Molded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Of course I know. Why?”

  “Remember when you pointed out that postcard from some market in Antwerp?”

  “The Grote Markt. Not a market. It’s the town square in the heart of Antwerp. Don’t tell me you plan on going there. Are you going with Marshall? When? Don’t go in the summer. Too many tourists.”

  “No, I’m not going. We’re not going. I have to find out what was on that postcard. You said someone’s mother sent it. How did you know?”

  “Honestly, Phee, they signed it, ‘Having fun, Mom,’ in some god-awful white pen across the Silvius Brabo statue. Who does a thing like that?”

  “Maybe a murderer. Maybe a diamond thief. Thanks, Aunt Ina. Send my love to Louis.”

  I shoved the phone back to Augusta. “MOM! This has to be the connection! Antwerp. Diamonds. Greenware. Whoever ‘Mom’ is, she must have broken into the clay club and stolen the jar. Her jar! She’s the thief. When she found out the place was being cleaned out, she couldn’t wait for the next day. But the bartender and Kimberlynn are much too young to be moms. And Sharon is much too dead. Then who?”

  “Slow down, kiddo, before you drive all of us crazy. Maybe ‘Mom’ has nothing to do with parenting.”

  Chapter 30

  The whole thing was one giant mess and, the more I tried to make sense of it, the worse it got. Obviously, Quentin Dussler had sold his high-priced special glazed pottery for an outrageous price because he was really selling coded maps to stolen diamonds. But, according to the timeline from that diamond heist in Belgium, he couldn’t possibly have been the master thief. Unless, of course, he wasn’t working alone.

  “Whoever ‘Mom’ is, she had to be Quentin’s accomplice,” I said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Nate put his arm on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Quite possibly, yes. Look, I’ll touch base with the sheriff’s department, find out what, if anything, they’ve gleaned in the last few hours, and I’ll fill them in on what we’ve discovered.”

  “I’ve got a few odds and ends to go over with Rolo, so I’ll get going on that. It shouldn’t take too long.” Marshall took a step toward me. “How about if I pick up something for us to eat when I’m done with Rolo? Probably an hour or so at most.”

  “I can get something on my way home. It’ll be quicker.”

  “Great. Surprise me.”

  * * *

  Marshall arrived at my house at a little past seven. We were both starving and tore into the assorted wraps I bought from the deli. Once we’d washed them down with iced tea, the conversation immediately turned to the investigation.

  “Rolo wanted to double check on something before he called us, but he’s pretty confident about Quentin’s niece.”

  I tossed the paper plates into the trash. “He located her? What’s her name?”

  “Quentin Dussler doesn’t have a niece. Rolo went through family records, tax records, you name it. There is no niece.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Not really. Think about it. Where did you first learn he had a niece?”

  I bit my lower lip and tried to remember. “From my mother, I guess. Oh, and then from Cindy Dolton in the dog park. Later from Lon and Mary Melhorn. They were the couple Cindy said knew Quentin.”

  “Did anyone actually meet the niece?”

  “Um, come to think it, the Melhorns never said they did.”

  Marshall shrugged and plopped himself on the couch. “Maybe I should be doing some digging on those two. Meanwhile, I’ve got more news from our favorite cyber sleuth.”

  I could tell from the look on his face the news wasn’t going to get anyone any closer to solving the murders. He rubbed his temples and groaned. “Rolo said there’s a money dump going on at the Lillian.”

  “A what?”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting not everyone knows Rolo’s terminology. When he started poking into the bank routing numbers from Quentin’s inventory and saw the Lillian, he couldn’t help but pry further. That’s when he discovered something fishy. So, he checked the other two resort retirement residences and noticed similar patterns. All very recent.”

  “What patterns?”

  “The residents have individual accounts at these places. It’s like a buy-in, but their principal remains in place. The interest accumulates and goes directly to the facility, along with a fixed amount the residents pay from their own resources.”

  “Is that typical for those continuing care communities?”

