Ditched 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Birds? Oh my God. Are you sure?”

  “Like I said, I took a quick look. But yeah, I know what a bird looks like. Why? What’s the big deal?”

  “La Petite Pâtisserie in Scottsdale was commissioned to create an aviary of delectable birds for the dessert. What if Roland stole the idea? Oh my God. This can’t be good. I’ve got to get a copy of that magazine. Do you mind, Nate? I’ll only be ten minutes. There’s a Quick Stop at the end of the block. I hope they haven’t sold out of the magazine. Oh my God. I’ll be right back, okay?”

  “Knock yourself out, kiddo. We’ll survive in here for the next ten minutes.”

  I could hear him laughing as I bolted out the door and raced down the street. Twenty minutes later I was back at my desk staring at the June edition of Phoenix’s premier home and entertainment magazine. I was horrified. Sure enough, it featured Roland LeDoux standing in front of multicolored pastry birds, all perched on chocolate branches. The caption read, “Chef Roland LeDoux of Saveur de Evangeline in Surprise, AZ, showcases his one-ofa-kind pastry birds.” Roland LeDoux. His face was unmistakable. He was the man whose bagel was being schmeared by Julien’s assistant, Rochelle.

  One of a kind, my you-know-what! That thief! Those were Julien’s birds. Antoine’s birds. Roland must have stolen the idea. Did Rochelle give him the recipe? Was that what they were talking about at Bagels ’n More the other day when I overheard them? No, not enough time. She probably snuck him the recipe weeks ago. Now what? Julien and Antoine must have seen the June edition of the magazine, or at least heard about it. This was a culinary Armageddon. Soon to be apocalyptic if my aunt got wind of it.

  I shoved the magazine into my lower desk drawer and shouted out to Augusta, “If the phone rings and it’s my aunt Ina, tell her I’m not available.”

  “Is it the birds?” she replied in a monosyllabic voice.

  “Yes! The damn birds!”

  Then I took out the magazine and read the article. It was deadly. Deadly for Julien. Catastrophic for Aunt Ina. The entire article credited Roland LeDoux for creating the pastry birds with their specialized fillings. Apparently he’d worked for Emerald Cruise Lines as a master chef before taking on a new role as a restauranteur. Emerald Cruise Lines was the top of the line. The pinnacle of elegance. When my ex-husband and I took our first cruise, the agent told us that cruise lines were like retail stores. We could afford Carnival, the Kmart of the lines, but not Crystal or Emerald. They were the Dolce & Gabbana or Nordstrom of the seas.

  Roland LeDoux had to be talented to hold a position of master chef with Emerald. So where did that leave Julien? And worse yet, Aunt Ina was going to pitch a fit if she thought her exquisite bird dessert was as common as a donut. The more I read the article, the more I cringed.

  The rest of the day all I did was worry my aunt would call or, heaven forbid, barge into the office. Mercifully, none of those things happened. A stylish woman in her late thirties or early forties stopped in for an appointment with Nate at midday. Highlighted brown hair, tinted glasses, and impeccably dressed in a dark blazer and tan slacks. A colorful scarf was draped around her neck.

  By the time she left the office, I had already gone for lunch. Augusta informed me Nate had another lead to follow and wouldn’t be back until much later, if at all. I literally had to force myself to concentrate on the billing and not succumb to reading that article again. Twice, I opened the bottom desk drawer and stared at the magazine cover before kicking the drawer closed with my foot. One thing was obvious. Roland LeDoux really was good looking.

  All in all it was a quiet afternoon. The same couldn’t be said for that evening. No sooner did I get one foot in the door when I heard my mother’s voice on the answering machine. Something about “book club, Ina, and hollandaise sauce.” I kicked off my sandals, threw my bag and my copy of Phoenix Home and Garden on the desk, and walked past the phone into the kitchen.

  As I poured myself a large glass of iced tea, I debated whether or not to return the call immediately and get it over with or eat my dinner first. I opted for tearing into the large bowl of pasta salad I’d made the night before and followed it up with a Klondike bar before sitting down to deal with the “Aunt Ina disaster of the moment.” I swear, my mother was inches away from the phone when I made the call.

