by J. C. Eaton
“Why would anyone want to break into the clay club?” he kept muttering as his foot got heavier on the gas pedal. We were only five or six miles from the Bell Road turnoff to the complex and I couldn’t figure it out either. None of it made sense.
“One thing is for sure. It’s certainly not to steal my mother’s creation. Or Lucinda’s, for that matter. Unless, of course, it was to abscond with them and spare everyone from seeing them.”
“They can’t be that horrible.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked. “You’ll see for yourself. Unless they got destroyed, those pieces were supposed to go into the kiln yesterday for their first firing.”
Two Maricopa County sheriff’s cars were blocking the main entrance to the recreation center, their blue and red lights flashing. Marshall pulled up behind them, leaving enough space to pull out in the unlikely event another vehicle decided to park behind us. Nate’s car was clearly visible off to the left under one of the large parking lot lights.
With the exception of some animated voices at the end of the corridor by the club room, the recreation center complex was absolutely still.
“How did they know there was a break-in?” I asked as we got closer to the room. “It’s a Saturday night and there’s no night custodian on duty.”
“Good question. We’re about to find out.”
Nate spied us from where he was standing, in front of the large glass window that had been shattered. “Another fun-filled evening in Sun City West. Watch you don’t step on the glass. They’ve got a maintenance crew coming in to clean up as soon as we’re done.”
A few feet away was a deputy sheriff taking photos.
“Alarm system go off?” Marshall asked the officer.
“There is no alarm system,” was the deputy’s response. “Someone phoned the posse station and reported it.”
I immediately charged toward my boss. “Who? Did they say who? Did they track the call?”
“Whoa! Good to see you, too, kiddo. A man and his wife had left the aquatics building and were walking through the club area courtyard because, according to him, ‘the wife just had to show me some enameling display.’ That’s when they saw the broken glass in front of the clay club room and called the posse. Needless to say, a posse volunteer drove over to check it out, notified maintenance, and, well, you can see the rest.”
“The rest” consisted of three more deputies scanning the room for evidence. I walked past Nate and looked inside. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. No broken pieces. No signs of disarray. The sign-in sheets by the door were still on the counter and the binders where they kept the membership information were still shelved. A cooling rack for the recently fired pieces stood off to the right of the kilns. I cringed. The horrible Streetman platter was intact. Same for Lucinda’s jar.
“My mother will sleep easy once she hears about this. Her artwork remains untouched.” Unless someone accidentally trips and falls near those bisque pieces. Bite my tongue.
“This beats the heck out of me,” one of the deputies shouted. “Sheer vandalism.”
I walked over to where he was standing. “Were any other club windows smashed? The porcelain painters? The copper enameling? The basket weaving?”
“This was the only club room, ma’am,” he said.
“Ma’am.” I absolutely abhor that word. It makes me feel as if I’m eighty instead of in my forties. I felt like opening my mouth and saying something but instead I walked quietly to the back room, where Lucinda, my mom, and I had cleaned out that closet. I switched on the light and glanced at the empty shelves. Everything was as we had left it. Then I walked to the counter area where we had placed the greenware for firing.
Some of the pieces, like my mother’s, had been fired already, but the others were still wrapped in plastic, waiting for someone to put them in the kiln. I took a cursory glance at the items and realized something wasn’t quite right. The large urn-like bowl I had moved from the closet was no longer there. And it wasn’t sitting alongside the bisque pieces.
Watching my step, I walked to the counter. That was when I heard a soft crunch underneath my foot. Thank God I was wearing Skechers with decent treads. It was glass. Broken glass. Small pieces. Not enough to be visible, even with the overhead light on.
“I think I found out why someone smashed that window.”
Everyone stopped talking at once and moved toward me. I was beginning to feel more than self-conscious. “I was here the other night,” unfortunately, “with my mother and we were sorting clay greenware for firing. One of those pieces is missing. A large bowl that sort of resembles an urn. I think whoever broke that window came here to get that bowl.”
“That makes absolutely no sense,” the deputy said. “Those things are a dime a dozen. And you said yourself it was still greenware. Doesn’t that mean it’s still a piece of molded clay?”
“It does. But I think there’s more to it. I wish I knew what.”
Chapter 25
“Are they going to be dusting for fingerprints?” I asked Nate and Marshall as the three of us left the “crime scene” to the deputies.
Nate shook his head. “Probably not. Too many prints in the room and a minor theft. They’ll notify the club president, maintenance will clean up, and that’s that.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But, but . . . what if the thief is the murderer?”
Marshall gave my arm a slight squeeze. “According to the deputies, these kinds of smash and grab crimes are fairly common. And they’re not about to waste time and resources tracking down an unfinished clay bowl.”
“But, but—”
“Let it go, Phee,” Nate said. “There are other leads that may be more productive as far as the murders go.”
We had crossed into the parking lot and our voices seemed to echo in the semidarkness.
Nate took a step toward Marshall and me and spoke softly. “Quentin’s bank records, his business dealings, and his background. It’s extensive. And thanks to your aunt Ina, this new piece of information about the guy’s transatlantic trip. Hey, that reminds me, weren’t you going to speak with that Aquilino guy about the other murder?”
