Molded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Move over, Miss Marple,” Nate exclaimed. “Give her the number, Augusta. I’d like to see this. But not on our line. Chances are they have caller ID. Get her one of those prepaid cell phones from the file cabinet.”

  “We have burner phones?” I asked. “I thought that was only in the movies.”

  “You need to visit Walmart more.” Augusta handed me a phone and smiled.

  I tapped the numbers and glanced at Nate. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  The director’s name was Dean Carlington, and I hoped my little ruse would work. No sooner did I hear the words, “Serenity Brook Resort Retirement, how may I direct your call?” than I launched into my “collection agency” voice. I had used it from time to time in Mankato when people were delinquent with bill payments.

  “Please connect me with Mr. Carlington’s secretary,” I said. “It’s regarding action on their recent purchase of a signed Quentin Dussler piece.”

  Within seconds, I was on the line with an Eric Ansley. As soon as he introduced himself, I wasted no time. Mainly because I thought I would lose my nerve.

  “Mr. Ansley, our office hasn’t heard from you. Have you destroyed the Dussler piece and reported the casualty to your insurance company? We expected word of it at least a week ago.”

  I kept my voice low and stern. Then I waited. Someone once told me silence was a very valuable negotiating tool. I prayed they were right. Nate, Marshall, and Augusta were all staring at me, and I couldn’t afford to lose my focus. After what seemed like minutes, Eric Ansley spoke. I held the phone away from my ear so everyone could listen.

  Eric sounded jumpy. “It will be taken care of this week. Mr. Carlington will phone you as soon as the claim is filed. When can we expect delivery?”

  I froze. The silence at my end made Eric Ansley more nervous and his voice cracked. “You have my word. Expect our call within the week.”

  I took a long breath and spoke slowly. “Since you have procrastinated, we will call you. Expect our call no later than Friday. Once we’ve ascertained the piece is no longer viable, you’ll receive further instructions.”

  “Er, um, uh . . . Call Mr. Carlington’s cell. The 818 number, not the 747.”

  I clenched my fist and took a breath. “This is troublesome. We have the 747 in our records.”

  “Please. Call 818-374-8421.”

  I reached across Augusta’s desk for a pen, but she had beaten me to it and was writing the number on the first piece of paper she could get her hands on, a candy wrapper.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ansley, you’ve been most cooperative. We shall be in touch.”

  I pushed the delete icon before Mr. Carlington’s assistant, or whoever Eric Ansley was, said another word.

  Nate slapped the side of his cheek and stared at me. “Holy crap, kiddo. No wonder the Mankato Police Department sicced those delinquent accounts on you. That voice scared the hell out of me.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s giving me cause for alarm, too. I’m the one dating her,” Marshall said.

  I flashed him a smile and chuckled. “You have nothing to worry about. But now, do both of you believe me? Quentin Dussler had to have been behind this. Somehow he stole the diamonds and planted them in greenware pieces until he was ready to move them to his hiding spot in the desert. His greenware was safely stashed in the back of the clay club closet and left undisturbed. Until my mother came along.

  Once buyers purchased his over-the-top completed creations, they were given information that allowed them to decipher a code embedded in the piece. That code led them to where their diamond or diamonds were hidden, but they had to destroy the clay creation first so the embedded code couldn’t fall into anyone else’s hands. It wasn’t artwork they were buying, it was stolen diamonds.”

  “I have to admit, Mr. Williams and Mr. Gregory, Phee’s got a point. I imagine she read a lot of Nancy Drew as a child,” Augusta said. “This Carlington fellow is expecting to find out where his treasure has been stowed. And I’ll wager it’s in Punkin Center. In a creepy old mine, to be precise.”

  “It all makes sense,” I said. “The Lillian water bottles were there because someone from the Lillian went to that area to pick up their diamond. Or diamonds. Water bottles were the last thing they were worried about.”

