by J. C. Eaton
“That’s not going to happen. She was ecstatic when she saw the color of the jar. It matched her kitchen decor.”
“And here I am, happy to own flatware and plates. Forget about decor.” He put his arm around me and nuzzled my cheek. “Get some sleep tonight. I’ll see you in the morning. Let’s grab a bite after work. Got some smaller cases to deal with, so I’ll be out and about.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry. It’s just routine stuff.”
Routine for Marshall, maybe, but I was still having a hard time dealing with the past hostage situation. The few spouses of the police officers I knew back in Mankato had always told me how stressful it was for them and their families. Now I understood.
Marshall left before eight thirty, and it felt like the air in the place left with him. Hell, I wasn’t about to let myself become one of those awful clingy women. I had enough things to occupy my mind. Like the thefts at the Lillian.
Eight thirty was still early and I knew my aunt Ina would be up. I reached for the phone and dialed her number.
“Phee! How absolutely wonderful to hear from you. I missed you at the last Bagels ’N More brunch.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a really busy schedule. Maybe next time.”
I was genuinely afraid of asking how she and Louis were doing because it would result in a fifteen- or twenty-minute dissertation.
“I won’t keep you long, Aunt Ina, and I hope you and Louis are doing well, but I really need your expertise with something.”
I could picture my aunt puffing out her buxom chest and leaning back.
“My expertise? Certainly.”
“Good, because I have a question about pottery.”
“It’s that murder in Sun City West, isn’t it? The man worked with clay, didn’t he?”
“Aunt Ina, you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“You can trust me. My lips are sealed. Now, what’s this about?”
“Actually, it’s about the way in which he signed his creations. It might give us a clue. Tell me, do pottery artists number their pieces?”
“Usually. If the piece is cast from a mold, they like to keep track of the numbers. And some artists number everything they do, even pieces made from a potter’s wheel.”
“What about one number on top of the other?”
“You mean like a lithograph?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That wouldn’t make sense. Even if it came from a mold. Pottery artists don’t usually destroy their molds. Maybe what you’re looking at is really part of the artist’s signature. Some of those signatures are quite complex. And, some artists actually add a remarque on the bottom.”
“Remark? Like a comment?”
“No, it’s spelled with a Q. It’s an additional etching. Makes the piece far more valuable.”
Oh my gosh. Those squiggly lines with arrows. They have to be remarques. Maybe this Quentin Dussler is more famous than anyone realized.
“Hmm.”
“I’ll bet it was a robbery gone wrong, Phee. Someone killed him in order to steal one of his pieces. Did he keep an inventory? What was missing?”
Inventory? Why didn’t I think of that? “Aunt Ina, I could just hug you. You’ve been a great help.”
“Anytime, sweetheart. And, by the way, when you do talk to your mother, tell her I just finished reading the most scintillating book, translated from Swedish. Whisper of Death. Perfect for the book club.”
“Um, sure. Again, thanks. Talk to you soon.”
The only “whisper of death” I wanted to think about was Quentin Dussler’s, and maybe my aunt was right. Maybe it was a robbery gone wrong. Unlike the one that had taken place in Sharon Smyth’s residence. That robbery had apparently gone right. At least for the thief.
Chapter 9
I practically had to drag myself into the office the next day. That was what lack of sleep did to me. No matter how hard I tried, I was bombarded by all sorts of thoughts and connections that wouldn’t shut off. The artist’s signature. The Melhorns. Sharon Smyth’s unexplained worries. Quentin Dussler’s inventory. It wouldn’t stop. And when I finally did fall asleep, the alarm clock rang. I was still yawning when I said good morning to Augusta.
“Looks like the weekend wore you out, huh?”
“Not the weekend, these crazy investigations. Are Nate and Marshall in?”
“Nate is. Marshall zoomed out of here about ten minutes ago. Said it was an easy errand for a fraud case.”
“Thanks.”
I opened my office door, booted up the computer, and returned to the outer office, where I made myself a cup of coffee before knocking on Nate’s door.
“It’s just me. Your friendly park gossip patrol checking in.”
“Good morning, kiddo. Did you and my buddy have a chance to unwind? I knew Marshall would be all right, but I was worried about you.”
“I think we unraveled, if that’s what you mean. Hey, and thanks again. If you weren’t at the other end of the line, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“You’re more resilient than you think, but we’re a team around here. Remember that.”
“Uh, speaking of teamwork, I did acquire a scant bit of knowledge at the dog park. I wanted to tell you on Friday, but you were in and out so much there wasn’t time. That Quentin Dussler was a real prima donna. Club members actually avoided him. But I don’t think that’s what got him killed. I mean, not that I’d know, but . . . anyway, I got the name of some people who did know him. The Melhorns. Oh, and I found out he has a niece who’s a freelance journalist. Travels to out of the way places. And according to Cindy at the dog park, Quentin used to be gone on long trips, too. She didn’t know where.”
“Take a breath. Slow down. And please, sit down. You’re making me feel as if I should be standing at attention.”
I pulled up the chair next to Nate’s desk and put my coffee cup down. “There’s one more thing. And believe it or not, it came from my aunt Ina.”