  “Honestly, Phee. I thought you’d never get home. You are not going to believe this. Not in the least. Remember me telling you that your aunt was monopolizing the book club? Well, this is worse. Worse than I imagined. My sister has managed to delegate her wedding responsibilities to the poor women in the club.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Wait. Wait. I’m not finished. It was one thing with Shirley Johnson making the hat. After all, she did run a successful business as a milliner. And as for the flowers that Lucinda and I are selecting . . . well, Lucinda is doing that as a favor for me. But did you know your aunt had the audacity to call Cecilia Flanagan and Myrna Mittleson to ask if they would sample the hollandaise sauce at Saveur de Evangeline because your lazy aunt is too overwhelmed? She’s not overwhelmed. She’s discombobulated!”

  “Okay, Mother. Calm down. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “It is to me. Good grief. Cecilia wouldn’t know hollandaise sauce from the stuff they put on those Big Macs at McDonald’s. And Myrna. Have you ever watched Myrna eat? She salts everything first as if she’s pickling a herring.”

  “Um . . . well, no.” I was trying to picture Cecilia and Myrna, but all I could seem to remember was that Cecilia reminded me of a nun, mainly because of the way she dressed and the fact she had never been married, even though my mother insisted it was because the “right” man never came along, and Myrna was . . . well, tall and kind of gawky with long brunette hair held back with hair combs. As far as their culinary habits went, I had no idea and absolutely less interest. I needed to move the phone conversation along so I could at least salvage part of the evening and go for a quick swim. My mother’s words seemed to garble in my ears as she rambled on.

  “Of course you don’t. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why Ina would ask them to render an opinion on the sauce. Do you want to know the truth? I’ll tell you what the truth is.... Your aunt is becoming lazier by the minute and using the poor members of Booked 4 Murder to handle her wedding arrangements.”

  “Try to look at it from another perspective, Mom. It’s one more thing you and I don’t need to do. So, when do Cecilia and Myrna get to taste this sauce?”

  “Tomorrow night. After the restaurant closes. The head chef is going to do the tasting with them.”

  I took a deep breath and tiptoed carefully. So far, so good. My mother apparently hadn’t seen the June issue of Phoenix Home and Garden and its article about the bird pastries. She also seemed unaware of the animosity between Julien from La Petite Pâtisserie and the Saveur de Evangeline’s Roland LeDoux. I wanted to keep it that way. Aunt Ina was supplying enough drama for this wedding without my adding more ammunition to the artillery. I muttered a few appropriate “uh-hums.”

  “So, Phee, what are you doing tomorrow evening? Would you like to see the movie they’re showing at the Stardust Theater?”

  The Stardust Theater in Sun City West had all the amenities of a 1930s high school auditorium, including rigid seats and a ban on consuming food and drink. Still, it only cost two dollars to catch their feature presentation.

  “Well, yes or no, Phee?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe another time. I’ve got other plans.”

  “Other plans? Are you seeing someone? Who?”

  I couldn’t very well tell her my other plans included seeing the Felton brothers at the tent and awning company in Phoenix in order to select the fabric for my aunt’s pavilion. That would mean another half hour getting an earful about Aunt Ina. I bit my lip and made up a general excuse. “Tons of errands, Mom. That’s all. Errands. And I’m not seeing anyone.”

  “Okay, okay. I think they’re showing Doctor Zhivago next month. Maybe we’
ll go then.”

  My God! That movie is over three hours long! Sitting there would be more torturous than the Russian Revolution. “Um, er . . . we’ll see. Depending on my schedule.”

  “Cecilia and Myrna are going to call after the hollandaise tasting. Do you want me to call and tell you how it went?”

  “Why? I mean, no. I don’t need to know. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Then my mother relaunched into a long dissertation about Cecilia’s and Myrna’s inadequacies regarding food sampling. By the time I got off the phone, my head was pounding and I forgot about taking a swim. I spent the remainder of the evening fiddling around on the computer, watching sitcoms and rereading the article about Roland LeDoux. I had to admit, there was a certain appeal to Aunt Ina’s master chef, and it went far beyond his looks.