“I did. Last night. He said he knew Sharon from the clay club and that’s pretty much the extent of it. Although, I did get the idea he was well-enough acquainted with her to borrow assorted digestive aids and pain meds from time to time.”
Even in the quasi-darkness I saw Nate grimace. “Ugh. No need to go there.”
It was nearly eleven by the time Marshall and I got back into the car. Both of us were wired and exhausted. A strange combination. And neither of us felt like eating a meal.
“I’ve got ice cream in the freezer. Neapolitan. You can scoop out all three flavors or dive into the chocolate like you usually do,” I said.
“This is scary. You’re really getting to know my bad habits.”
I kicked off my shoes as soon as I entered the house and heard them thud against the wall before landing on the shoe mat. Marshall glanced down as he did the same, only his shoes landed directly on the mat. “Got a broom handy? Looks like we tracked in some pieces of glass.”
Sure enough, small shards of glass were visible on the black rubber mat. I imagined they’d gotten trapped in the treads of our shoes and had fallen out when the shoes bumped against the wall. Normally I didn’t worry about tracking in dirt. Not that I was a total house slob, but I wasn’t fanatical like my mother, or worse yet, like Mario Aquilino. But, in this case, I certainly didn’t need Marshall or me to wind up cutting the soles of our feet.
“You get the ice cream out of the freezer and let it warm up for a bit while I grab a dustpan and brush,” I said.
“Sure thing.”
Marshall’s voice trailed off as I opened the closet by the front door and removed a small dustpan and brush from its hook. Bending down, I shook each shoe, let the remaining glass pieces drop, and swept them into the dustpan. It was surprising how many slivers of glass we h
ad tracked in.
“You may want to vacuum your car mats,” I said as I continued sweeping.
A small pebble-like piece of glass rolled slightly and I gave it another brush. It kept getting caught up in the bristles, so I grabbed it and was about to toss it in the dustpan when I realized it was partially covered in clay. My fingers accidentally slid across it, but, oddly enough, I didn’t cut myself. I walked it over to the light above the kitchen sink. Marshall was standing a few feet away.
“Would you look at this for a moment? It was on the bottom of one of the shoes. I don’t think it’s glass.”
By now, most of the clay had fallen off the shard and I could see I was holding a small, perfectly shaped gem.
“Don’t drop it.” I placed it in Marshall’s hand. “What do you think?”
“Unless window manufacturing has changed over the years, we’re not looking at a piece of broken glass.”
“A diamond?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe some sort of imitation, but, whatever it is, it’s been faceted. Take a good look. It’s all set to be mounted in a ring.”
“My God. That thing had clay on it. It came off on my fingers when I picked the piece up. Real or fake, it must have been buried in that greenware bowl. That’s why someone broke in and stole it. I mean, who in their right mind would smash into the clay club and take off with an unfinished piece of pottery?”
“Someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.”
“But why now? Why all of a sudden?”
Then it dawned on me. The night before, I had mentioned cleaning out the clay room when I spoke with Mario Aquilino. And I was more than certain he seemed a bit alarmed. Then again, his reaction might have been a normal one, given his personality quirks. And besides, the guy was barely ambulatory. Not likely he’d manage to drive to the clay club, smash the glass picture window, climb in, and secure that piece of greenware.
Marshall reached for a coffee mug and set the small stone in it. “Didn’t you say something about slips of paper for pieces that shouldn’t be put in the kiln?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Works in progress.’ Why?”
“If what we’ve got here is a real diamond and not a zircon or whatever those synthetic diamonds are, and it was carefully hidden in the molded clay, it would be destroyed the minute that piece got fired. I read that in a scientific journal a while back. The diamond would vaporize. So much for it being harder than all the other gems.”
He picked up the mug and stared into it. “Want to know what I’m thinking? That clay bowl was harboring more than one gemstone. And it was the perfect hiding place. Tucked back on a shelf in a musty old closet, wrapped in plastic with a note that virtually protected it from being shoved into a kiln. If I were hiding diamonds or other gems, that would be the perfect place.”
“Yeah. Perfect. Until my mother and Lucinda decided to help with the spring clean-out.”
“Listen, I know you’re probably exhausted and the ice cream’s melted by now, but I need to give Nate a call. We’ve got to go back to the clay room and see if any other gems wound up on the floor. Or worse yet, in some garbage can the maintenance guys used.”
“I’m going to take a quick look at the mat and the dustpan. I didn’t dump the dustpan yet. Maybe we tracked in more gems.”
I didn’t find anything else by the door or in the treads of our shoes. We even took a flashlight to look at the car mats but didn’t turn up anything. Still, one possible diamond was enough to send us, Nate, and two deputy sheriffs back to the clay room.
The maintenance men were finishing up when we arrived. A large sheet of plywood now covered the open window. Thankfully, the deputies had gotten there in time to prevent the workers from dumping the small garbage cans into a dumpster out back. Diamonds or no diamonds, I made a vow never to go dumpster diving again, having suffered through an awful humiliation when I first came to Sun City West to help my mother track down an alleged book curse. In order to find a key piece of evidence, I wound up headfirst in a larger-than-life garbage bin.