“Dear God. Don’t tell me you pulled her in on this.”
“Heck, no. I’m not insane. I called her for something else, but it does relate to the murder.”
Nate listened as I told him about the Lillian and Sharon Smyth’s crimson glazed clay jar with the numbers etched into the bottom.
“Marshall and I talked about it last night. We weren’t sure why a clay artist would sign something like that, so I checked with the only person I knew who collected that sort of thing.”
“My God. Your aunt Ina.”
“Who else?”
“And what did you learn?”
“That it could be a special signature and design that makes the piece more valuable, but I don’t think whoever stole Sharon Smyth’s jar knew that. I think they were just pilfering. Which brings me to the next thing. Did the sheriff’s department find any sort of inventory for Quentin Dussler’s clay pieces? My aunt said keeping an inventory is something most artists do, especially if they’re selling stuff and have to report it for taxes.”
“You know, now that I think of it, it was the one thing the sheriff’s office didn’t mention. Good call, kiddo. I’ll phone them and see if their deputies turned up anything. I do know they were trying to contact relatives. At least the guy had a cell phone and some contact numbers.”
“I heard you and Marshall got stuck with the list of club members.”
“Oh yeah. Should be a doozy. Augusta’s setting up those appointments now.”
“So, uh, about the Melhorns . . . Their names are Lon and Mary, and I was able to use the white pages to find a number and an address.”
“Terrific. I’ll have Augusta add it to the list. Whoever draws the short straw gets them. And don’t tell Marshall, but I’m cutting all the straws we have. Oh, and if thirty-six-plus clay club members aren’t enough to interview, the sheriff’s office also e-mailed us a list of sign-in names from the club room. Friends . . . guests . . . The list dates back to a month before
the murder.”
“The list? There was a sign-in list? Oh, that reminds me of something. I’ll, uh, catch up later. Got work to do.”
“Sure thing, kiddo.”
I could have kicked myself in the pants for not thinking of it when I was talking with Kimberlynn Warren. I never asked her if the Lillian kept a sign-in list for guests or visitors. Not wanting to have her think I was such a dunderhead, I decided to ask Gertie and Trudy. Besides, I knew they were probably anxious to find out how my meeting with their residence manager went.
It was a little past nine and I was fairly certain they’d be back from breakfast. I called Gertie’s place first, but the phone just rang. Trudy was next. She picked up on the second ring.
“Trudy? This is Phee Kimball. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Heavens no. Do you have any news for us? About which wretched excuse for a human being has been going through our things?”
“Going through your things? You mean the thefts we talked about?”
“No. I mean going through our things. Well, the thefts, too. But someone has been going through our unmentionable drawers. Gertie’s and mine. I always fold my things lengthwise first and roll them up. When I opened my drawer this morning, some of those rolls were loose. And Gertie said the same thing. Her drawer was tampered with.”
Trudy’s voice got softer until it was practically a whisper. “Between you and me, I don’t know how my sister would know if anyone went through her drawers because she doesn’t fold anything. She stuffs the clothing in there.”
“I can hear you, Trudy,” Gertie yelled. “And I know because everything was moved around.”
The mere thought of an intruder rooting through someone’s intimate apparel gave me the creeps. Petty thefts like a missing tuna can were one thing, but this was really disturbing.
“We’re not the only ones,” Trudy went on. “At breakfast this morning I overheard someone at another table saying he was certain his sock drawer had been rearranged.”
“Um, listen. You really, really need to tell Kimberlynn Warren about what happened. She already knows about the thefts because I spoke with her on Saturday. I didn’t give her any names, but I did tell her a handful of residents were victimized. The person who went through your things may or may not be the same one who stole those items.”
The line went silent for a few seconds.
“Trudy, are you listening?”
“I can hear you, but if we say something, it will only make things worse. Gertie wanted us to buy mousetraps for the drawers, but I’m afraid we’ll forget and wind up injuring ourselves.”
“Good point. No mousetraps. I’ll figure something else out. I called because I need to know something. When guests or family visit residents at the Lillian, do they sign in anywhere? Like the main desk?”
“Sign in? Of course not. You don’t have people signing in to your house when they visit, do you?”
Only if my mother had her way. And they’d be vetted, too. “It was just a thought. If a sign-in sheet did exist, we’d know who was in and out of the Lillian other than the residents and the staff.”
“I suppose that makes sense, but we’re a resort retirement residence, not a jailhouse, and, now that you mention it, if we did report these incidents, next thing you know the management would insist on sign-in sheets. They’d say it was for security, but we’d all know otherwise. You give up a lot of things when you get old. You shouldn’t have to give up your privacy.”
Trudy was making a lot of sense, but none of it was getting me any closer to figuring out who the perpetrator was. I covered the receiver and let out a sigh. “Kimberlynn said she’d put her staff on alert. Not chastise them, but let them know something is going on. That may lead us to the responsible party or parties. If the staff has been around for as long as she says, they’ll want the matter to be resolved quickly, too.”
“And if it’s not an employee?”
“Everyone makes mistakes. Thieves especially. Be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. And keep your doors locked.”
