by J. C. Eaton
“I almost had heartburn watching Myrna toss those bocce balls today.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t foul things up. The team made it to the finals tomorrow.”
My ice cream slowly started to melt in the bowl, turning to slosh under my spoon. If the men kept it up, my dessert would become a drink. I decided to hurry things along by getting to the point. “Hi, guys. So, uh, I guess the bocce team has a chance of winning, huh?”
Bill grunted as he spoke. “If Myrna doesn’t louse things up tomorrow morning, we’ll walk away with a trophy. It’s down to two teams. I told her to quit looking at the damn golf course and pay attention to the game.”
“Give her a break,” Wayne said. “She’s still rattled over that murder. Hell, so’s everyone else. I heard they had to put extra security on the golf courses, and I’m not speaking about more of those golf marshals. They actually hired a security company to drive around. Not that it’ll do much good if they’re at one end of the course and Robin Hood is at the other.”
I looked at Nate and Marshall. “I didn’t know the rec centers added security.”
“They didn’t have a choice if they expected business as usual.” Nate turned to face the men. “Say, isn’t that the hostess over there waiting for you?”
Herb stretched his neck and gave a nod. “Geez, we’d better get to our table before they give it to someone else. This place gets really busy on the weekends.”
The three of them thundered off as I stared at the gloppy mess in my dessert bowl. “So much for polite conversation. It’s like they pick up a conversation out of nowhere and keep going. My mother’s friends are notorious for doing that.”
“Yeah, well, speaking of notorious, don’t look now, but the third act is coming through the door.” Marshall’s spoon sunk deeper and deeper into his bowl of ice cream. “It’s like a Marx Brothers movie.”
“Actually,” Nate said, “more like a Bing Crosby and Bob Hope road film. Only instead of Dorothy Lamour, we’re looking at Eleanor Landrow.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But that’s not Frank.”
Like my aunt Ina, Eleanor had to pass our table in order to be seated at hers. She took the arm of the gentleman who was escorting her and brushed by us, offering only a slow nod in Marshall’s direction. She moved farther away.
For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine who the guy was. “Her escort seems kind of familiar. Like I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him. Did you guys recognize him?”
Nate, who was still staring at Eleanor’s silhouette, suddenly turned to me. “Uh, sorry, kiddo. I guess I was too busy looking at the lovely Mrs. Landrow.”
“It’s hard not to,” Marshall said. “If that dress was any shorter or tighter, it would be a bathing suit.”
I had to admit Eleanor Landrow looked stunning in a sleeveless, dark teal sheath with a single strand of pearls. No wonder the men didn’t notice her dinner partner. But her perfume was hard to miss. Perfume. I suddenly had a thought.
“Nate, you said Rolo found out Eleanor used to be quite accomplished with a bow and arrow. If she was the killer, would any residue of her perfume still linger on the arrow? Could forensics identify it?”
“I don’t think it would. Unless she soaked the thing in it, it’s very doubtful. Interesting thought, though.”
Marshall gave me a pat on the arm and smiled. “Forensic evidence or not, I think I’ll have a little chat with our Mrs. Landrow this week. She’ll want to know if we’ve learned anything more about her husband’s relationship with Sorrel.”
“You’re not going to tell her about the note I found, are you?”
“Hardly. It was evidence obtained illegally. Which won’t happen again. Will it?”
I took a breath and let out a sound that was more like a whine, but I didn’t say a word.
Chapter 24
I got up early, went for a jog, which turned out more like a brisk walk than anything else, and got back to my house just in time to hear the tail end of my mother’s message on the answering machine.
“. . . let me know. Okay? The final round starts at eleven.”
The final round. It had to be the bocce tournament, and, from what Bill said last night, his and Myrna’s team were one of the two finalists. No doubt, my mother wanted me to go there. Since Marshall and I didn’t have plans for the day, and Lyndy was going to be tied up taking her aunt to Costco, I thought it might not be such a bad idea. After all, the finals were bound to bring in lots of people. People who tended to talk.
