by J. C. Eaton
“Then walk fast. I think that’s them getting out of the red Mazda.”
We stopped for another cup of coffee and some pastries at a Dunkin’ Donuts and brought a dozen back to the office.
“If I know Nate,” Marshall said, “he probably hasn’t eaten anything. Of course, this stuff would send shock waves through Rolo, but it’s one of the four food groups as far as Nate’s concerned.”
I laughed for a brief second. “What about the letter? Now what?”
“Once we make a copy, Nate or I will drive the original to the sheriff’s station. They’ll want to have a word with Kimberlynn Warren regarding any role she might have had in Sharon Smyth’s death. And since we procured this new evidence, Williams Investigations will be along for the ride. I’m sure by now Nate’s already called Deputy Ranston.”
Marshall was right.
The minute we arrived at the office, Nate grabbed Mario’s letter and a maple glazed donut, not in that order. He said something about “too many cooks coordinating Friday’s plan” and darted out of the place. “If Deputy Ranston calls here,” he yelled, “tell him I’m on my way.”
Augusta shouted back, “You got it, Mr. Williams,” before asking if there were any Bavarian cream donuts in the box. Meanwhile, I had to put all of my sleuthing aside and work on the billing. Marshall was hoping for a quick response from Rolo, but given the magnitude of the situation, it would take days, if not longer.
Then again, I forgot whom we were dealing with.
Suddenly, I remembered something. It was Wednesday. Potluck Wednesday at my mother’s house and she had invited Marshall and me to join the book club ladies. Pushing myself back from my desk, I stood up and walked into Marshall’s office. The door was wide open and he was staring at some notes he had taken.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I forgot about my mother’s invitation to join the book club ladies for potluck dinner tonight. It’s early. I can always make an excuse.”
“We should go. We should absolutely go.”
“Huh? What? Are you delirious?”
“I’m being proactive. Let’s face it. Half of what we figure out emanates from bits and pieces of conversation those women dredge up. By now, one of them has heard something about the murders. I’m not about to discount anything. So, yeah, give her a call and tell her we’ll head over after five.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m an investigator who’s learned not to question his sources. Or his girlfriend’s choice of donuts.”
Marshall had a full schedule with client meetings and phone calls, while Nate was stuck in some planning session with the sheriff’s deputies. Augusta called out for deli sandwiches around midday, and we helped ourselves. No earth-shattering news. No new leads.
Then, at a little past three, Nate returned to the office with an interesting development. I had just stepped out of my office when he went straight to the remaining donuts, bit into one, and, with a mouth half full, asked Augusta to “get Marshall out here.”
“Great,” Nate said. “You’re all here, so I don’t have to repeat this. The sheriff’s department got the lab work back on that piece of plastic bag they found near Sharon Smyth’s body. It was a plastic bag from a spa in Fountain Hills. Fortunately, a tiny part of the logo was still visible and somehow they figured it out.”
“Fountain Hills?” I didn’t realize how loud I was until I saw Nate taking a step back. I immediately lowered my voice. “That’s off the Beeline to Payson near that huge casino. Fort McDowell. And the Beeline shoots over to Punkin Center. What spa? They must have a nail salon. Find out if they do that holographic glitter thing. My aunt Ina said only three places in the valley do that. Oh my God! The bartender. She’s the murderess. It all makes sense.”
“Want me to take notes, Mr. Williams?” Augusta asked. “Before Phee forgets her train of thought?”
I glared at Augusta. “My train of thought’s fine. Listen, Gertie overheard a conversation between Kimberlynn and the bartender. It had to be the bartender. The description was a perfect match. The bartender accused Kimberlynn of not finding someone’s notes. That someone had to be Sharon. And then, the bartender said Kimberlynn was sloppy and shouldn’t have done something before finding those notes first. I’m thinking the ‘something’ was the murder.”
“I thought so, too,” Nate said. “Of course, Gertie didn’t hear the entire conversation and her recollection might not have been accurate. Still, it was close enough for me to convince the sheriff’s deputies to track down that bartender. Remember, the Gila County deputies have coordinated their own setup for Friday. That’s the date we believe a “pickup” is going to happen in the high desert. So, no one wants to spook the bartender first. If she’s involved in any of this, she might tip off her cohorts.”
There was so much to take in and it all seemed to be happening at once. I brushed that same annoying strand of hair from my forehead and groaned. “What’s the plan? What’s going to happen exactly?”
“We’re still finalizing it. Marshall and I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow morning in Sun City West with Deputies Ranston and Bowman. We should know more after that.”
