Molded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “I’m going to e-mail this to Nate and Marshall as soon as I’m done.” I placed the bowl with the other pieces of pottery.

  Lucinda immediately snatched it up and headed back to the closet with it. “Maybe we shouldn’t put it on the table for the Empty Bowls’ project. It might be evidence.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  Before Lucinda could answer, my mother responded, “That’s what we’re about to find out. We’ve got to see if any of the other pieces from those shelves were dated the same time as Sharon’s piece. Then we’ll know who was working here at the time and what they might know about Sharon. Or if something happened four years ago and that’s why Sharon quit.”

  I sounded as baffled as I looked. “Huh? I thought most of those people were . . . well, you know, deceased.”

  “They’re not all dead. Like I told you before, people leave clubs for all sorts of reasons. You just need to figure out Sharon’s. Anyway, we’ve got work to do. Start with those smaller bowls Lucinda put on the side counter. Meanwhile, she and I will work together on the ones we put by the big kiln.”

  By the time I knew what was happening, the evening had disappeared and, with it, my nice swim back home. Instead, I had to listen to my mother and Lucinda play “Did you know that person?” as we studied the dates under each of the pottery pieces.

  Most of the jars, bowls, and assorted objets d’art were made within the past two years, but there were three pieces dated from the time Sharon’s bowl was formed. The first was some sort of wall sconce made by Henrietta Arnold. Lucinda turned to my mother and sighed. “Poor woman. Passed away last year. Only ninety-three. Emphysema.”

  “She lived a good life. Now put that thing down and let’s have a look at the last two pieces Phee found.”

  One was a lovely vase, bisque. With the right glaze, it would look nice in any kitchen or dining area. Unfortunately, the only notation carved into the clay was the date. Not so much as an initial or even a smiley face.

  “That leaves this monstrosity,” my mother continued. “It’s either a very small platter or a large ashtray. It’s almost as obnoxious as that greenware urn we wrestled off the back shelf. That thing must have been here for a century. The plastic was even brittle. So, getting back to this piece, what do you think, Lucinda? Platter or ashtray?”

  “Platter, I believe. An ashtray would be bound to have those little indents and—”

  “Good God! Does it really matter?” I was one step away from insanity. “What does it say on the bottom? Read the bottom.”

  My mother turned the item over and read the name. I was sure I heard it right the first time but had her read it again.

  “Mario Aquilino.”

  Chapter 22

  “So, let me get this straight,” Marshall said the next morning as he tossed a wadded piece of paper in the trash. “You helped your mother and Lucinda at the clay club last night and found two pieces of pottery that proved Sharon Smyth and Mario Aquilino had been members of that club four years ago.”

  Nate, who was standing a few feet away by the copier, looked up. “Wasn’t that the guy from the Lillian who was seen leaving her apartment at an indecent hour a few weeks ago? It’s in my notes. God knows, every little thing is in my notes. I can tell you who uses sugar and who uses the blue packets or the pink packets. Maybe I should have another chat with him.”

  “Um, don’t!” I waved a hand in front of my face and, for an instant, he and Marshall gave me blank looks. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea. I mean, those residents are already freaked out. I was going to speak with Mario Aquilino about the incident that took place in his apartment a few weeks ago. The wall paintings? Remember? Around the time of the petty pilfering? Then Sharon Smyth got murdered and everything changed.”

  Nate raised an eyebrow and gave Marshall a semi-nod. “Phee may be right. Last thing we need is to get the residents riled again.”

  He stepped away from the copier and walked toward me. “Since you’re already familiar with the Lillian, it might not be such a bad idea if you were to have that conversation with this Aquilino fellow. Find out what he knew about Sharon Smyth.”

  “You mean, find out if he might have had a motive for killing her?”

  “Not in so many words, but yeah. And you can’t be clumsy about it, kiddo.”

  “Clumsy?”

  “You know what I’m saying. You can’t simply ask him. You’ve got to eke it out of him like you would with a five-year-old who was snitching cookies.”

  “Both of you are going to owe me big time, you know.”

  Nate laughed and gave Marshall a poke on the arm. “Can’t be any worse than Rolo Barnes. Phee doesn’t cook.”

  I was aghast. Or at least pretended to be. “Hey! I’ve been known to work my way around the microwave, and don’t just stand there, Marshall, help me out.”

  “She, uh, I mean—”

  “Never mind. I’ll call Mario Aquilino and see if he would be willing to meet with me this week. And by the way, hasn’t the sheriff’s department come up with anything yet? DNA? Fingerprints?”

  The men shook their heads in tandem and all they said was, “They’re sifting through evidence.”

  My mother was right. I pictured the evidence file bulging at the seams without one solid theory in place.

  “Hey, don’t look so dejected,” Nate said. “Forgot to tell you. I got a call a little while ago from a Gila County deputy sheriff. Seems our own sheriff’s department was quite convincing regarding those coordinates you and your aunt tracked down.”

  “Really?” I was astonished.

