut sale that day. I had already consumed the first one when Marshall gave a quick rap on the doorframe. Bits of strawberry frosting clung to my lips and I immediately reached for a napkin.

  “You look good in frosting. Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “This is Augusta’s fault. Honestly.”

  Marshall laughed and pulled up a chair. “Okay, Frank Landrow. Here’s the long and short of it—the sheriff’s department was unable to locate him yesterday.”

  “Unable because he wasn’t home or unable because of something else?”

  “Both. His wife, Eleanor, was home but said he left early in the morning to do some ‘soul searching,’ whatever the heck that is. She didn’t seem to have a clue either, according to the deputy who spoke with her. And that’s not all. The deputy said he was never so uncomfortable in his entire life. Felt as if she could look right through his uniform and see him buck naked. Whew. Glad their department got to interview her and not me.”

  I stifled a giggle, but it was no use. I wound up laughing out loud.

  “Go ahead. Have fun with this, but I can sympathize with that deputy. From what he said, this Eleanor Landrow was practically all over him and not at all concerned about the whereabouts of her husband. In fact, she told the deputy that if her husband wound up missing, she’d be really miffed because it would interfere with her pedicure and spa appointment the next day.”

  “Wow. Do you think she had anything to do with his disappearance?”

  “No. Because he came back. Early this morning. Told the wife he spent the night at the Hampton in Glendale.”

  “In Glendale? Why Glendale? There’s a Hampton right across Grand Avenue in Sun City West.”

  “Said he was driving around trying to deal with things. Who knows?”

  “Maybe whoever killed Sorrel has it in for Frank, too, and he’s worried. For all we know, he might have been promoting that eco-friendly park idea and someone got ticked.”

  “The deputy who met with Frank’s wife had the same thought. Unless, of course, Frank had a thing going with Sorrel and it was more than platonic.”

  “Sounds like something right up my mother’s alley. You know how she’s always coming up with these ideas about jealous wives. If it turns out to be true, I’ll never live it down.”

  “From what the deputy said about Eleanor Landrow, I highly doubt it. Anyway, Nate and I are up to our noses with the archery club. Thirty-six members and, according to their president, none of them have the skills to land an arrow on a target like Sorrel’s neck.”

  “Maybe they weren’t aiming for her. What if someone else was the real target?”

  “Hmm . . . could be, but I’m not so sure. The homeowners and the garden club members had solid motives to go after Sorrel. I’ll stick with that for the time being. Anyway, Deputy Bowman plans to talk with Frank this afternoon, and, since we’re consulting on the case, Nate will be sitting in. I’ve got a full schedule, so I’ll hear about it secondhand.”

  Marshall wasn’t kidding about the full schedule. The minute he left my office, his eleven-thirty appointment arrived. I heard Augusta announcing it in that lovely, loud voice of hers. Same deal with the noon appointment. I found out later that five of those meetings were with members of the Sun City West Archery Club, who had agreed to speak with Nate or Marshall in our off ice, rather than someplace in Sun City West.

  None of them were considered suspects as of yet, but some of them weren’t taking any chances. According to Marshall, three men brought in their paper archery targets that had been removed from the foam backing. None of them had bull’s-eyes. In addition, all five men had alibis for the morning of Sorrel’s murder.

  Nate’s agenda was fairly similar. Targets with no bull’s-eyes and decent alibis. By the time he left to meet with Deputy Bowman and Frank, he had interviewed three archery club members.

  * * *

  The next morning, a letter to the editor of the Sun City West Independent News appeared. It was written by the president of the archery club and offered the club’s condolences to the family of Sorrel Harlan. The letter went on to explain that the archery club, although committed to marksmanship, valued sportsmanship above all else and stood firm that none of its members would ever jeopardize anyone’s safety by shooting a bow and arrow in a public place, such as a golf course.

  A few archery club members agreed to meet at Putters Paradise in Sun City West on Wednesday, and that took up much of Marshall and Nate’s time. The result of those interviews was the same: a few paper targets and decent alibis.

  “It’s as if they’re all citing the party line,” Marshall said when we went out for pizza and wings on Wednesday night. “I doubt Nate and I are going to get much further with the archery club. Sharp shooters they’re not.”