  On the one hand, the guy was sophisticated, worldly, and cultured. Trained abroad and traveled the world. On the other hand, he was rugged and adventurous with a passion for riding his motorbike through the western switchback roads that curved through the mountains. Every girl’s dream. A guy who could blend in with the highest rollers in Monte Carlo or rope a runaway horse in a cattle drive. Then again, magazine articles tended to exaggerate. Too bad I couldn’t join Cecilia and Myrna for the tasting.

  If those two had no skills sampling a sauce, I seriously began to wonder about my own prowess in selecting a fabric for the tent. Too bad I wasn’t dealing with HGTV’s Property Brothers, Drew and Jonathan Scott. I’d have no problem selecting material with them to guide me. Instead I envisioned Jake and Everett grumbling, “It ain’t like you gotta wear it. Doesn’t matter if it’s scratchy.”

  Chapter 8

  Holly Street was dead center in the industrial part of downtown Phoenix, and if it wasn’t for the exact address, I’d still be looking for Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings. The building was a one-story rectangular warehouse with windows so caked with dirt and dust it would take a pressure washer hose to break through the first layer. On one side of the building stood an old two-story brick warehouse that looked as if it might have been one of the original structures in the city. On the other side was some sort of factory.

  No parking lot. Just off-street parking. A faded sign hung over the doorway, making the place look even more unwelcoming. I opened the heavy double wooden doors and stepped inside. The walls were lined with long shelves and an assortment of fabrics. Boxes of metal poles and rods appeared to be everywhere. Smaller shelves housed crates with all sorts of metal and wooden objects, none of which I could identify. The eerie overhead fluorescent lighting seemed to make the dust more visible in the air.

  The terms “valley fever” and “code violations” immediately sprang to mind. I took another step inside. “Hello! Is anyone here? Hello!”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I can hear you. Gimme a second.” A stocky red-haired man with reddish brown stubble on his face walked toward me. He was wearing jeans and a worn green polo shirt with the logo “Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings” sewn onto the top left-hand side of the shirt.

  “I’m Everett Felton. You must be the Kimball lady here to pick out the fabric.”

  Under normal circumstances, I would reach out my hand to shake his, but instead, I took a step back, gave a funny little wave, made a tight ball with my fist, and put both hands to my sides. “Yes. I’m Phee Kimball. Nice to meet you.” And why on earth couldn’t Aunt Ina have hired someone more like the Property Brothers?

  He grumbled something and pointed to the back of the warehouse. “Come on, I’ve got the samples in my office. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes. Unless you’re one of those fussy types who can’t make up their mind.”

  Oh, believe you me, I can and will make up my mind in thirty seconds or less. “Yeah, uh, I’m not that fussy.”

  “Good. Let’s go check out the fabrics.”

  I wouldn’t begin to wager a guess at the last time Everett Felton’s office had been cleaned, or sorted out for that matter. There was stuff everywhere. Empty candy wrappers, metal pieces and clamps, balls of assorted string and hooks, not to mention stacks of old magazines and catalogs. And crumbs. There were crumbs everywhere. And crumbs meant roaches and mice. I made a mental note not to lean against anything.

  “Okay.” He pointed to a table off to the left. “I’ve got the samples all lined up for you.”

  Sure enough, piles of fabric were stacked on the long wooden table. Everett Felton pointed to them, folded his arms, and stared at me.

  “So,” I said, “you want me to go through these and find one I like?”

  “That’s the idea, lady.”

  I was quick. I settled on a nice all-purpose white polyester for the exterior with a slightly pinkish white organza for the interior ceiling and walls. It was as close to floral white as I could imagine. The other choices were awful. The chiffon fabric reminded me of 1950s prom dresses and the gossamer fabric was so over the top I had to avoid it completely.

  The canopy was a small marquee design with the organza. Done. Done and out of here! “Thank you, Mr. Felton. I appreciate it. I’m sure my aunt appreciates it.”

  “Hold on. Gotta write it up. Don’t need any screwups, you know.”

  Everett walked over to a desk that was overflowing in papers, ashtrays, and miscellaneous metal objects. It was a wonder he found a notepad. While he was writing up the order, I glanced around the room. The walls had all sorts of posters, each in a different state of decay. Wedged between two of them was a framed picture of some men standing. I took a closer look. Someone had written “The Crew, 2006” across the top of the picture in black marker. Underneath were the names Everett, Jake, Tony, and Little Hank. Someone must have had a sense of humor because Little Hank looked like a Sumo wrestler. Everett looked about the same, only a bit heavier. I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Jake.