  “Now, don’t go getting yourself all excited about this, because it’s a long shot. A really long shot. Empty water bottle or not from the Lillian, it wasn’t as if any crimes were committed in the high desert. Still, the deputy said he and his partner were going to have a look-see. I faxed him a copy of Quentin’s John Hancock from that jar, squiggly lines and all.”

  “Promise you’ll let me know the minute you hear anything.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Augusta shouted from across the room. “The call’s got to come in here first.”

  Marshall tried not to laugh. “We can’t win. If this was the sheriff’s department, I would say we deputize both of them and get it over with.”

  When the men had left the room, Augusta offered to call Mario Aquilino and set up an appointment for me.

  “I can make it sound as official as you’d like,” she said.

  “Thanks, but I don’t want it to scare him off. If he thinks it’s official business, he might shut down and refuse to say a word. I’d better call him myself and come up with something.”

  Twenty minutes later I got up the nerve to call the man. I told him I was a friend of Gertie and Trudy and went on to explain how they contacted me regarding the room thefts and the other improprieties. Then I asked if he would be willing to chat with me for a few minutes sometime next week.

  “Make it this afternoon. I’m in my eighties. I could be dead by the end of the week.”

  He agreed to meet me in the lobby at five forty-five. Enough time for him to finish dinner and more than ample time for me to get to the Lillian from work. Other than my brief conversation with Mr. Aquilino, it was a pretty uneventful day.

  That was, until Kimberlynn Warren called me at a little past three.

  “Miss Kimball? I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I wanted to get back to you regarding those petty thefts. The Lillian may have a murder on its hands, but at least some of the pilfering can be explained. Not that I’m equating both of them, I’m just saying—”

  “I understand. It’s all right. So, what can you tell me?”

  “After the sheriff’s department and your office interviewed the residents, two of them came to see me. Apparently my staff wasn’t as discreet as I would have liked and that’s a matter I have to deal with. Nonetheless, some staff members apparently spoke with residents regarding the disappearance of those litt
le items. That’s what prompted Clive Monroe and Emily Outstrader to speak with me.”

  I tried to remember what items had been removed from their residences but couldn’t remember if it was tuna, olives, yarn, or something else.

  “Yes, um, go on.”

  “Mr. Monroe wanted me to know he found his Elks Club pin. Apparently it was still on the lapel of his sports jacket. He was positive he had returned it to his top dresser drawer, but when he went to take out his jacket, he saw the pin on the lapel. And as far as his tissues go, the box was just about empty and he thinks he might have tossed it out.”

  “That’s one mystery solved,” I said.

  “Emily Outstrader’s missing tuna is the other one. She had forgotten she placed those two cans into the collection box for the food pantry. When she remembered, she was totally embarrassed. Especially since she made it a point to let everyone know about the would-be theft.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that would be embarrassing.”

  “Anyway, if I hear of anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know. I seriously doubt we’ll see much more of that sort of thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve added hallway security and locker checks for our employees.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Certainly. Security is never an issue and since the lockers belong to the Lillian, they’re not considered personal property. I truly don’t believe the staff is responsible for those missing items, but one never knows.”

  I thanked her and told her I appreciated her call. Then I immediately picked up the phone and called Gertie. No answer. Same for Trudy. I figured I’d buzz them once I got to the Lillian later in the day.

  Some of those thefts were really quite inconsequential, if they were thefts at all. Whoever bought the Snickers bars probably ate one and forgot about it. And as for the missing pen and paper clips, that wasn’t theft, it was a fact of life. Heck, I could start out with half a dozen pens and a zillion paper clips in my desk and wind up with one bent clip and no idea where the pens had gotten off to. Sometimes I could find three or four pens in my bag and other times I was lucky if I found a half-chewed pencil.

  As for the five dollars . . . well, that might not have been stolen, either. People had been known to spend money without thinking and then open their wallet or purse only to find the twenty dollars they thought they had was gone. Maybe that was the case with Norma O’Neil.

  It still didn’t explain the missing purple ball of yarn or the jar of olives, but I half expected those items to turn up. The yarn probably rolled under a dresser and as far as those olives . . . well, maybe Warren Bellis stashed them with his toiletries or something. People had been known to do that sort of thing.

  What really concerned me wasn’t so much the missing items but the rifling through dresser drawers. Gertie and Trudy said it happened to them and again to someone else. Not underwear, a sock drawer. What kind of person did that sort of thing? And why on earth would someone go to the trouble of reversing Mr. Aquilino’s paintings? Was there a more sinister motive in mind? Like making the tenants so uncomfortable they’d leave? And if that wasn’t working, would they take it one step further and commit murder?

  It was a struggle to stop concocting scenarios and focus on the monthly billing. Last thing I needed was to make a mistake. Especially one where money was involved. I pushed all thoughts of the Lillian to the back of my mind, took a deep breath, and pulled up the accounts. It was almost five when I finished. I rapped on the door to Marshall’s office and poked my head in.

  “I’ve got to get a move-on. Mario Aquilino asked me to meet with him right now. Said he’s old and might be dead if I wait too long.”

  “Hmmph, I think I’m going to start using that line. So, I guess we’ll have to hold off on seeing each other until tomorrow night.”

