by J. C. Eaton
It had to be an in-house job. But who? Or why?
Kimberlynn shifted in her seat and wrote something on the one piece of paper she hadn’t torn. “As much as I’d like to use our daily bulletin to tell residents to be sure and lock their apartments, I don’t want to create a stir. Things can get out of hand very quickly under one roof.”
I stared directly at her and didn’t say a word, waiting for her to continue.
“What I will do is mention this at our weekly staff meeting without divulging any names. Not that I could, since you haven’t shared them, but I don’t intend to mention yours, either. I’ll simply use the familiar refrain, ‘It’s been brought to my attention . . .’”
“Won’t that upset the staff?”
“The way I intend to present it is to ask their assistance in being vigilant should they notice something out of the ordinary. Like someone hanging around an apartment that’s not on their floor or doesn’t belong to one of their friends. Believe it or not, the staff is very in tune with the connections our residents have made. It won’t solve anything, but at least it’s a start.”
And it puts people on notice. “I appreciate that.”
“If the matter persists, Miss Kimball, you will contact me immediately, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. And the same for you.” I reached in my bag and pulled out a business card. “It’s a small investigative firm and all of us are involved beyond the usual capacities. It was a pleasure to meet you and thank you for your time.”
Kimberlynn stood to walk me out, but I motioned for her to stay seated. “It’s all right. No need. I can find my way out. That is, if I can manage to walk past the snacks without going too crazy.”
“Help yourself. It’s one of the best perks around here.”
I lingered for a minute or two in the small reception room before entering the large foyer. The two blondes were both glued to computer monitors as I walked past them. No sooner did I reach the front glass doors than I got a whiff of violet and lavender. Someone’s perfume. I turned to find myself face to face with a short, stout, gray-haired lady dressed in a floral Mumu. She was definitely part of the octogenarian crowd.
“I overheard everything,” she whispered. “I was in the next room making a photocopy of my driver’s license. I’m Sharon Smyth. Come with me. We need to talk.”
Sharon Smyth. Sharon Smyth. Why did that name sound so darned familiar? I opened my mouth slightly as she grabbed my wrist.
“Not here. Meet me outside in front of the waterfall. Act casual.”
I wanted to say, “This isn’t The Bourne Identity,” but instead I muttered, “Okay.” It wasn’t until I was out the door and a few feet from the waterfall that I remembered where I had heard that name. She was on Gertie and Trudy’s list. The stolen clay jar. The hysterical woman. Oh brother. I was in for a real treat.
Chapter 7
Sharon waited until I was standing directly in front of the waterfall before she approached me. I was facing the street, waiting for her to make the first move.
“Psst! See that clump of mesquite trees at the edge of the building? On your right. They’re on your right. Past the topiaries. Walk over to the trees and take a seat on the benches. No one goes there. I think they put the benches in for decorative purposes only. We can talk there. You go first. I’ll mill around here.”
“I, uh, yeah. Sure.”
Whatever it was Sharon had to tell me, she was certainly being covert. I walked to the benches, took a seat, and pulled out my iPhone. With my head down and my eyes glued to the small screen, I didn’t think I could possibly be drawing attention to myself.
Within seconds, Sharon sat down next to me. “Sorry to make you walk down the block, but I couldn’t risk being overheard.”
“It’s all right. I understand. So, what’s this about?”
“Like I said, I overheard your conversation with Kimberlynn. And you’re Sophie Kimball from Williams Investigations. I wasn’t exactly snooping, mind you, but when I heard you talking about those thefts, I moved closer to the wall. The building may be gorgeous, but the walls are paper thin.”
I gave a quick nod as if to say, “Hurry up and get to it.”
Sharon leaned forward, glanced to her left and then her right, presumably to make sure no one was in hearing distance. “I happen to be a victim of those thefts as well and I want my clay jar back.”
“Yes, the uh . . . clay jar. It’s on my list.”
“Well, it should be. It’s probably the most expensive item that thief lifted, even though Clive Monroe will tell you his Elks pin is worth much more. Fiddlesticks. Listen, I’ve been living at the Lillian for over eight years and nothing like this has ever happened.”
“Tell me, how did you learn about the other thefts? I mean, other than listening to my conversation with the residence director?”
“I dine at the same table as Clive and the Gertrudes. Gertie and Trudy. I call them the Gertrudes. Plus, word gets around. I found out about Mildred Kirkenbaum’s yarn and Mabel Leech’s pen from my neighbor. She plays cribbage with them. So, are you going to investigate? It didn’t sound that way. You should, because this is an abomination. And if you don’t mind my asking, which of my neighbors hired you?”
“Um, actually, no one hired me. I’m really not at liberty to say, but I do have some acquaintances at the Lillian.”
“It doesn’t matter how you found out. What matters is what you plan to do about it.”
“Since no one wants to report anything officially and the thefts were really petty thefts, I’m afraid all anyone can do is be vigilant and alert. People talk. Eventually we’ll find out who’s responsible.”
“Hurumph. By that time, my precious clay jar will most likely be in smithereens.”