  “Are all of you still working here?” I pointed to the photo.

  “Nah. Little Hank’s down in Tucson somewhere and Tony split years ago. Hired a few new guys.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I should be going. Thanks, Mr. Felton.”

  As I walked out of his office and headed for the door, I heard another voice. Louder than Everett’s. It had to be Jake, the brother.

  “YO! Everett! Is that the lady for the Petroglyph wedding?”

  “YEAH! Why?”

  “Tell her to hold on, I’ll be right there.”

  Everett then repeated everything his brother had already said. I was about to respond when Jake Felton came out from behind one of the ceiling-high stacks of tent material. He was taller than Everett but not by much. Also unshaved. Curly black hair that had started to turn gray at the temples. Same jeans and green polo shirt. Both men appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties. “Glad I caught you in time. Kimball, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Look,” he said, “we’ve gotta go check out that Petroglyph site tomorrow morning. It can’t wait. Everett’s gonna need to order the fabric and I’ve gotta see the direction and how everything’s gonna open up. The tent. You know what I mean? We can only do that when we scope out the place. Sunrise wedding, right? So, I gotta set it up so the sun doesn’t blind everyone. What do you say? Six in the morning? No, wait. That’s too late. Make it five-thirty.”

  “Five-thirty? You want me to be at the park at five-thirty in the morning? They don’t even open the park until eight.”

  “Yeah. Even better. We don’t have to pay the lousy entrance fee. So, you gonna be there or not?”

  “I’ll be there. But not at five-thirty. What do you say we make it at seven-thirty? That’ll still give you an idea of where the sun is.” My voice was starting to wobble. I cleared my throat.

  Jake shrugged as he wiped his hands on his jeans. “Yeah, sure. Seven-thirty. I’ll meet you at the trail to the Petroglyph Plaza. There are a few parking spots right in front of the trail. Ain’t like we gotta worry about parking. Unless you’ve got a bike. You can drive one of those right to the ditc
h and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Uh, no. I have a car.”

  “Figures.”

  I wanted to kick the guy in the shin, but the last thing I needed was to lose the only tent company available. I ignored his comment. I had to get this right for Aunt Ina. It was important to pick out the exact spot for the tent and canopy and I figured the sooner I could get it over with the next morning, the better. It would still leave me plenty of time to get to work by nine. I would just be comatose for the rest of the day. Maybe Nate and Augusta wouldn’t notice.

  “So, um . . . I guess we’re all set.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “Seven-thirty in front of the trail.”

  I think I mumbled “thank you,” but honestly I couldn’t remember. I was in too much of a hurry racing to the door. Between the dust and the Felton brothers, it had to be one of the most unpleasant moments I’d had in a long time.

  I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of six and knocked the clock over the next morning, shutting it off. Bad move. I tripped over it on my way to the shower and caught myself on the dresser just in time. Darn those Felton brothers. I dried off, got dressed, dashed on a bit of makeup, added sunscreen lip gloss, and drove toward the White Tank Mountain Regional Park. It was about a forty-minute drive from my house in Peoria, which allowed me a good ten minutes to stop at a Starbucks for a desperately needed cup of coffee.

  Sure enough, no one was manning the gate to the park. I drove right in and headed to the parking lot in front of the trail. I was wide awake and in a hurry to get this over with. It was seven twenty-five and Jake who-wanted-to-meet-at-five-thirty hadn’t arrived yet. I took out my iPhone to see if there were any messages, and just as my e-mails started to arrive, so did Jake. He pulled up next to me in a green Dodge Ram pickup truck with a plastic sign on the door that read FELTONS’ PAVILIONS, TENTS, AND AWNINGS.

  Shoving my keys into my pocket, along with my phone, I got out of my car and approached Jake, who had just slammed the door of his truck. A tattered green tarp was stretched across the bed of the truck, and I could make out the outline of something metallic sticking up against it. More than likely tent poles and posts.