In a matter of minutes, Nate and one of the deputies had spread a large piece of construction paper along one of the counters. The other deputy lifted the first of two garbage cans and dumped the contents on the cardboard. Thankfully, one of the supplies he had in his sheriff’s van was a box of disposable gloves that we put to good use.
It was a slow and tedious process. At least the garbage was limited to shards of glass, paper products, and some empty coffee cups. Nothing that would cause any of us to gag. We weren’t as fortunate with the second can. It must have been sitting in the clay room for a few days because it really smelled ripe. Sure enough, we discovered the remains of a banana, a few yogurt containers, and, my personal favorite, a half-eaten fiber bar.
While the men poured through the contents on the counter, I took Marshall’s flashlight and went back to the closet, where that bowl had been resting comfortably until the day before. I stared at the racks as the light flickered. Bits of dried clay were still on the shelves. I looked around the room and spotted a small, empty wastepaper basket. Using the edge of my hand, I slid the clay particles into the basket and, like the men in the front room, dumped the contents on the small counter in back.
It took me less than a minute to unearth another possible gem.
“I’ve got one!” I screamed. “Not as big but the same thing.”
One of the sheriff’s deputies placed it in a small plastic bag and labeled it, along with the larger gem Marshall and I had turned over to them.
“My theory’s beginning to add up, huh?” Marshall gave me a wink.
Nate, who was busy sifting through the glass debris, looked up. “Keep working.”
I wondered if this was what it felt like panning for gold. At least we weren’t on the ground with our feet in some shallow stream. Each of us scanned a particular area on the counter, taking our time to touch every little piece of dried clay we came across.
An hour later we unearthed the last of the treasures—a gem that was slightly larger than the one I had found on my shoe mat. Perfectly faceted, ready to be set.
“These could be worthless pieces of synthetic junk or the real deal,” Nate said.
“We’ll know soon enough,” one of the deputies said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, but I’ll put a call in for someone in our lab to take a look. With the right equipment, determining whether or not something’s a diamond shouldn’t be rocket science. Heck, a good jeweler could do that.”
I started to giggle. “So could my aunt Ina, but let’s stick to the county lab.”
As we cleaned up the place and turned off the lights, Nate pounded on Marshall’s shoulder. “Unless there are dead bodies strewn all over the floor, don’t call me.” Then he turned to me. “I don’t suppose there’s any way your mother or Lucinda would remember whose bowl that was?”
“They might. My mother was complaining about having to remove a large greenware urn from the closet. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
Nate was about to say something when I finished his thought. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to breathe a word about the diamonds or whatever they are.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. I was more concerned she’d invite me to that clay club celebration. If she does, tell her I’m going to be out of town that weekend.”
I quickly turned to Marshall in case he’d follow Nate’s lead. “If I have to go, so do you.”
Chapter 26
I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It was one of the nicest things about having Marshall at my place in the morning.
“I can’t believe it’s after ten.” I sauntered into the kitchen and poured myself a cup. “What a night.”
“Yeah, what a night. My head hit the pillow and that’s the last thing I remembered before waking up. One of these nights we’ll have to do this right.”
I stepped behind him, leaned forward, and planted a kiss on his neck.
He grabbed my arm, pulled
me closer, and responded in kind. “Hey, there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of the day with you, but, Sunday or not, I’ve got a ton of work waiting for me and it can’t wait until tomorrow. I’ve got to finalize reports on that fraud case and the Casa Grande abduction. I’ve been so busy with these two murders, I haven’t been able to catch up.”
“No problem. At least I can follow through on that clay urn. My mother or Lucinda might remember if there were any markings underneath it.”
“Clever, huh? I mean, if those stones do turn out to be diamonds, who in their right mind would ever look in a musty old clay club closet?”
“Whoever made that piece did it a long time ago. The plastic was brittle and the clay had dried up. It must have been a former member. None of the active members would leave their artwork sitting around that long. Nope, that urn was made for one reason only—to hide something valuable. Oh my gosh! The diamond industry. Mary Melhorn said she thought Quentin’s wife worked in the diamond industry when they were living in New York. We’ve got to find out if that’s true. Because if it is . . .”
“Whoa. Slow down. Get the reins back on that horse of yours. First of all, the lab needs to make a determination. And we’re not sure who made that urn. It could’ve been someone who had nothing to do with Quentin Dussler.”
I shook my head. “Nah, I like my Dussler theory. What if his wife was really a diamond thief and, little by little, she amassed a fortune in gems? Not right away. Over the years, so it would be off the radar.”
“Got news for you. Stealing diamonds is never off the radar. And help me get this straight. Which Dussler theory is that brain of yours working on? Because last night you practically hog-tied me to get in touch with Rolo Barnes. Art theft. After talking with your aunt, you were convinced Quentin was sneaking stolen art into the country. Look, let’s take this one step at a time. We’ll see what the lab says and you’ll find out if your mom or Lucinda knows who signed that urn, deal?”
