by J. C. Eaton
“I didn’t realize what a long night this was going to be,” I said.
“It may be long. Let’s make it productive. See what we can learn from the crowd.”
The line serpentined around the place, in and out of the benches, as the attendees gradually made their way to shake Milquist’s hand. Nate and I had managed to hightail it toward the front of the line, and that was because we were seated at the end of a row. Behind us, I heard someone sobbing. Not those small discreet sounds people often made at funerals or memorials, but loud throat-garbling sobs. I turned to see who it was.
A small man with brownish-gray hair and stooped shoulders was crying into a large handkerchief. Behind him stood an elegant-looking woman wearing a dark black blazer and white slacks. A monochromatic scarf was draped across her neck. She was sporting diamond studs in her ears and appeared to be annoyed.
“Stop it, will you? You weren’t even related to her.”
My ears perked up, and I gave Nate a poke as I turned my head in their direction.
“The world has lost such a loving soul, and I’m partially responsible. It’s a burden I don’t think I can bear.”
The woman reached into her bag and pulled out a small tube of lipstick. “Honestly. I doubt any of the other members of the garden club are reacting the way you are.”
Garden club. That’s what she said. The couple behind us had to be them—Eleanor and Frank Landrow. The woman certainly fit the description Marshall had gotten from the deputy. I was dying to tell Nate, but we were standing so close to Frank and Eleanor I was afraid to open my mouth. Instead, I stared straight ahead and tried to focus on what they were saying.
The woman went on. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were having an affair with her. And why do you blame yourself? You didn’t shoot that arrow.”
“I knew it wasn’t safe for her to walk around that golf course, and yet ... and yet . . .”
More sobs. Suddenly, Nate was saying how sorry he was, and I realized we had reached the front of the line as Milquist Harlan reached out to shake my hand. I muttered something about how sorry I was for his loss as he introduced me to the lady seated next to him.
“This is Marlene Krone, a dear family friend and the coauthor of one of my books. When she heard the news about Sorrel, she drove straight through from Albuquerque and has been here to help me through this. Too bad she can only stay for a few days.”
I extended my hand. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.”
Her grip was like a Neanderthal’s. Or close to it. I wondered if she had squeezed Nate’s hand with as much strength. I wanted to linger a bit to see if I could catch the conversation between the Landrows and Milquist, but Marlene had already turned away from me and was extending her hand to Eleanor. I had no choice but to follow Nate to the refreshments.
“Check out these epicurean delights,” he said.
“You are joking, right? The little sign says ‘ORGANIC OAT AND HONEY CAKES AND GREEN TEA.’ Guess Milquist and Sorrel must have shared the same taste in foods.”
“The cakes look like bricks. Someone could lose a tooth biting into one of them, and it won’t be me. Anyway, I’ve got to get photos of that guest book before they remove it.”
Nate slipped into the crowd as I pondered whether or not to grab an oat cake. Streetman’s dog biscuits looked more appetizing. I’d decided to give it a try anyway when someone tapped my shoulder.
“Can you believe this is what they’re serving? I nearly choked on one of them. And forget the tea.”
It was my aunt Ina. Muttering and grumbling about the food selection. Then, as if a lightbulb went off in her head, she gave my arm a nudge. “Phee, do you know which one is Mildred Saperstein? From the board? Your mother will have my head if I don’t find that Mildred woman and talk to her about the vote. Shirley knows which one she is, but I can’t find Shirley anywhere in this crowd.”
“Why do you need Shirley? I thought you knew Mildred from mahjong.”
“Only by name. I can’t be expected to—oh! There’s Shirley now. Talking with Myrna near those bougainvillea bushes.”
And like that, my aunt was off. No “see you later” or “have a nice night.” I was watching as she made her way to Shirley and Myrna when I suddenly remembered I needed to check out the memorial photo wall. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be gathering around the refreshment table or talking with each other in small clusters. It was now or never. I took the cell phone from my bag and walked over to the large double poster board that read SORREL HARLAN’S CELEBRATION OF LIFE.