“Do you want me to meet you at the bocce courts or pick you up?” I asked when I returned the call.
“Why don’t you pick me up? That way you can visit with Streetman for a few minutes. It’s important he become more socialized. After careful consideration, I’ve decided it’s best if we start with one-to-one contacts so as not to stress him. He can be somewhat unpredictable in crowds.”
Oh, he’s predictable all right. Ask anyone within a two-foot radius of his leg.
As for socialized? The dog had a better social life than most celebrities. Dog park excursions. Neighborhood walks. Trips to Dairy Queen for special treats. And if that wasn’t enough, my mother figured out her bank’s drive-thru window offered complimentary dog treats that didn’t interfere with his sensitive stomach.
“Fine. See you at quarter after ten.”
* * *
My mother and I arrived at the bocce courts in time to squeeze into the benches that Shirley and Lucinda held for us. I didn’t expect to see so many people in attendance.
“Cecilia, Louise, and Riva are on the other side,” Lucinda said. “Look, there’s Myrna now. Let’s stand up and wave to her.”
A quick jab on my back and I was out of my seat like a jack-in-the-box, waving stupidly at Myrna.
“Lordy, that girl looks nervous,” Shirley said. “And I suppose Bill isn’t making things any better. He’s whispering in her ear right now.”
“She’ll be okay,” Lucinda said. “Myrna’s a trooper.”
The Scorching Rollers from Fountain Hills were up first, having won the coin toss. The back of their lime-green shirts read, ROLLING INTO THE GOOD LIFE AT FOUNTAIN HILLS RETIREMENT VILLAGE, while the front had some sort of logo featuring a lizard tossing a bocce ball. Underneath were the words, SCORCHING ROLLERS BOCCE TEAM.
They seemed polished and relaxed, unlike the Sun City West team. I watched as one of their players tossed out a small white ball and proceeded to follow up by aiming a larger bocce ball at it. This process seemed to go on indefinitely as the teams took turns. Once all the balls had landed, someone measured and recorded the distances.
“Do you have any idea who’s winning?” my mother asked.
“No,” I replied, “but it can’t be all bad. Judging from what I can see and hear, Myrna’s not having a meltdown, and Bill’s not grumbling loud enough to disturb anyone.”
We continued to watch the game as Shirley and Lucinda had a side conversation that seemed more interesting than what I was watching. In retrospect, it wasn’t so much of a side conversation as it was Lucinda complaining to Shirley.
“I can’t tell you how annoyed I am. I rearranged my schedule so I could be home every afternoon at two in order to follow that trial. I had it all planned. The trial from two to four and then Telemundo, unless, of course, the trial went longer. I could always DVR Amor bajo el cielo. I switched all of my appointments to the mornings. The dentist. The nail salon. My internist. Do you think I want to get up that early? Now I’m stuck. Why on earth did they postpone that trial?”
Lucinda didn’t give Shirley a chance to answer. “You know what I think? I think her lawyer quit. That Darla Marlinde seems like an awful you-know-what to me. Anyway, they’ll have more about it on the news tonight. Louise should be thankful she didn’t wind up on that jury.”
The Darla Marlinde case. That’s what Lucinda was grousing about. The news media was playing it up as if it was a blockbuster movie. “Will there be justice for the
scorpion killer’s victim?” Justice? From what I’d seen, Darla Marlinde was already tried and found guilty by the media. Now all they needed were ratings. I leaned back and watched the game as one of the Fountain Hills players tossed the ball.
Back and forth, the game went on and on.
At one point my mother offered me some bottled water she had in her bag, but I wasn’t thirsty. “Are you sure? You might be thirsty later.”
“If I’m thirsty later, I’ll get something to drink. Looks like Myrna’s up next.”
“You’re sure about the water?”
I was looking at my mother and didn’t see what happened on the bocce court. Nevertheless, I heard it. Along with the entire West Coast. Myrna was screaming her lungs out.