  Nate listened carefully, rubbing his chin the entire time. “Let’s say, for a moment, Phee is right about the jars being used as treasure maps, for lack of a better term. Who’s going to put Mr. Carlington’s diamond in that mine now that Quentin Dussler is dead? Assuming Quentin was the one doing this. And since Mr. Ansley must know about Quentin’s death, he didn’t seem at all worried. So, who’s running the diamond ruse?”

  “Whoever killed Quentin,” I said. “And I know one surefire way to find out.”

  Chapter 29

  “Please don’t tell me what I think you’re about to tell me,” Marshall said. “That you plan on setting up some sort of ‘sting’ operation. Worse yet, with your aunt Ina. Because it’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

  “Oh, no way. Not me. I’m not that crazy. I figured it was something you and Nate could do.”

  Marshall stifled a laugh and Nate shook his head. “Not without full cooperation from two sheriffs’ departments. You may be on to something, kiddo, but they’ll still stick us with that timeline thing.”

  “Maybe Quentin had a partner,” I said. “Everyone keeps talking about his niece. What about her?”

  “No one can locate her. Of course, it doesn’t help matters since we don’t even know her name. I got so exasperated, I turned to Rolo. I’m going to owe that guy a fortune. He’ll be able to build his own damn veggie-paleo-grain restaurant by the time we figure out these murders.”

  “But you will talk to Deputy Ranston about this, won’t you?” I asked. “Or Bowman. At least he doesn’t scowl all the time.”

  “Rest assured, kiddo. We’re a regular tag team these days.”

  Augusta stood up and stretched. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have work to do before we close. And I can get a lot done in the next twenty-five minutes if you’d all skedaddle.”

  I walked to my office. “Um, yeah. I’d better finish a few invoices I started.”

  “Guess you and I are the only slouches,” Nate said to Marshall. “We’d better fix that.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes finishing up the invoices. Then I heard the phone ring followed by Augusta shouting for me. “It’s Gertie from the Lillian for you. Says it’s important.”

  “Okay. I’m picking up.”

  “Miss Kimball, thank goodness you’re still at work. The most distressing thing happened a few minutes ago. Tanya killed a scorpion.”

  “Um, uh, you’re calling to tell me the receptionist killed an insect?”

  “Not an insect. A scorpion. A horrible, harmful creature. It was enormous. Trudy and I were just coming back from dinner when we saw the thing scuttling across the lobby. They’re fast, you know. Anyway, we weren’t alone. Others were leaving the dining room, too. Someone screamed ‘Scorpion!’ and next thing I knew, Tanya raced from the back of the desk, grabbed one of those floral pillows from the nearest chair, and held it over the thing. Too bad everything is electronic on that front desk or she could’ve used a book. Anyway, it took forever, but Tanya wouldn’t give up. She applied so much pressure the dreadful scorpion didn’t stand a chance. Everyone applauded when it was over and done with.”

  “I see. Is that what you wanted to call me about?”

  “No. I called for another reason. Hold on. Trudy’s yelling about something.”

  I heard Trudy’s voice in the background, getting louder. “Tell her about the broccoli. Tell her about the broccoli!”

  “Miss Kimball doesn’t have time to hear about the damn broccoli.”

  “Tell her to make time. I think it’s important.”

  I made a face she couldn’t see, obviously, and told Gertie I didn’t mind hearing about the broccoli.

  “Fine,�
�� she said. “I’ll put Trudy on.”

  “Miss Kimball? This is Trudy. I thought you should know someone’s been tampering with our food.”

  “Tampering with your food? What do you mean?”

  “Cream of broccoli soup is always served at the salad bar. But now it’s different. The broccoli is normally cut crosswise so it forms lovely florets. Well, not anymore. A few days ago they began to cut it lengthwise into these ugly stringy pieces. I don’t like eating stringy things.”

  For the life of me, I had no idea why Trudy thought this was so urgent, but I let her continue until I thought I was going to lose my mind.

  I tried to be tactful. “Maybe they hired a new cook. Or got a new recipe. Ask your server to speak with the chef the next time you go to the dining room. Or better yet, see if the chef would be willing to come to your table.”

