Botched 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “So, it wasn’t a case of mistaken golf cart identity. And Milquist wasn’t the target.”

  “Correct on all counts. The driver had no clue who Milquist was. And when the sheriff’s deputies questioned the guy about a murder connection, the kid all but fainted. Confessed to grand theft auto but swore on his life he never killed, or attempted to kill, anyone.”

  “Well, I guess Myrna will be relieved.”

  “Maybe. The kid had no insurance. Big surprise there. Nate plans on stopping by Milquist’s place to let him know what transpired. Especially since we put him on edge about the similar golf carts.”

  “What a bummer. I was kind of hoping there’d be a link between that accident and the killer. Doesn’t this frustrate you no end?”

  “It’s what investigating’s all about. You’ve got a lot of dangling cords and until you put a knot on the bottom of each of them, the case is still wide open. The good news is we’ve tied some knots.”

  “And added more cords. I forgot to tell you about the last thing Bethany said. Frank believed things were getting out of hand.”

  “Out of hand? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Darned if I know. Bethany didn’t know either. Oh, and there’s one more thing, but I don’t think it has anything to do with any of this. Eleanor has a high-maintenance brother who works in Paradise Valley. Concierge services.”

  “You’re right. I think we can forget about that little tidbit.”

  “What about that other business? Maybe Sorrel was into something that went too far and that’s what got her killed. Frank’s probably sitting on top of all of this!”

  “Calm down. Either Nate or I will have a chat with Mr. Landrow, okay? Now, will you relax for a bit and concentrate on something other than this case?”

  He reached across the table and gave my wrist a squeeze. Neither Sorrel, Milquist, Eleanor, or Frank were mentioned the rest of the night.

  Chapter 27

  The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Sorrel was murdered as a result of something she uncovered regarding Darla Marlinde. That arrow to the neck had to be a professional hit and not some amateur archer who struck it lucky, so to speak. The investigation, in spite of all the work Nate and Marshall were doing, not to mention whatever it was the sheriff’s office was up to, still wasn’t yielding results fast enough. As if I wasn’t painfully aware of it, my mother made sure I got the message loud and clear.

  “What’s taking your office so long?” she bellowed into the phone.

  I was still dripping wet, having just stepped out of the shower, and the only reason I took the call was because I thought it might be Marshall. He’d left his wallet here last night. Said it was too bulky when he sat on the couch.

  “I’ve got to get to work. Can I call you later?”

  “This will only take a minute. If Sorrel Harlan’s murder isn’t solved soon, it’s going to cost us an arm and a leg. The rec centers have already added additional security to the golf courses. That doesn’t come cheap. And it’s not only the golf courses. People are afraid to do anything outdoors. I’ve even heard some of the snowbirds talking about relocating next winter. You know what that means, don’t you? Less income for the community and rising prices for the rest of us. What’s taking them so long?”

  “My God, Mother. I can’t answer that.”

  “Well, when you get into the office this morning, light a firecracker under your boss. Oh, and did I mention your aunt Ina has decided to take a sojourn to Belize until the matter has been resolved? She said the stress was too much for her and Louis. Especially since they live on a golf course.”

  “Fine. Firecracker. Belize. Golf course. Got it. I’ll call you later.”

  I hated it when my mother was right. The case was taking too long. And what harm would it really do if I did a little sleuthing on my own after work? It wasn’t as if I planned to meet with mobsters or gunrunners. I was, in Augusta’s words, about to do some “information gathering.”

  Paradise Valley, with the highest per capita income in the state, was a forty-five-minute drive from the office. If I took the highway. And if traffic was light. Otherwise, it was at least an hour. Still, I figured I’d have lots of daylight ahead of me when I got to Marc Yost’s condo. Convinced that Sorrel was indeed the key witness in his murder, I had to see for myself what she could’ve possibly discovered.

  Bless the Internet. I had already written down the address for the deceased’s condo and planned to engage whatever tenants wafted my way.

  “I’m telling you this, Augusta, because if anything happens to me, I want someone to know my last location.”

  I had pulled Augusta aside as soon as I got into work. She was early, and my boss, along with the guy I was dating, were both running late. “Here’s the address. It’ll save time that way.”

  “What are you figuring is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t stand another day of my mother’s nagging. Plus, I think I’m really on to something. It was the Darla Marlinde case that got Sorrel killed. Nate and Marshall think so, too. At least I think they think so. Anyway, you know how long those investigations take. Protocol and all.”

  Augusta’s face was expressionless. “I’d give you my Glock, but you’re not licensed to carry. I’ve got pepper spray in my bag if you want that.”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’d only wind up spraying myself.”

  “So, what do you think you’re going to find?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. But Sorrel saw something. She had to. I plan to snoop around the building and see if I can get anyone to talk with me. Shh. Here comes Nate.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Nate walked in. Then, he looked my way. “Hey, kiddo, I don’t know what you said to your boyfriend, but he’s on his way over to speak with Frank Landrow.”

  “I, um, er—”

  “Don’t apologize. Someone has to keep Marshall on his toes.”