“Help! I’ve been hit. There’s blood dripping down my cheeks. Help! It felt like an arrow. The shooter! The shooter got me. He must be somewhere on the golf course. Help!”
While the other players rushed to Myrna’s side, the posse members who were on duty raced for the fence that separated the golf course from the miniature golf and bocce courts. All I could see was a crowd around Myrna. Then, as quickly as the crowd had gathered, it dispersed.
The next voice we heard was Bill’s, and he was even louder than Myrna. “You weren’t shot with an arrow, and that’s not blood dripping down your cheek. A fast-falling wad of goose poop landed on your head, that’s all. Goose poop.”
Myrna stopped yelling and ran her hand through her hair. Next thing I knew she raced out of the bocce court and headed right to the parking lot. I thought back to that day in the dog park when Cindy Dolton asked me to tell my mother about the geese and their unwelcome presents on the benches.
“Um, I might’ve forgotten to mention this. Not that it matters, really. But, be careful where you sit at the dog park. The geese are active this time of year. Cindy Dolton asked me to let you know.”
My mother looked at me as if I had come off a spaceship. “You could’ve warned Myrna, you know.”
“What? Warned Myrna? How was I supposed to know a bird was going to drop its ... its ... crap on her head?”
By now Cecila, Louise, and Riva had left their seats and were walking toward our bench. The activity on the bocce court had stopped completely.
“Lordy, Lordy. This is a mess,” Shirley said. “I think that girl just forfeited the game. One of us should follow her home and make sure she’s all right. Those goose droppings are big, and it probably did hurt her head. After what happened to Sorrel, it’s no wonder Myrna thought she was shot with an arrow.”
“Phee and I will check on Myrna.” My mother glanced back at the bocce court. “Poor woman’s probably a basket case. Oh look! They’re leaving all the balls on the court. Guess they’re going to continue with the game. Someone’s walking over to the microphone by the activity building.”
Sure enough, a voice came over the loudspeaker. “The game has been temporarily halted. We’re calling it rainout conditions. The game will resume in ten minutes. All players are to return to the bocce courts in ten minutes, or your team will forfeit the game.”
Before any of us could say a word, Bill charged out of the bocce court area and headed across the parking lot.
“Let’s hope, for his sake, Myrna didn’t start the car,” Riva said.
Either Bill was particularly fast or Myrna particularly slow, but the two of them were face-to-face about twenty yards from us. Impossible to hear what was being said. Not so much for how they were saying it. Hands in the air from both Myrna and Bill.
“Do you think he’ll convince her to keep playing?” I asked.
Cecilia shook her head. “I don’t think so. Bill’s on his way back and Myrna’s still standing there. Maybe we should do something.”
“Like what?” someone asked.
Just then, Myrna strode through the parking lot toward the courts. When she got closer to us, she shouted, “I hope a freaking owl drops a load on his head!”
“Looks like the game is on,” my mother said. “Quick! We’d better get back to our seats before someone takes them.”
The game resumed as if nothing had happened. Well, not exactly nothing. Myrna was still pretty shaken up, and, no matter how hard she tried, her tosses landed those balls out of bounds. In the end, the Sun City West Bocce Team would be taking home the second-place trophy.
“Aw, what the hell, Myrna. You did what you could,” Bill shouted as the final announcement was made. “Not everyone’s cut out for bocce ball.”
“You try playing with bird poop in your hair!” she yelled back as she hurried over to us. “It was horrific. Simply horrific. I could’ve sworn I’d been hit.”
“It’s understandable Myrna,” my mother said. “We thought you were positively gallant.”
Gallant wouldn’t have been my choice of words, but it was a word Myrna needed to hear.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t all here to cheer me on. At least the awards dinner will be indoors.”
I pulled my mother aside as Myrna continued to chat with the other ladies. “Awards dinner? You didn’t say anything about an awards dinner. Is that going on tonight? You didn’t make reservations for us to attend, did you?”
“No, of course not. Not yet. The dinner doesn’t take place until sometime in April. They have to order the trophies, have them engraved, that sort of thing. Plus, each team gets to select its most valuable player.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Count me out. O-U-T. Out.”