My mother was right. Too many cutesy childhood photos. Thankfully, they were limited to the poster board on my left. Without stopping to scrutinize the right side of the board, I snapped photo after photo and quickly returned the phone to my bag. I had just zipped the bag closed when I had the strangest thought. What if Milquist Harlan is in danger of being murdered, too? Hadn’t Augusta told me that Milquist’s family was exceedingly wealthy and he had no heirs? Now I had a second theory floating around in my head, rivaling the first one I had come up with. The one I refused to tell Marshall or Nate about.
“Phee. You look as if you’re lost in space. Everything okay?”
It was Nate. Back from his little reconnaissance mission. I pointed to the poster boards. “Look at the photo wall. I’ve got them all on my phone.”
“Good move, kiddo. Can you email them to the office?”
“As soon as I get back to the car. Listen, I had an unsettling thought. What if Milquist is going to be the next target? Maybe it’s been about him all along, and Sorrel’s murder was the opening act.”
“Look at the top benches. See those two men talking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They’re plainclothes deputies. Keeping an eye on Milquist. Your thought crossed their minds as well. Marshall or I should have mentioned the sheriff’s department surveillance to you. We’ve both been way too busy.”
“Um, speaking of Marshall ... and I really should’ve had this conversation with you a long time ago, but are you all right with the two of us dating?”
“In general, or as your employer?”
My face got warm.
“Relax, kiddo. I’m joking. Marshall spoke to me months ago. Many months ago, to be precise. Had I known you were both interested in each other, I would’ve encouraged him to ask you out back in Mankato. You’re both professionals. Who knows? The two of you could become the next Nick and Nora Charles or Johnathan and Jennifer Hart, although they were amateur detectives, come to think of it.”
“You’re as bad as my mother. I’m not a detective.”
“Not off icially. Look, we’d better get going if you want to check on Jeannine Simone.”
“Give me a split second. I probably should let my mother know I’m leaving.”
“Okay. I’ll be waiting by the archway and taking in the crowd.”
My mother wasn’t too difficult to spot. She was standing by one of the tea urns, holding a small cup. Cecilia and Louise were doing the same. It looked as if all three of them were deciding whether or not to drink the stuff.
“Hi, Mom. I’m on my way home. I’ll talk to you later. You can tell me how it went with Burton Barre.”
“I’ll tell you right now. He gave me the party line. ‘Thank you for your input. I’ll take it under advisement.’ Harold Stevens told Kevin and Kenny the same thing. I swear those board members probably rehearse that line in their sleep.”
“Don’t get too discouraged. All it takes is one ‘no’ vote from any of those four members, and the proposal will be shot down.”
“Shh! Don’t say ‘shot down’ out loud. You don’t know who could be listening. Did you check out the memorial wall?”
“Sure did. Snapped some photos on my iPhone, too.”
“Good, good. We can discuss them later.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. Nate and Marshall will review them. Look, Nate’s waiting for
me. I’ve got to run.”
“Tell him to look at the photo in front of the Heard Museum. You can thank me later.”
* * *
It took Nate and me less than ten minutes to drive to Jeannine’s house. It was located catty-corner from the Echo Mesa golf course and distinguished by the cluster of date palms that surrounded an elegant fountain. It appeared as if the lights were on in the front room.
“Might as well ring the bell,” I said. “She knows me, and I’ll introduce you.”
Jeannine came to the door within seconds and looked absolutely fine. I felt like an idiot.
I brushed some loose hairs from my forehead and swallowed. “Um, hi! I know this is really odd, but when I saw you rush out of Sorrel’s memorial service, I thought something was terribly wrong. I knew it couldn’t be those two pinochle-playing friends of my mother’s, because they were still sitting in the service. So, I decided to stop by and check on you.”
Jeannine gave me a smile and turned to face Nate.
“Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me,” I said. “This is my boss, Nate Williams, from Williams Investigations. He attended the service as well.”
Nate and Jeannine shook hands while I tried to get a glimpse of her living room through the partially opened door. No upturned furniture. No signs of distress. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for bothering her, but she spoke first.
“That was so caring and thoughtful of you. Really. But everything’s fine. I got one of those home alerts on my phone, and that’s why I rushed back here. The app notifies me if there’s a break-in or, God forbid, a fire. In this case, it was a ‘glass break’ message.”
“A what?”
“I have glass breakers installed on the windows. If someone or something breaks the glass, it sounds an alarm. Unfortunately, the darn thing is so sensitive, that half the time when the train goes by or when the fighter jets from Luke Air Force Base make a lot of noise, it signals an alert. I asked the company to adjust the alarm. Anyway, there was no break-in. No nothing. A posse volunteer was already at the house when I pulled in, and we checked everything. Again, I’m really sorry you had to waste your time.”
“It’s no bother.” I was still trying to peer into her living room. “I guess everyone’s a tad nervous, given what happened to Sorrel.”
Nate took me by the elbow, signaling we should get a move on. He smiled at Jeannine as she thanked us again and closed the door.
“Guess that was a big waste,” I said.
“Not exactly. Did you happen to see what she had hanging on her walls?”
“My eyes couldn’t get past the weird shag carpeting. Who has shag carpeting anymore?”
“Someone who likes to combine style with texture, I suppose. And what about those framed Indian artifacts of hers? Looked like they were competing for wall space. Oops. Wrong choice of words. Framed Native American artifacts. Arrowheads and beadwork. Hmm, Marlene Krone and Milquist Harlan aren’t the only ones interested in indigenous cultures.”
“Lots of people collect southwestern art.”
“True. True. But not many keep three-foot archery bows in glass display cases, like the one she had off to the left behind the two accent chairs.”
“You don’t think—”
“Not yet, anyway.”
Chapter 16
“I can’t imagine what possible motive Jeannine Simone would have for killing Sorrel,” I said to Marshall when he got to the office the next day. “But there it was. Right in her living room. A giant bow. Nate saw it clear as could be. I mean, how many people display bows and arrows? Unless she was some sort of aficionado.”
“Whoa. Talk about going from zero to a hundred in thirty seconds. Slow down, Phee, and go back to the beginning. Motive. Hers was the same as everyone else’s—objection to converting the golf courses. And we don’t even know if she can shoot a bow and arrow. As far as the authorities are concerned, there’s nothing out of the ordinary to link her with the Harlans.”
“So you checked? Or Nate did. You did think something might’ve been going on.”
“If an investigation is going to be thorough, every nuance needs to be explored, that’s all. Which still brings us to our current status of coming up short. And that bow, by the way, was some sort of ceremonial one. I doubt it could’ve sent an arrow very far. Oh well, maybe we’ll have better leads once we’re done studying those photos you snapped last night. I’m about to pull them up on email, as soon as I get into my office. Nate should be along any minute. He’ll be busy going through that guest list,” Marshall said.
“Take a good look at the photo with the Heard Museum in the background.”
“Okay. Why?”
“It was something my mother said, that’s all.”
“Heard Museum. Got it.” Marshall gave me a wink and walked into his office.
Augusta was fast at work at her desk, and I figured I shouldn’t be standing around doing nothing when I had a zillion things waiting for me in my office. I was itching to get a good look at those photos and would have done as much last night if I wasn’t so exhausted when I got home. Wanting to free up storage space on my iPhone, I copied the memorial wall pics to the office computer on my desk.
The curiosity was killing me. I looked at the time. Nine twenty-three.
Five minutes to peruse these babies isn’t going to make a difference.