  Nate shuffled off to his office, and I bolted to mine. Marshall and I didn’t cross paths the entire day and that was just as well. I didn’t know if I could keep my after-work plans to myself. At least I had the foresight to leave his wallet with Augusta, who gave me an odd look and tucked it into a desk drawer.

  “You’re sure about the pepper spray?” she whispered as we headed out at the end of the day.

  “Yes. I’m sure. Thanks anyway.”

  “You might want to keep Marshall’s number on speed dial just in case.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll be fine.”

  “By the way, I gave him his wallet while you were out to grab lunch. Guy turned as red as a beet. He left before you got back.”

  “Thanks, Augusta.”

  Terrific. Augusta’s got us pegged.

  I had jotted down a few questions in the event I was actually able to speak with one or more of the condo tenants. In the back of my mind, I kept hearing Marshall scold me for interfering with an active investigation. I chose to ignore it as if it were a hallucination.

  Whenever I’d seen real estate listings with words like spectacular, elegant, and priceless, I knew they were exaggerating. In the case of Marc Yost’s condo, they weren’t. I had Googled the address, and, since another unit in the complex was for sale, I’d gotten all the specs on the building. The structure itself, a massive French Provincial, looked more like a palace than a residence. Behind it was a panoramic view of the Camelback and Mummy Mountains. I imagined the price Marc Yost had paid was worth every penny. Too bad he didn’t get to enjoy it longer.

  I loved my KIA Sportage, but, with the exception of a landscaping truck off to the side of the complex parking lot, my car stood out like an eyesore among the Audis and BMWs. I parked it next to a Mazda convertible and stared at the shiny, candy-apple-red vehicle. Unlike Minnesota, where people only drove convertibles with the tops down in the summer, it was too hot to do that in Arizona. Convertible owners here only enjoyed the open air in the winter. Off
to the left, I saw some fancy-looking garages. Probably extra cost for the tenants. I glanced at the Mazda again. Way out of my price range.

  As I got out of my car, I happened to notice a small green decal on the upper left-hand side of the Mazda’s windshield. It looked like the one I had. Left over from when I worked for the Mankato Police Department in accounting. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t scrape it off my car. The Mazda owner seemed to be in the same fix. Although the edges were torn, I could still read PARKING PERMIT M ETRO on the sticker.

  Not wanting to waste another second, I walked around the grounds while it was still light. The botanical gardens had nothing on this place. A few ponds, ranging in size from smaller koi pools to larger and grander ones with waterfall features and swans, took my breath away. Especially the ones with the swans.

  There were benches and small tables nested under mesquite trees. Every last bit of shrubbery was perfectly manicured. As I continued my walk around the place, I noticed a gardener trimming the bougainvillea. He paused occasionally to glance at the swans. A perfect opening for me to start a conversation.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I motioned behind me.

  “Beautiful and delicate. I hope these survive.”

  “What do you mean? I thought they’d be all right in this climate.”

  “The climate, yes, but not the coyotes. This is the third pair the company has purchased. All because some of the tenants want to look at elegant birds, not geese or ducks. Oh, excuse me. I shouldn’t have said that. Please don’t report me. I need my job.”

  “Please. Don’t worry. I’m only a visitor. And I agree with you. Defenseless birds shouldn’t be placed in jeopardy.”

  “You’re the second visitor to say that. There was another lady who came here a while back. Part of one of those environmental change groups. She had a petition for the removal of swans from unprotected habitants like ours. I guess her organization had a list of complexes that had swan ponds.”

  Am I hearing him right? Environmental change group? If that doesn’t smack of Sorrel Harlan, nothing does.

  “That other lady. Do you remember what she looked like?”

  The man shrugged. “Sorry. Not really. Only that she was middle-aged. Clunky shoes. She got here really, really early to get signatures. Guess she wanted to talk to everyone who walked out of the building to get to work.”

  “Like how early?”

  “I got here at five-thirty that day. Usually I work the afternoon shift, but there was a change in the schedule. Anyway, she was already sitting on the bench by the entrance. She must have gotten here while it was still dark out in order not to miss anyone. She asked if I’d sign the petition, and I told her I couldn’t. I didn’t need to sign anything that could jeopardize my job. That’s all I know. Maybe the desk assistant can help you. It was the same day they found the dead man in the condo. Of course, that was later in the afternoon.”

  The same day? Holy cow!

  My heart was racing as I thanked him and headed straight for the entrance. The desk assistant was sitting at a counter that housed a computer monitor and a phone. The guy’s small tan backpack was slung over the chair. Behind him was a locked glass cabinet with assorted keys. Probably for tenants who locked themselves out. With the intense light streaming in, the guy was wearing dark glasses, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face. From what I did see, he appeared to be young. Thirtyish maybe. Wearing khakis and a button-down dress shirt. Deep blue.

  His iPhone lay on the counter next to his set of keys. The key fob was hard to miss. I recognized it as one of those “Scottsdale Switchblades,” where the key flips out at the push of a button. The silver Mazda insignia identified it. I figured his car had to be the convertible parked in front. Fancy car for a desk assistant. I asked him if he remembered Sorrel.