“Geez, seems like all they do is meet and strategize.”
“Yeah,” Augusta said. “And eat donuts.”
Nate brushed off some crumbs from his shirt and laughed. “Got to admit, there are a lot of strings attached to that bartender. Like her relationship with Kimberlynn, for starters, and the fact she’s working so close to an alleged drop-off spot for some stolen diamonds. Wish we could find a way to link her to Quentin Dussler, but, so far, there’s nothing. We don’t even know her name, but that’s an easy fix. Those Gila County deputies have lots of contacts.”
Marshall rubbed his hands together and then wiped them on his pants. “Tomorrow’s Thursday already. Not a whole lot of time to put this together. And I don’t think those deputies have anything solid in place yet. Think we should have Phee contact Dean Carlington at Serenity Brook and tell him the delivery is set for Friday? I’m wagering the guy has a private plane so he wouldn’t even bother with needing to book a flight to Phoenix.”
“Too soon,” Nate said. “She spoke to the assistant yesterday. We’ll have her place the call tomorrow. And yeah, Carlington’s the CEO of a mega company. If he doesn’t own his own plane, he’s got company planes at his disposal.”
“Um, what if someone else shows up for the diamonds?” I asked.
“They’ll be arrested, too,” Marshall said. “And everyone will be questioned about Quentin’s murder.”
I returned to my desk and the spreadsheet I was working on. It felt good to immerse myself in something straightforward. The next hour and a half flew by. I heard Augusta turning off the copier and realized it was time to head to my mother’s.
“Should we stop and pick something up for the potluck?” Marshall asked once we were in the car.
“I’m sure there’ll be gads of food, but picking up a cheesecake never hurts.”
We made a quick stop at a little Italian bakery before driving into Sun City West.
“So, who’s going to be at your mother’s tonight?”
“The usual crew—Shirley, Lucinda, Myrna, Louise, and Cecilia. The snowbirds are gone and Aunt Ina had tickets to the Phoenix Symphony. Oh, and Streetman. He probably has his own place setting.”
Chapter 32
The usual Buicks were lined up along my mother’s street. Marshall parked on the opposite side in front of the only shade he could find—a jacaranda tree in dire need of trimming. As we approached my mother’s house, I warned Marshall to watch for the dog.
“Why? Will he snap?”
“No. He might escape and you’ll wind up spending the rest of the night tracking him down. He’s really fast. Then again, he may just hide under the nearest piece of furniture.”
Fortunately for us, that was exactly what Streetman did when we got to the door. Our knock sca
red him sufficiently to stop begging, according to my mother, and dart under the couch.
She ushered us inside and shut the door. “Don’t worry. He’ll be out in a minute. Sit anywhere. What can I get you to drink?”
“Whatever you’ve got.” Marshall greeted the ladies, who were already seated in the living room. Myrna, Louise, and Cecilia on the couch, Shirley in one of the floral chairs, and Lucinda next to her in an armchair. I motioned for Marshall to take the wing chair while I commandeered the other floral one.
“The food is on the counter in the kitchen. We can all help ourselves,” my mother said. “And look, Phee and Marshall brought a giant cheesecake.” Then she looked at the dog, who’d finally crawled out from under the couch. “If you’re good, you can have a tiny bit of cheesecake.”
I nudged Marshall in the arm and whispered, “See what I mean about the dog?”
“So,” Lucinda said, “any news yet on those murders? Or the note? Harriet and I had nothing to do with the victim and yet he had a paper with our names on it.”
Thank heavens you don’t know who else had one.
“Probably something to do with the clay club,” Marshall said. “We’re still—”
“Working on it. I know. I know.” My mother sounded more matter-of-fact than irritated.
Casseroles, salads, and assorted appetizers filled the entire counter. I helped myself to a seven-layer nacho dip and some raisin and carrot salad. Then I added a deviled egg to the mix. Marshall took a little of everything and managed to balance it as he made his way back to the living room.
“Feel free to sit at the kitchen table or the patio table,” my mother called. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Come on.” I led Marshall out to the patio. “You’ll get used to this.”
We were joined by Louise Munson and Myrna Mittleson at the small round table. Streetman was frantically running back and forth between tables, hoping to gobble up anything that accidentally fell to the floor.
“Only a few weeks until the Creations in Clay,” Louise said. “Your mother is hoping her piece wins an award. This is so exciting.”
I grabbed my iced tea and swallowed. “Uh-huh.”