  “I’m not sure. But the point is, the principal is supposed to stay fixed, but it’s shrinking. Rolo discovered a slow pattern of monetary leakage, so to speak. Small, at first, but growing. At this rate, the residents’ buy-in monies will disappear.”

  “My God! Did he notify the attorney general for Arizona? What about the FBI?”

  “Phee, Rolo operates under the radar. You know that. If he notified anyone, he’d be arrested.”

  “Aargh.”

  “Nate and I will have to find another way around this.”

  “But don’t the residents see that their money is disappearing?”

  “Not necessarily. They may only get interest statements from their resort retirement residence company, like the Lillian or Marque Living. And the statements may just indicate the original principal. Think Bernie Madoff, but slightly different. When people perceive things are going well, they don’t question it. Especially very elderly seniors.”

  “Did Rolo figure out where the money was going?”

  “Mainly offshore accounts. A bear to track down.”

  “Poor Gertie and Trudy. It’s all the money they have. What will happen when it’s drained?”

  “I’m thinking whoever is behind this has it figured out. The money will disappear around the same time the residents pass away. Let’s face it, when you’re in your nineties, how many more years do you expect to live? They’ll never miss the money. Their beneficiaries will. Simply put, the resort residence will inform the next of kin that their beloved relative exhausted his or her monies.”

  I folded and unfolded the napkin in front of me. “That’s unconscionable.”

  “Scams like this usually are.”

  “Geez, so now, not only do you have to deal with two unsolved murders but also a corruption case.”

  “Not so fast. We can’t jump into that one without revealing how we found out about it. Right now, the murders are the priority, which brings me back to the conversation Gertie overheard. Something’s going to happen on Friday. Nate thinks it involves the Lillian since Kimberlynn said ‘feds crawling all over this place,’ but that doesn’t eliminate the ‘drop-off’ spot out in Punkin Center and the likelihood there’ll be a diamond buyer showing up.”

  “Not Mr. Carlington. I sort of strung his assistant along on that phony call.”

  “You told him you’d contact him no later than Friday. He’s expecting your call and, once he gets it, he, or his representative, will race to that spot in the desert to claim their stolen diamond. They already have the map. When he arrives at the spot, he’ll be met by the Gila County Sheriff’s Office. They’ll question him until they find out who’s behind all of this. That is, of course, if Nate and I can get all of this coordinated tomorrow. So far, we’re working with two sheriff’s departments—Gila and Maricopa. That’s bad enough. We’ve got to get this done before the feds muck it up and Interpol makes it worse.”

  “What??? You’re using my idea after all? Is that what you and Nate talked about when I left the office?”

  Marshall had that cute sheepish look on his face but didn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned over, put his arm around my shoulders, and kissed me.

  “Don’t think your amorous advances are going to get you out of admitting I was right,” I said.

  “I’ll take any excuse to kiss you.”

  “Seriously, a sting? Will you be going? Will Nate?”

  “No. We’ll help coordinate, but it will be up to the sheriffs’ departments.
It’s the Lillian we’re more concerned about. Come on, right now we’ve got better things to do.”

  He planted another kiss on my lips. Slower. Softer.

  “The hell with the sheriffs’ departments. You’re right. We do have better things to do.”

  I didn’t give the sting operation or the Lillian another thought until the phone on my nightstand rang relentlessly in the middle of the night. I fumbled in the darkness to lift the receiver. Marshall immediately tossed the covers off and sat up.

  “Hello?” I mumbled.

  My heart was pounding and I prayed it wasn’t my mother calling to tell me something awful had happened.

  “Miss Kimball? This is Mario Aquilino. You’re going to want to hear what I have to tell you.”

  “Mr. Aquilino, do you know what time it is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s twenty to six. The sun’s been up for a half hour. And early breakfast is about to be served.”