  “It won’t do any good. Don’t you understand? Something’s not right around here. A scorpion in the lobby and badly cut broccoli. I’m telling you, something’s going on. Maybe Sharon Smyth knew what it was and that’s what got her killed. Anyway, here’s Gertie.”

  “Well, nice talking with—”

  “Miss Kimball? It’s me again. Gertie. Forget about the broccoli. I overheard something this afternoon and thought you should know about it. And don’t tell me to call the sheriff’s department. I’m calling you.”

  “Um, er . . . fine. What is it?”

  “I had a hankering for cupcakes this morning. It was after breakfast and I didn’t feel like waiting for lunch, so I sort of helped myself to a few of them. They always have them for guests in that small waiting room off the director’s office. No one saw me go in there. One of the blondes was working on her computer and the other one was probably in the restroom.”

  “Uh-huh. Then what?”

  “I had finished off a velvet cream cupcake and had just wrapped two vanilla ones in a napkin and put them in my pocketbook when I heard an argument in Kimberlynn’s office. I recognized Kimberlynn’s voice but not the other lady’s, so I tiptoed to the door and slid it open ever so slightly. No one noticed.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Money. That’s what people always argue about. Kimberlynn said something like, ‘How fast can you get it done? The buyer is getting anxious, and I want this over with. Last thing we need is the feds crawling all over this place.’ And then the other lady said, ‘Because you were sloppy. You should’ve found out where she kept her notes before you—’”

  “‘Before you’ what? What did she say?”

  “I couldn’t hear the rest. Some old fart came to the front desk and he was really loud. Probably forgot to charge his hearing aid. By the time I heard the women again, it was only one word.”

  “What word?”

  “Friday.”

  “Gertie, did you see what that other woman looked like?”

  “Of course I did. I already told you I opened the door and peered in.”

  I had all I could do to stop myself from screaming, “Get on with it!” Instead, I lowered my voice, taking great care to keep it as gentle as possible. “Please describe her for me.”

  “She was young. Maybe your age. Long blond hair with a reddish hue. I think they call that strawberry blond. I like that term better than dirty blond. Dirty blond always makes one think they haven’t washed their hair.”

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t groan. “What else did you notice about her?”

  “I don’t remember if she was wearing pants or a skirt. But her blouse was short sleeved and beige. Button down. Oh, this probably isn’t important, but her arm was dangling over the chair. Her left arm. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. And that nail polish! Who wears nail polish like that?”

  “Like what? What do you mean?”

  “Looked like something someone would expect to find on a Las Vegas showgirl. All glitzy and glittery. It nearly blinded me. The colors looked as if they were jumping off her nails. Violets and lavenders. Some blues, too.”

  For a moment, I was stunned. Gertie had just described the iridescent holographic glitter coat my aunt Ina and I had seen on that bartender in Punkin Center. If my aunt was sitting here next to me, she’d poke me in the arm and say, “I told you that girl got her nails done elsewhere.”

  “It was good you called me,” I said. “What you overheard could be very important. Please, whatever you do, don’t say a word to anyone.”

  “I already told Trudy.”

  “I mean, other than Trudy.”

  “I won’t. That Kimberlynn is up to no good. Maybe Sharon found out and Kimberlynn killed her. Oh no! Oh no! What if she saw me? What if she plans on killing me next?”

  “Relax, please. Calm down. You said no one saw you, right?”

  “One of the blondes did. She nodded as I left the waiting room.”

  “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Listen, Gertie, I’ll let my boss know. Um, to be on the safe side, don’t wander anywhere in the building alone. Like the laundry room or even into the elevator.”

  “How can I with Trudy breathing down my neck complaining about broccoli?”

  I promised to get back to her in a few days. The second I was off the phone, I pushed my chair back from my desk, stood, and made a beeline straight for the front office. I rapped on Nate’s door and then Marshall’s. Loudly.

  “Is the cavalry coming?” Augusta asked.

  “We are the cavalry,” I said.

  “What’s going on?” Marshall was out of his office and facing me as Nate opened the door and walked toward us.