“I have to admit, I don’t know one piece of art from the next, but what makes you think your jar was valuable? I mean, according to what I know, it was made by a local Sun City West artist. Not a famous one.”
“It was made by Quentin Dussler. And you know what they say about the value of artwork once the artist dies. The price tag goes way, way up. Not that I’m reveling in his death—heavens, how awful. And a possible murder at that. But now my piece is worth even more. And let me tell you, he never sells, I mean sold, those crimson glaze pieces. It was a miracle I was even able to purchase it at the winter Creations in Clay. That club only holds two of those events each year, one in the winter and the other right before summer.”
Quentin Dussler. The murder victim. I felt as if I had stopped breathing for a second. “Did he sell you that jar himself?”
Sharon pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “I don’t even know if he knew it was being sold. If you ask me, that piece got placed in the For Sale section of the event in error. It probably belonged with the exhibition pieces. And it didn’t have a price tag, so they charged me the same price as a similar piece in brown glaze. Now it’s been stolen and I’ll never replace it.”
“Did anyone know you purchased a Quentin Dussler original? I mean, other than the folks at the Creations in Clay who sold it to you?”
“Absolutely not. And I wasn’t about to tell anyone for that very reason. It was an original design and it was valuable. As far as anyone knew, all I had was a new tchotchke for my kitchen.”
“Can you describe the jar?”
“Certainly. It was about five inches high and six inches wide. It had a folded lip edge and a nice round opening. I knew it would fit perfectly in my kitchen niche. And the color matched my curtains and tablecloth. Now I have some hideous bowl from Walmart sitting in that very spot. I could just cry.”
World hunger, unemployment, rising medical costs . . . and we’re talking an ugly Walmart bowl.
I slipped my iPhone back in my bag and folded my arms in front of me. “Is there anything else about the jar? Anything that would distinguish it?”
“It was signed and numbered on the bottom. And, Quentin drew some wiggly little lines and arrows undernea
th his name. His trademark signature, I suppose.”
“Signed and numbered? I’ve never heard of that for pottery. Not numbered, anyway.”
“Well, this one was. And when I bought it, I wrote down the numbers and made a sketch of his little lines. I’ll make a copy and mail it to you. I don’t like to use e-mail. What’s the address?”
I gave her my business card and she told me she’d have the information in the afternoon mail.
“Under normal circumstances, I would invite you back to my apartment and you could write it down yourself, but these aren’t normal circumstances. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
“Because of the thefts?”
“The thefts mainly, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Okay. I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do what I can. And if you hear anything about additional thefts or anything disturbing, give me call. But complaints about the food and the service really should be taken up with the management.”
“Understood. I’ll start to walk back to the Lillian. Wait until I’m out of sight before you leave. And, Miss Kimball, I don’t think it’s petty theft. I think it’s far more than that.”
Again, Sharon looked in both directions before heading to her apartment. I checked the time on my iPhone and played around with a news app before walking back to my car. The usual Arizona headlines—altercations, road rage, robberies, and immigration issues. National and international headlines ran the gamut from global warming to an update on some diamond heist that had happened somewhere in Europe a few years ago. A never-ending stream of information went in one ear and out the other.
I stopped at a local sub shop on my way home and bought three different kinds of sandwiches, not knowing what Marshall would be in the mood to eat. The sugar cookies, although delicious, hardly constituted a meal. I also stocked up on chips and salads.
When I got home, no sign of Marshall, but the red light was flashing on my answering machine.
“It’s me. I’ll be over shortly. Less than an hour. I promise. I made a stop at the office. Someone sent you a fax. I’ll bring it. Miss you like crazy.”
I wondered why he didn’t text me and then I realized I had turned off the phone when I left the Lillian. Sure enough, the text version of his message was waiting for me. I read it twice and muttered to myself, “Yeah, I miss you, too.”
Not wanting my time with Marshall interrupted by phone calls from my mother, I decided to get it over with and call her first.
“You caught me just in time, Phee. I’m meeting the ladies at that new Greek restaurant for lunch. They better not put yogurt in everything. Anyway, who are the people who knew Quentin Dussler? Do I know them?”
“How on earth would I know if you knew them? Anyway, their last name is Melhorn. All Cindy Dolton told me was that they used to go to the dog park and they knew Quentin. How or why they knew him is anyone’s guess at this point. I’ll let Marshall know when I see him this afternoon. I mean, it is their investigation, after all. I’m only gathering information to help out. Sort of.”
“When you find out something, let me know. If there’s a psychotic killer out there suffocating people in their garages, we all need to know about it. Of course, you don’t have to tell me twice to keep the garage door closed. Last thing poor Streetman needs is to be confronted by a snake that wanders in.”
“Good thinking, Mom. I’ll give you a call this week.”
“Unless you hear something first. And I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
Just don’t let it come up in the next twenty-four hours. I need some alone time with Marshall.
I had enough time to check my makeup, change into jeans and a cute top, and fix my hair. I made a batch of iced tea and was about to settle on the couch when the doorbell rang.
“Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes!” Marshall pulled me close before I could even shut the door. It was one of the longest, sweetest kisses I’d ever experienced.