  Marshall had gotten out of the bed and opened the plantation shutters. Hazy sunlight illuminated the room. I rubbed my eyes and yawned into the phone. “Tell me, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Sharon Smyth snuck in here and left me a letter sometime before she was murdered. It was balled up in one of my socks. She must have rearranged my sock drawer when she left the thing. All rolled up like some kind of missive. I didn’t notice it until now because that drawer was for my dress socks, not my everyday socks. I suppose you’ll want to know why I decided to wear dress socks today, huh?”

  “I, uh, er . . .”

  “Forgot to do the damn laundry, does that answer your question? And I wasn’t about to pay to have the Lillian do it. There. Are you satisfied now?”

  “Um, sure. So, about the note. What does it say?”

  I motioned for Marshall to move closer to the phone and held it out so both of us could hear what Mario had to say.

  “I’m holding the note. It’s a damn long thing. I suppose you could call it a letter. Do you want me to read it now?”

  “Yes,” I practically screamed.

  “It says, ‘Mario—I found out the Lillian is about to be sold. Right under our noses. I left my mail on the reception desk counter for a second in order to get something out of my eye. When I picked up my letters, the other one must have been under it. It was addressed to Kimberlynn, but I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I had already opened it. Long story short, some company by the name of Wolters Stork is buying them out. I thought about destroying the letter, but I think it’s a crime to tamper with the mail. I’m going to confront Kimberlynn. If something happens to me, you’ll know why. Sharon Smyth. P.S. I was going to put letters in the Gertrudes’ drawers, but they’re a mess. Especially Trudy’s.’”

  “Mr. Aquilino, put that letter in a safe place and wait for me. I’m driving right over.”

  “Don’t hurry. I want to digest my breakfast.”

  “When you’re done in the dining room, wait in the lobby. And please don’t say a word to anyone.”

  Mario Aquilino’s call was stronger than any caffeine boost I’d ever had. Still, I made Marshall and me our usual K-cups before washing up and throwing on some clothes.

  “Let’s take a long, relaxing shower tonight,” Marshall said, “but, for now, that deodorant will have to do. Come on, we’ll take my car. It’s not as if we’re going to wind up in separate places tonight. Admit it, we should be spending our off hours together.”

  He was right. About the deodorant, the car, and our relationship. Marshall wanted to spend more nights in my casita than his own rental place, and I wondered if we’d reached the point where we were ready for the next step. Needless to say, I didn’t have time to dwell on it. We were out the door and in his car before I knew it.

  “Yikes, I’ve never moved so fast in my life. Most likely Mario is still in the dining room giving the waiters a hard time.”

  Marshall chuckled. “Yeah, he sounds like a character all right. But why do you suppose Sharon Smyth decided to leave a letter in his sock drawer?”

  “They knew each other from the clay club. I guess she figured she could trust him. She must have felt the same way about Gertie and Trudy.”

  “Do me a favor since I’m behind the wheel, and call Nate. Give him a heads-up.”

  “I already took out my cell phone.”

  “Good. When you’re done, I need you to place another call.”

  “Don’t tell me. Rolo?”

  “Uh-huh. Use my phone. He’s on speed dial. Next car I get will have a hands-free phone with Bluetooth. Meanwhile, I’ve got you.”

  “You sure do. Give me a second.”

  Rolo answered the call on the second ring, thinking it was Marshall.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “It’s Phee. Phee Kimball.”

  “I know. I recognize your voice. Is Marshall in one piece?”

  “Yeah. He’s right here. Driving. Wait a sec. He’s pulling over so he can talk to you.”

  “Hang on. I’m toasting some quinoa for my dried acai berries.”

  The silence at his end of the line lasted a few seconds. By that time, Marshall had pulled the car into a plaza and I handed him the phone.

  “Rolo, I need you to check on something right away. Look up Wolters Stork. It’s a Dutch company. Find out if the Lillian, or those other two places, are funneling money into one of Wolters Stork’s accounts. It’s really important.”

  Whatever Rolo said, Marshall replied with, “Try to detangle it fast. It may be linked to a murder.”