Myrna had apparently said her good-byes to the others while my mom and I were talking. In fact, I was so intent on making my point about the awards dinner that I didn’t notice Myrna standing right next to me until she cleared her throat.
“I wanted to thank both of you for the moral support. This has been grueling. Absolutely grueling. At least it’s over for now and we can go back to playing bocce for the fun of it again. Although, I don’t want to go on those courts until they catch that killer. Are they getting any closer, Phee? Does your boss tell you anything?”
“Only that they’re working on it and making headway. I’m sure it’ll be solved in no time.”
“One can only hope. Meanwhile, I intend to keep Lucinda company this week watching Telemundo.”
“I didn’t know you understood Spanish.”
“I don’t. She translates as it goes along. We were planning on watching the Darla Marlinde trial, but it’s been postponed. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I think the witness for the defense bailed out. That’s why they need a postponement.”
My nose crinkled automatically. “What makes you say that?”
Myrna took a deep breath and looked at my mother. “Remember that big Ponzi scheme trial a few years back? What the heck was his name? Oh yes. Romero Samson. That thing had to be postponed so many times because all the witnesses for the defense kept disappearing, and Romero’s attorney insisted his client was being framed.” Then she turned to me. “That was before you moved here, but I think it’s the same thing. Why else would they postpone the trial? Without witnesses, they’ve got nothing.”
Witnesses. Nothing. I was staring at Myrna, but my mind was elsewhere. I remembered something Louise had said about the day she reported for jury duty selection. Louise had inadvertently overheard some lawyers moaning about a trial postponement because their witness had been killed. And the cause of death sounded a heck of a lot like Sorrel’s. So much so, in fact, that Nate looked into those dockets. There were three pending trials. Louise’s was one of them, and it was settled without the need for a trial. That left the Agua Fria case and the Scorpion Murder.
Given Sorrel’s penchant for nature, Nate and Marshall had made the assumption she might have been the key witness for the dumping of pesticides in the water. As a result, someone working for that company would’ve been a prime murder suspect. Especially if he or she had archery skills. But, after days and days of research and interviews, not a single shred of evidence could be pointed at an
y of the employees. They were about as handy with a bow and arrow as I was with a double boiler.
My heart beat faster as the realization hit me. Sorrel wasn’t a witness for some environmental trial, she was a key witness for the Darla Marlinde scorpion murder, and that’s why someone got her out of the way.
I grabbed my mother by the arm. “Uh, shouldn’t we be getting going? I mean, doesn’t Streetman have to be walked or something?”
“He’s fine. He was out a little while ago.”
Myrna must’ve gotten the hint because she muttered something about wanting to get home so she could wash her hair. My mother promised to call her in the morning.
“What was that all about? Are you in a hurry or something? I was going to suggest we go out to eat,” my mother said.
“I may have figured out who killed Sorrel. Well, not who, but who would’ve had the best possible motive.”
“Tell me once we get back to your car. You never know who’s listening.”
Chapter 25
I wasn’t about to call Marshall when I got home from the bocce tournament. Not until I had done my homework on Darla Marlinde. And that took longer than expected. The whole evening, in fact. Internet searches, social media, photos, videos . . . from the Huffington Post to The New York Times, Darla was all over the news. I imagined if I went global, she would’ve appeared in every major newspaper from Barbados to Barcelona.
The girl was sensational, if nothing else. A deep red-haired bombshell with large brown eyes and the most seductive expressions I’d ever seen. She’d dated a series of rich and powerful men, mostly in the sports industry, until she latched her claws on Phoenix’s most prominent tech giant, Marc Yost from Metronics, Inc. When that relationship soured, the next claws Mr. Yost found latched to his skin were those of the deadly bark scorpion. And more than one. According to Augusta, who seemed to know more about scorpions than most of us, “The venom went through that guy like prep medicine for a colonoscopy.” From what I read, Marc Yost was dead within hours, according to the coroner’s report.