  “We’ve got to do that sting thing because I think the Lillian may be linked to the diamond thefts. Gertie overheard something. And she saw something. Someone, actually. The bartender from Punkin Center. I’m sure it was her.”

  “I’m locking the door,” Augusta said. “It’s after five and I don’t want any interruptions while I hear Phee’s story.”

  I was all but flailing my arms. “It’s not a story. It’s a break in the case.”

  For the next five minutes, I told them everything Gertie had told me, but didn’t mention her sister’s observations. Following one train of thought was hard enough without nebulous ramblings about broccoli and “something not right” at the Lillian.

  “You’re pretty certain the description matches up to that bartender?” Nate asked.

  “Oh yeah. How many strawberry blondes with iridescent, holographic, glittery nails can there be?”

  “None, if I had my way,” Augusta muttered to herself.

  I had to restrain myself from biting one of my own nails. “So, now what do we do? Plant a fake diamond near that outcrop and have the sheriff’s deputies arrest whoever shows up to claim it?”

  “Hang on, kiddo. The diamond drop is one thing, but from what Gertie told you, I don’t think Kimberlynn’s issue had anything to do with that. She used words like ‘feds crawling all over this place.’ I take it to mean the Lillian. And ‘buyer getting anxious.’ We know it’s not our guy from California because you had to coax him over the phone. So, either we’re dealing with another diamond buyer who purchased one of those Dussler pieces or it’s something entirely different.”

  “Drat! We really need to know who made that greenware urn. My mother was supposed to ask Lucinda. Oh phooey! That means I’ve got to call her.”

  Augusta reached out her arm and pointed to the phone on her desk as if she was auditioning for a melodrama.

  “Fine,” I said. “She should be home by now.”

  I picked up the receiver and dialed. My boss, my boyfriend, and my coworker watched as if I was about to perform some sort of magic trick.

  “Hey, Mom, I forgot to ask you something.”

  Augusta reached across the desk and hit the speaker button.

  “You don’t have to yell, Phee. I can hear you. What did you forget?”

  “Did you ever get a chance to ask Lucinda if she remembered seeing anyone’s signature on that urn? You know, the one that was stole
n.”

  “I thought I told you. Wait a second. I told Shirley, not you. Lucinda did see someone’s initials etched into the clay. But it won’t help you. It said ‘Mom.’ Isn’t that sweet? Someone’s mother was making an urn for one of her children. Too bad she never finished it. Now it’s gone. Of course, it was quite the monstrosity, so I really don’t understand who would have stolen it.”

  “Um, yeah. Did Lucinda remember anything else on that urn?”

  “Nope. Just ‘Mom.’ In capital letters. I think I might do something like that the next time I make a bowl or plate for Streetman.”

  Augusta, who had just swallowed some water from the bottle she had on her desk, turned away and nearly spat it out on the wall behind her.

  “Not funny,” I mouthed.

  “What did you say, Phee?”

  “Oh, sorry. I was only clearing my throat.”

  “While I have you on the phone, I thought I’d ask if you and Marshall would like to come over for dinner on Wednesday. It’s potluck. The book club ladies will all be here to plan for our upcoming year.”

  I turned to Marshall and ran my index finger across my throat. “Um, er, I’ll check our schedules and let you know. Anyway, thanks for the info.”

  “Let me know the minute you hear anything about that note.”

  “I will. Catch you later.”

  “She’s making bowls for the dog?” Augusta slid the phone toward her.

  “Probably an entire place setting,” Marshall replied. “Guess we can rule Quentin Dussler out. That stinks. Worse yet, the signature on that urn isn’t going to get us any closer to figuring out who buried the diamonds inside it.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, ‘Mom’ could be anyone. Think of how many things are signed ‘Love, Mom.’ Gifts, letters, notes, postcards . . . Oh my God! Postcards! Quick! Augusta, hand me that phone.”

  I pressed those number keys furiously and prayed my aunt was home. “Aunt Ina! Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me. You sound stressed, Phee. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes. Everything’s fine, but I need to ask you something. Remember when we were in that bar? You know, the one in Punkin Center.”