  He ended the call with a couple of “uh-huhs” and “I’ll take my chances with the white death.”

  He tossed the phone on the console and got back on the road.

  “The white death?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sugar.”

  Chapter 31

  Surprisingly, people were out and about when Marshall and I pulled into the side parking lot at the Lillian. There were a few dog walkers and one lady in a pink jogger’s outfit walking slowly down the block.

  “It’s early,” I said. “The blondes don’t start working until seven. Unless they’re really diligent, they won’t stroll in here for another fifteen minutes or so. And the director isn’t about to arrive until eight or nine.”

  Marshall reached for his sunglasses. His car didn’t have Bluetooth, but it had a neat little drop-down tray next to the visor. “Everything’s starting to add up. Let’s hope it doesn’t stall. Sharon’s letter to Mario confirms what Rolo observed—money is being moved. And if my suspicions are right, whoever is orchestrating this operation may be using the residents’ own monies to buy out the place. But that wouldn’t provide enough money. So, how else is Wolters Stork being paid?”

  “My guess is a hefty down payment from those stolen diamonds. That little encounter between the bartender and Kimberlynn had to be more than coincidence. It’s like some crazy circular maze, only I can’t tell where it begins.”

  “Too bad you can’t tell Gertie and Trudy who the real underwear drawer perpetrator turned out to be. At least, according to her own confession.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t some creepy nutcase. It was Sharon Smyth, trying to figure out the best spot to hide her letter. Maybe when all of this is over we can let the Gertrudes know.”

  Mario Aquilino was in the lobby, seated in a floral chair off to the side of the fountain. The reception desk was vacant, except for a bowl of candies and a sign instructing people to call the house manager after hours.

  “Psst! I’m over here!” Mario shouted.

  Marshall and I hurried over and dragged two chairs closer to the larger floral one. Mario reached in his pocket, pulled out the letter, and thrust it at Marshall. “Quick. Before anyone gets suspicious.”

  I wanted to ask “Suspicious of what?” but decided not to. “Um, thanks, Mr. Aquilino. This is really helpful.”

  “So, are you going to arrest that witch?”

  “Arrest? Witch?”

 
“Kimberlynn Warren. If I didn’t think my butt would go numb waiting in this chair, I’d watch you do it.”

  Marshall leaned closer and kept his voice low. “We don’t have the authority to arrest anyone. I’m an investigator, not an officer of the law. Besides, the letter provides circumstantial evidence of a possible wrongdoing, not definitive proof of malfeasance.”

  “You sound like a thesaurus. I’ll tell you what it proves. The management at the Lillian is selling us out.”

  I tapped Marshall on the shoulder and motioned for him to step away for a second.

  “We’ll be right back, Mr. Aquilino,” I said. “I just need a moment with Mr. Gregory.”

  When we were out of earshot, I said, “Mario doesn’t know about the money dumping. No one does. Not yet. He’s shaken up because of an alleged buyout, but he may think his investment money is at stake. We need to reassure him before things get crazy around here.”

  “Hon, his investment money is at stake. At least according to Rolo. But you’re right. No sense starting a frenzy. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Marshall and I returned to our seats, trying to look nonchalant as a few of the guests meandered through the lobby. For the next three or four minutes, he used a combination of diplomacy and child psychology to reassure Mario of our intentions to pursue the matter.

  “So, you see, this letter provides us with a valuable link into Sharon’s murder and quite possibly, a questionable business dealing. Rest assured the appropriate authorities will work with this new evidence to expedite the case.”

  “I want to be notified when Kimberlynn is going to be arrested. I can bring my special seat cushion to the lobby.”

  “We can’t make any promises, Mr. Aquilino, but we’ll keep you informed. And please don’t say anything to anyone about the letter.”

  “Fine. And don’t you lose it, either. I didn’t get a chance to make a copy.”

  Marshall and I shook his hand and were out of the building before the blondes arrived.

  “It’s five minutes to seven,” I said. “Talk about cutting it close. I really didn’t want them to see us.”