“This undergarment Peeping Tom . . . you don’t suppose he could be a killer? Sniffing us out?”
As soon as she said, “undergarment Peeping Tom,” all I could picture was some silly cartoon character like Pepé Le Pew lifting up ladies’ undergarments and admiring them. I had all I could do to stop myself from laughing.
“No, I doubt it. Besides, we don’t know if it’s a man or a woman. Not that it matters. Violating someone’s privacy is beyond reproach. If anything else comes up, call me. And no mousetraps.”
“Is this an official case now?”
“Um, for me, it’s about as official as they get. Try to have a nice day.”
When I got off the phone with Trudy, I walked to Nate’s office and gave a quick rap on the door frame before walking in.
“The pilfering isn’t the only thing going on at the Lillian. I just got off the phone with one of the Gertrude sisters. Seems their undergarment drawers have been disturbed. And they’re not the only ones. Another resident was overheard telling people his sock drawer was rearranged, and not by one of those home organizers. Ugh. That kind of thing gives me the willies.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“No. But it was really obvious to the sisters that someone had been rooting through their personal items. Do you think they were looking for something?”
Nate rubbed his chin and leaned toward me. “It’s quite possible. Lots of people keep valuables in their underwear drawers. They think no one’s going to look there, but that’s usually the first place thieves go.”
“Don’t remind me. I still have nightmares about Louis Melinsky’s underwear drawer.”
“But it solved a case, didn’t it? So, did the sisters say when they first noticed things were out of place?”
“In the morning. When they got up. So, it could’ve happened anytime the day before. Or even during the night. Eww, that’s kind of scary.”
“Thieves usually try to grab stuff when no one’s around, so I doubt it happened at night. Most likely when the ladies were at meals or out and about. It’s not as if people check their underwear drawers all day long. But I’ll tell you what I do find odd.”
“What’s that?”
“If someone was stealing stuff or even going through stuff, they’d usually try to make it look as normal as possible so the victim wouldn’t notice things missing right away. Why make it obvious they’d been rummaging through those drawers? Something else may be going on. Hard to say. How did you leave it with the sisters?”
“I wanted them to inform the residence director, but they refused. Can you believe it? They thought of putting mousetraps in their drawers.”
“Did they talk to Augusta first? That’s something right up her alley.”
I stifled a laugh. “Seriously, all I could tell them was no mousetraps, and to be vigilant, keeping their eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.”
“It’s a retirement residence. Knowing how fast word gets around in those places, the management will probably find out about it before the end of the day.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, too.”
I went back to my office and spent the rest of the day at my computer. I had billing statements to send out and accounts to update. Other than a short break for lunch, I was the model of work efficiency. Then, at precisely four fifteen, my mother called.
Chapter 10
“I’ve given up calling that cell phone of yours. I hate leaving voice mail.”
“Hi, Mom! Is everything all right?”
“You tell me. What were you doing at the Lillian on Saturday? I had lunch today with Cecilia and Louise. Cecilia said she saw you walking into the director’s office on Saturday morning. Don’t tell me you were looking into having me move there. I’m much too young. Cecilia was visiting someone from her church. Someone in his nineties. Do I look like a person in their nineties?”
“Oh, for he
aven’s sake. The last thing I would be doing is finding a resort retirement residence for you.”
“Good. Because I’m barely in my seventies. And I stress barely. So why were you there?”
“If you must know, I met two sisters from Minnesota on that September plane ride. Since then, I’d been running into them on and off. Anyway, they contacted me regarding some petty thefts at the Lillian.”
“You mean they hired you? To investigate?”
“Of course not. I only met with them as a favor. They didn’t want to call attention to themselves and go to the management. So, I had a discreet conversation with their residence director on Saturday morning, that’s all.”
“What kind of thefts?”
“Small stuff. Cans of tuna, olives . . . oh, and, believe it or not, a clay jar made by that artist who was recently murdered.”
“Quentin Dussler. I still don’t know why he would have a paper with my name and Lucinda’s in his hand. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I found out about it. I hope your boss is making some progress. Say, you don’t think the stolen jar had anything to do with the man’s murder, do you?”
“No, and neither do Nate or Marshall. The jar was sitting in some kitchen niche. Whoever snatched it did so as a crime of opportunity. They probably didn’t even know how valuable it was. Listen, I really need to get back to work, so—”
“Call me this week. Will you be going to brunch with the Booked 4 Murder ladies on Saturday? They haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I, um, well, it depends on my schedule.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
As I hung up the phone, I thought about the book club ladies. Shirley, Lucinda, Myrna, Louise, Cecilia, and the snowbirds who arrived in October and left in April. Aside from their regular monthly meeting at the library, they had brunch every Saturday at Bagels ’N More across the road from Sun City West. It was a sandwich and bagel café that served as the central gossip hub for the community. Nothing went undisclosed at that place. Even my mother’s neighbor, Herb Garrett, frequented the place with his pinochle buddies.
I switched the screen on the computer to my calendar and typed in “bagels” under Saturday. One of those women was bound to hear something regarding the thefts at the Lillian and those rumors often had some truths associated with them.