  “Looks that way. I’ll call you later.”

  “Sounds good. Hey, be careful, huh?”

  “I’m only going to the Lillian.”

  “It’s still a crime scene, and just because that guy is old, doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.”

  “Don’t those residence hotels conduct background checks on their tenants?”

  “Cursory at best. Like arrest records, outstanding warrants, and credit scores. They haven’t come up with an ‘unstable person’ check, to the best of my knowledge. So again, be careful.”

  “Watch it—you’re sounding like my mother.”

  Marshall shot me a dirty look as I winked and left the building.

  Chapter 23

  Walking into the Lillian at exactly five forty-five, I witnessed the lengthy exodus from the dining room. The lobby was teeming with people waiting in line for the elevators, and the ground floor corridors reminded me of “passing time” at my old high school. Loud voices and the occasional foul words. The only thing missing was the slamming of locker doors.

  Mario Aquilino must have spied me the minute I walked through the main door. I could hear his voice in the crowd but wasn’t sure what he looked like. I stood still, my back to the fountain, and waited. Like the parting of the Red Sea, the people in front of the elevators stepped aside so he could make his way toward me, one foot at a time behind a large walker. My eyes were fixed on the yellow tennis balls that he had placed on the walker’s legs. Probably for traction.

  The walker looked like it weighed more than he did. The man appeared slight and fragile, with wisps of graying hair and a thin white moustache. He plodded his way past the crowd and motioned for me to take a seat near the fountain.

  “You must be the spinster sisters’ friend. I think they went up to their apartments already.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Phee Kimball. I won’t take up much of your time, but I promised Gertie and Trudy I’d look into some of the thefts and unusual things the residents have noticed.”

  “You can say it out loud. The intrusion into our privacy. What’s next? A video camera in our showers?”

  “Um, it may turn out to be easily explained. Like maybe an unscrupulous worker or a resident who’s—”

  “A whack job?”

  “Well, that’s getting to the point.”

  The crowd in front of the elevators had dwindled down considerably. Unlike the last time I was in the building, the elevators seemed to be working flawlessly. Mario Aquilino watched as the elevator door closed on the last six or seven people.

  “What kind of nut job goes into someone’s apartment and messes with their paintings?”

  I shrugged. “Has anything turned up missing?”

  “No. And believe me when I tell you, I checked everything. Look, you need to see for yourself. Follow me up to my place and I’ll show you those paintings.”

  “Oh, er, no need to do that. I believe you.”

  “Seeing is believing. You need to see what they did.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand the concept of two paintings being switched on a wall, and the last thing I wanted to do was go into some strange man’s apartment. Granted, he was as frail as they come, but still, I’d learned never to underestimate anyone.

  “That’s okay. Really it is.”

  “No, it’s not. You’ve got to take a look.”

  Then he pushed his head back and raised his brows. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those women who refuse to be seen going into a man’s apartment. What the hell can I do at my age?”

  “Um, uh, it’s not that, it’s just—”

  “You can prop open the bloody door if that makes you feel any better. Come on. I’m not getting any younger sitting here.”

  No red flags or alarms were going off in my head. He was right. I was being silly.

  “All right, but only for a few minutes.”

  It took at least five of those minutes for him to make it to the elevator. As I walked in front of the fountain, the blondes, Tanya and Tina, were staring into their computer screens. They didn’t seem to notice me.

  One push of the button and the e
levator opened. When we got off on the third floor, we only had to walk a few steps. Mario Aquilino’s apartment was adjacent to the lift. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  “You can grab that folding chair and use it to prop open the door.”

  I was beginning to feel more than a little foolish, but I did as he said.

  One look at his apartment and my mouth dropped open. I’d never seen such an immaculate place. And that included my mother’s house. From the carefully placed cushions on his couch to a kitchen that was practically beaming, I made a note to go home and run the vacuum cleaner, no matter what time it was.

  “This is the living room–kitchen combo. My bedroom’s off to the left and the bathroom is next to it. Those paintings are on that wall between the living room and my bedroom.”

  Other than a large framed picture of the Southwest desert that hung directly over his couch, the two paintings in question were the only other ones in that room. They were small paintings, each smaller than an eight-by-eleven piece of paper. I walked over and took a close look. They were framed watercolors of birds—a roadrunner and a quail. Everything looked normal to me.

  “I switched them back. It was unnerving.”

  “Because someone had done this,” I said.

  “Because the damn birds were facing the wrong direction. It’s jarring to have two birds facing away from each other. Someone was trying to upset me and they did.”

  Another glance at his apartment and I knew exactly what he meant. Mario Aquilino was beyond being a perfectionist. Borderline obsessive-compulsive when it came to space and order. I took a quick breath and nodded. “Nothing else was disturbed?”

  “Only the paintings.”

  I took another look. The wall on which the paintings were hung had an air-conditioning vent on the top near the ceiling. Not so much as a single cobweb. The smoke alarm was on the opposite wall across from the kitchen area. A place for everything and everything in its place. I looked again and remembered something. Something about Arizona air-conditioning.