  “Could someone in the club be hiding how skillful they really are?” I asked.

  “Nah. I doubt it. Why bother to be in an archery club only to hide how skillful you really are? Why bother to set up a ruse? Keep a low profile? The fewer people who know you can use a bow and arrow, the better. Seems to me, most people in these retirement community clubs are pretty social. It would be hard for some loser loner to pretend otherwise.”

  “What about motive? Do any of them own golf course homes?”

  “Sure. About a third of them. The third with the worst paper targets and the best alibis.”

  “Too bad Nate and Deputy Bowman couldn’t get anywhere with Frank Landrow the other day.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. The guy shut down like a battery at twenty below zero. Wouldn’t answer a darn thing. Course, it didn’t help any that the wife was in the room.”

  “Does that mean the sheriff’s office will be bringing him in for questioning?” I asked.

  “They want to give it a few more days. Meantime, they’ll do some background checking on him. Which reminds me, is your mother still planning on joining that powwow tomorrow night?”

  “Oh yeah. They’re not backing down. I think Herb put more planning into this than most military commanders would. According to my mother, there are five pinochle guys: Herb, Bill, Kevin, Kenny, and Wayne. You know all of them from the play last December. Add Myrna, Lucinda, Cecilia, Shirley, Louise, Riva, Marianne, Constance, my aunt Ina, and my mother from Booked 4 Murder, and you’ve got fifteen. Herb insists on adding me to the mix because he needs an even number. Sixteen. The way he figures it, two powwow appointees will be assigned to each board member. An even deal. Says two chances are better than one if they’re going to convince the board to back down on that proposal.”

  Marshall leaned across the table and spoke softly. “Please don’t tell me you’re really going to go along with that plan, are you?”

  “I, er, um . . .”

  “Seriously, Phee, I don’t like the idea of you cornering one of those board members. Heck, I don’t like the idea of any of you wrangling with them.”

  “I’m not thrilled either, but my mother’s breathing down my neck insisting her lifetime investment in the house will be reduced to smithereens. Her word. Smithereens. Told me last night the house is her only protection if Social Security and her pension disappear. Muttered something about her and Streetman living in a cardboard box under the I-10 Bridge. You know how she blows things out of proportion. Besides, it’s not as if Herb’s buddies or the book club ladies would be meeting with those board members in some clandestine place. It would be out in the open, like at a supermarket, or the gas st
ation, or—”

  “One of them could very well turn out to be Sorrel’s killer. If they felt pressured or cornered and they were convinced you or the others posed a threat, they might be willing to kill again.”

  “Now who’s blowing things out of proportion?”

  “I’m just concerned about you. You should know how I feel by now.”

  I looked at the expression on his face and reached my hand across the table to grab his. “I do. Listen, if it will make you feel any better, I promise to stick to wide-open, highly trafficked venues. Okay?”

  “I suppose it will have to be okay.”

  “I’ll give you the details after Thursday night.”

  “I’m holding you to it. Come on, we’ve got a pizza to finish up.”

  Chapter 10

  Bagels ’N More looked like a deserted movie set, with the exception of Herb and Bill sitting at the middle table. Two semi-bald men with pouches, only Bill was taller and seemed to carry the weight better. I looked around and sighed. It was the last place I wanted to be on a Thursday night, when my couch and a decent TV lineup were only minutes away. Still, I’d promised my mother I’d be here.

  Herb saw me the minute I walked into the place. “Hey, cutie! Where’s the rest of your crew?”

  “Hey, same could be said about yours.”

  “At least Bill showed up on time. Kevin and Wayne are on their way over from the men’s club, and Kenny’s finishing up dinner. He gave me a big spiel about his wife making pot roast and not wanting to miss it.”

  “The ladies should be here any minute. Oh look! Shirley and Lucinda are coming in the door now.” As if a flood gate opened, Marianne, Riva, and Louise also walked in.

  They were followed by Myrna, who flung the door open and trounced over to the table, each footstep clomping on the floor. “I just got off the phone with Harriet. She’ll be a few minutes late. That dog of hers refused to go outside for his evening walk. She had to coax him with some string cheese.”