  “Sorry, lady. I don’t remember anyone with petitions.”

  “Then you must’ve seen her by the entrance when you got out of work.”

  “I clocked out at five, like usual, and there was no one in front. The day guy came in as I was leaving. I work a twelve-hour shift from five at night to five in the morning. It stinks.”

  I figured Sorrel must’ve arrived a few minutes after the night guy left and the day guy arrived. Maybe the day guy noticed her.

  “The day guy? Do you know his name? His number?”

  “Sorry. We’re not allowed to give out that information. You can always email our management—Dream View Properties, Inc.”

  I wrote down the company name, even though I already knew it. “You’re the night desk assistant?”

  He looked at me as if I was batty. “Uh-huh. That’s what I just said.”

  “Oh, dear. You were here the night Marc Yost was killed. How awful. How tragic.”

  The guy looked around as if the place was being bugged. “I was here. At this desk when he was murdered. It wasn’t as if I saw anything.”

  “But you did see Darla Marlinde leaving before five when you called it quits for the day, didn’t you? That’s what you told the police.”

  “Hey, who are you? I don’t have to answer any of this.”

  I held out my business card, careful to keep my thumb over the word “accountant.” “If you must know, I work for a private investigator in the Phoenix area.”

  “Well, I told the police everything. I saw her coming. That was around eleven. I saw her leaving. Alone.”

  “You said you work a twelve-hour shift. Couldn’t you have missed something? Or someone else coming in after she left? Maybe you had to use the restroom.”

  “That would’ve only taken a minute or two.”

  I looked around the place and noticed the obvious security system. “Was anything found on the security footage?”

  “The video system was installed after the murder. The tenants were all freaked out, so the company had a state-of-the-art system installed the next week.”

  “I just have one more question. According to the police reports, you said you saw Darla come in with Marc. Are you sure it was him? I mean, were they holding hands or walking really close to each other?”

  “I didn’t really notice. I was mainly looking at her. She’s kind of hard not to look at, if you know what I mean.”

  Oh, brother. What is it with these men? “So the guy she walked in with might not have been Marc?”

  “Hey, don’t go putting words in my mouth. I don’t need to file a new report with the police.”

  Oh my God! Isn’t this what they call an “element of doubt?” “Think again. Did you see anyone else coming and going that night?”

  “Sure. Lots of people. And they were all tenants. I already told the police.”

  I tried to sort this out while thinking what I should ask him next. If Darla Marlinde walked into the building and Marc wasn’t the guy who was with her, then who was he? And what if Marc wasn’t in the condo at all? What if the guy she came in with had nothing to do with her? He could’ve been another tenant. Maybe Darla went into Marc’s condo alone, stayed there, waited for him, got exasperated, and left before five? After all, that was the story she’d told the police according to the tabloid stuff I’d dug up, as well as some legitimate news articles. Of course, they didn’t believe her because the desk assistant had said he saw the two of them walk in together around eleven.

  But the desk assistant wasn’t really sure, was he? He was too busy ogling Darla and not paying attention to the guy who walked in with her. Suppose Marc arrived later, after Darla left. And suppose it was someone else who killed him? Someone Sorrel had seen. Or what if it was the desk assistant himself? After all, he did have access to all of the condo keys.

  Suddenly, I began to get nervous. At about the same time, some clouds formed overhead and the intense glare in the lobby dissipated. The desk assistant took off his shades and placed them on the counter. I got a good look at his face and froze. It was the same man who was at La Mariposa. The one who was with Eleanor Landrow. Her brother! It had to be. Be
thany said he was in concierge services in Paradise Valley. This was Paradise Valley, all right, but the guy had exaggerated about his job. If he lied about that, maybe he lied about the night Marc Yost was killed. And the parking sticker I just saw! The first few letters spelled “Metro.” What if it was Metronics? That was Marc Yost’s company. Could Eleanor’s brother have been a disgruntled employee? My mind was spinning out of control. I had to focus back on the timeline for Marc’s murder.

  There was only one way to find out. That petition of Sorrel’s! If Darla Marlinde had signed it on her way out of the building, which would have been any time before five, then maybe, a bit later, Marc Yost signed it on his way in. I mean, he had to get back in because his body was found later that day. Scorpions and all. His signature on the petition would prove he was alive when Darla left. She’d be exonerated.

  My pulse began to quicken, and I had to move fast. I had to find the gardener and ask him if he remembered what that petition had said. Who was it for? What organization? If I could figure all of that out and link it to Sorrel’s killer, I would solve two cases.

  “Um, er, this is all the information I need for now, Mister . . .”

  “Burrier. Trevor Burrier.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burrier. We’ll be in touch if we need you.”

  I made a mental note to find out what Eleanor Landrow’s maiden name was as I raced out the doorway to find the gardener. Thankfully, I spotted him by a cluster of palm trees. It appeared as if he was spraying something on the ground.

  “Watch your step!” he shouted. “I’m spraying insecticide. Hold on. I’ll walk over to you.”

  I stood absolutely still as the man left the sprayer by a large banana palm and took a few steps my way. “If I don’t keep up with the crickets, those bark scorpions will get worse.”