I pulled up the first photo and took a good look. Sorrel and a few girlfriends in front of a university library. On to the next. Sorrel in the middle of a huge demonstration. Her sign read, TREES AGAINST THE MALL. Judging from the color of her hair and the clothing, the protest was probably during the time she was at college. Two more pictures. Sorrel hiking up a trail who knows where, and Sorrel sitting on some rocks in the middle of a stream. Her hairdo hadn’t changed in decades. I did pull up a few photos of her and her husband, mostly outdoorsy ones. The only formal-looking picture appeared to be taken of the two of them at their wedding.
Nine thirty-four. I had to get to work.
I was about to close the program when I decided to skim through the rest of the photos in order to find the one with the Heard Museum. The Heard Museum, known for its vast collection of southwestern art, was located off of Central Avenue in Phoenix and looked like a gleaming-white, modern-day, Spanish Colonial building with wrought iron gates framing its three front archways. The photo was easy to spot, and, within seconds, I knew why my mother had insisted Nate and Marshall take a look.
Nine-forty. I really had to get to work.
Wasting no time, I pulled up my accounting spreadsheets and tried to get my mind off of Sorrel. Reconciling accounts was one of those rote tasks that gave me a sense of accomplishment, unlike trying to solve a murder case. I must have been at the computer for at least an hour when Augusta rapped on my doorframe.
“There’s a hysterical woman on the line for you, and it’s not your mother. This lady’s convinced there was an attempt on her life.”
“Shouldn’t she be talking to Nate or Marshall? Or the police?”
“She gave me her name twice, but, with all the crying and gasping, I couldn’t figure it out. Anyway, she said you’d understand.”
“Thanks, Augusta.”
I knew it had to be one of my mother’s friends. The description fit all of them. I picked up the phone. “Hello. This is Phee.” I waited for a response.
What I got was endless choking and gasping sounds.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you need me to call for emergency assistance?”
“It’s a miracle they didn’t kill me! I thought I had taken my last breath back there. Ran me off the road. That’s what they did. I’m sure someone from the bocce league put them up to this.”
Last breath. Bocce league. Woman’s voice. I put two and two together.
“Myrna? Is that you?”
“Yes. It was awful, Phee. I was on my way to the bocce court for practice when, out of the blue, this beige blur of a car careened into my
golf cart. Next thing I knew, the cart jumped the median and landed in a clump of bushes. Right on RH Johnson Boulevard before you get to Trail Ridge Drive. I’ll be traumatized for life. Of all days to take my golf cart instead of the car. I thought I’d save money on gas. Now that golf cart is mangled to the point of no return. And I’m not much better off.”
“Um, where are you calling from? The hospital?”
“No, I’m home. The EMTs checked me over after the accident and all I have are some scratches. The golf cart got towed to one of those repair shops on Camino del Sol, and I got taken home by a posse volunteer. Anyway, can you find out which person in that bocce league did this?”
“What makes you think it was someone from the league? Chances are it was one of those crazy speeders that people are always complaining about. Especially on RH Johnson. It’s become a shortcut to get to Route 60.”
“It was no accident. Ever since Sorrel’s body was found near those bocce balls I accidentally lofted, everything’s been going downhill. Half the time I can barely throw the ball. I know our league’s been talking behind my back. It’s not only Bill who doesn’t want me in the tournament.”
“Okay, that being said, I still don’t think anyone would resort to causing the kind of accident that could have resulted in a serious injury or even death.”
“Huh? Death? I’ll never be able to have a moment’s peace until I know for sure.”
“I’m not promising anything, but I’ll ask my boss to see if he can get a copy of the sheriff’s report. Were you able to give them any information other than the color of the car?”
“A beige blur. That’s all I saw. I couldn’t tell you if it was a van, an SUV, or one of those mini things that are all the rage. Anyway, I missed today’s practice. I already called Cecilia to let her know. She was going to watch me today, like we decided at Bagels ’N More. Tomorrow’s your mother’s turn.”
Wonderful. It better not turn into mine.
“Try to take it easy and relax. Like I said, I’m sure it had nothing to do with the bocce league.”