“My God. I was worried sick. Terrified, if you must know,” I said.
“I know. I know. Got the whole rundown from Nate. I told him how that Casa Grande situation escalated from bad to worse in a matter of hours. None of us expected it. Not the sheriff’s department down there, not anyone.”
“At least it’s over with. Come on. You must be starving. I got us three different kinds of subs. Also, salads for later, if we feel guilty about eating the subs.”
“Smells like cookies in here. Were you baking?”
“Last night. After we got off the phone. I was so worked up I needed to do something. We’ve got enough sugar cookies to set an entire classroom of kindergartners spinning for hours.”
“Oh, before I forget”—Marshall reached into his pocket—“I folded this. Hope you don’t mind. It’s the fax you got. Two pages.”
I couldn’t imagine who would send me a fax, but as soon as I saw the first page, I was dumbstruck. Sharon Smyth hadn’t wasted a second. She must’ve seen the fax number on my business card. The message on the cover page said, “I decided to fax this from the office. No one saw me. I was careful.”
The second page contained the numbers from the bottom of the clay jar and a rendering of the squiggly lines underneath Quentin Dussler’s signature. Marshall peered over my shoulder as I studied the paper.
“What are we staring at? I didn’t read the fax, other than taking a look to see who it was for. It’s marked ‘highly confidential. ’ So, what are these hieroglyphics?”
“It’s a copy of an artist’s signature and some numbers that may or may not mean anything.”
“Go on.”
I told him about my little sleuthing detail at the Lillian and how one of the stolen objects happened to be a Quentin Dussler creation.
“The lady who owns the jar said Quentin never sold the ones with the crimson glaze, but somehow it was for sale and she nabbed it. Now, of course, it’s in someone else’s possession. Probably another resident’s or even a worker who didn’t realize the jar had some artistic value. Look, you must be starving. Let’s eat first and decipher pottery markings later.”
“A woman after my own thoughts.”
This time it was a quick kiss and an even quicker jaunt into the kitchen.
Chapter 8
Marshall wiped the sandwich crumbs from his mouth. “So, you’ve got yourself your own case, huh?”
“My own non-paying favor for two sweet ladies and their dining companions. Chances are the management will figure it out long before I come up with anything. Still, I did agree to look into it.”
“Wish I could be more help, but I’m not familiar with artistic renderings.”
“Don’t worry. I know someone who is. Or at least I think she might know what those numbers mean.” I reached for a kitchen towel.
Marshall had already cleared the remains from the table and was putting the last of the leftover sandwiches in the fridge. “Who?”
“Aargh. My aunt Ina, that’s who. She’s been collecting objets d’art for as long as I’ve known her. Only now, thanks to her second marriage, she can afford the good stuff like Limoges, Russian porcelain, and one-of-a-kind creations. I’m pretty sure she’ll know what to make of the signature. I’ve seen that before, you know. One number over the other like a fraction. Usually on lithographs or serigraphs.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it, too. On other people’s artwork. I’m more of a poster boy myself.”
“A poster boy? Really?”
“Not me. The posters I have on my walls.”
“Good, because I don’t think poster boy is an actual term. Not like cover girl or pinup model. Anyway, the numbers don’t make sense. On two-dimensional artwork the bottom number is the total number of prints made and the top number is that particular print. But a handmade clay jar? I could see it, maybe, if it was some sort of factory production, but not for something someone created in their garage or at the clay club room in Sun City West.”
“G
ot to agree with you, there. So, an enjoyable visit with Aunt Ina?”
“I’ll give her a call later. Right now, the only thing enjoyable I intend to do is crash on the couch with you.”
The next twenty-four hours flew by. With the exception of an early morning walk on Sunday, Marshall and I didn’t leave my casita the rest of the weekend. We ordered calzones and wings and vowed to eat light the remainder of the week.
“I really need to get back to my place at least for a change of clothing. Sure you don’t want to spend the night there?”
It was a few minutes before eight and I was tempted. “I’d better not. We both need to be at work early and we should get some sleep in our own beds.”
“Next weekend? Maybe we can actually make it to Sedona.”
“Deal. By the way, has Nate mentioned what the next step is regarding the Dussler investigation? I meant to ask you sooner.”
“Grunt work. Lots of it. Looks like he and I will be interviewing the members of the Sun City West Clay Club. There are thirty-six active participants, if I recall correctly, and a handful of others. We’ll have Augusta make those arrangements. I’m not banking on too many people willing to drive to our office in Glendale, so I imagine Nate and I will be meeting at all sorts of places—coffee shops, restaurants, you name it. Can’t really meet at the club room itself. It doesn’t lend itself to privacy.”
“Funny that the stolen clay jar was made by Quentin. You don’t suppose—?”
“Nah. It’s coincidental, I’ll give you that much. But no, I’m thinking along the same lines as you probably are—a crime of opportunity. Maybe that Smyth woman left her door unlocked and didn’t realize it. I hope she isn’t putting too much hope on having her jar returned. Petty thefts are more than petty. They’re pesky and nearly impossible to resolve. She’d be better off buying a new one.”