“Have you seen the piece?” she asked. “All your mother would tell us is there’s nothing like it.”
Again, I took another swallow. “Uh, yeah. Nothing like it.”
Then Myrna spoke. “It’s really too bad some of the original members are no longer active in the club. I remember going to that show a few years ago and was astonished at the talent. I’m trying to remember the name of that woman who made those glorious cookie jars. Oh yes, Mary Olsen. That was her name. Of course, that must have been a good seven or eight years ago. Maybe nine. The clay club was one of the original Sun City West charter clubs.”
Marshall tapped my arm. “Wasn’t one of those acquaintances of Quentin’s named Mary? I seem to recall you saying something about that when you first met with Cindy Dolton in the dog park.”
Lon and Mary Melhorn. That’s where I learned about the niece. The nonexistent niece. And there was more. Mary had mentioned having once been in the clay club.
“Mary Melhorn told me she and her husband used to be in the clay club. Years ago. That’s how they knew Quentin. Holy cow! You don’t suppose Mary Olsen is really Mary Melhorn? Lon could be her second husband. And if that’s the case—”
“I know. You’ve got to have another conversation with her. It has to be you.”
Louise cleared her throat and leaned forward. “What are the two of you talking about? Did we miss something?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Marshall and I can’t get our minds off this investigation, and when Myrna mentioned Mary Olsen, it reminded me of something.”
Myrna bit off part of a deviled egg and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I don’t know much about Mary Olsen. I’d only seen her at the shows, but I can tell you this much—that woman has spectacular taste in jewelry. It’s not easy to forget tanzanite and diamond earrings or those Pandora bracelets that cost a fortune. Her clothing wasn’t off the rack, either. Imagine having money and talent. What a combination.”
When I’d met Mary Melhorn, she was wearing expensive Hidalgo designs. And that company only produced eighteen-karat gold.
Myrna popped the remainder of the egg in her mouth and swallowed. “Add a wealthy husband to the mix, and you’ve got it made. I’m not sure what he does, but it’s enough to keep her in baubles.”
Baubles. Designer jewelry. Clay club. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I got up from my seat and charged into the kitchen. This wasn’t a crack in the case; it was a downright earthquake fault. “Mom!”
“What, Phee? What happened? Did Streetman eat the spicy nachos?” My mother leaned into the patio and looked for the dog.
“No. Look behind you. He’s in the living room by the armchair. Listen, this is important. Do you have any pictures of the clay club members going back seven to nine years? Maybe in an old brochure or something?”
“I don’t save that stuff. If I want to look at pictures, I pull up their Web site.”
“The clay club has a Web site?”
“Of course. All the major clubs do.”
“Oh my God! Quick! I’ve got to get to your computer. Sorry, everyone. This should only take a few minutes. Come on, Marshall. You can finish eating later. The computer’s in the spare bedroom. Let’s go.”
Marshall got up from his spot on the patio and followed me into the back bedroom. The computer was an ancient relic, compared to mine, and seemed to take forever to boot up. I entered the password immediately, since it was my mother’s name. Then I Googled “Sun City West Clay Club.” In seconds, I was directed to their site.
“Oh look! There’s a whole ribbon on top. ‘Events, Empty Bowls, Virtual Tours, History, Sales.’ It’s got to be with ‘History.’”
Even though Marshall was standing directly behind me, I was talking to myself as I scrolled through a never-ending collection of club members engaged in all sorts of activities. It was a mindless blur as I scanned images of people sitting at the pottery wheels, stuffing themselves with food at picnics, or holding up their creations for the camera. Finally, I got to a section labeled “Officers.”
The photos were displayed in descending order, starting with the current year. I held on to the mouse and kept scrolling. Nine pictures later, I had the answer I was looking for. And possibly the murderess.
“It’s her! It’s her! Take a good look. I’ll get out of your way.”
I all but shoved Marshall into the chair. He put his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands, and rested his chin on his knuckles. “Which one of those ladies is she?”
“The one in the middle.” Her hair wasn’t quite as gray but, other than that, she looked the same. Stylish and clad in tasteful jewelry. “The names are listed below, but they’re too small to read. Wait a sec. Let me see if I can enlarge the picture by zooming.”
“Unbelievable. Mary Olsen, Treasurer,” Marshall said. “And now, Mary Olsen Melhorn. MOM!”
“What a clever scheme to hide those stolen diamonds in a piece of greenware. She knew it would be safe in the back of that closet. It was the one place where things were left alone. Until my mother and Lucinda decided to do some extra cleaning out.”
“She certainly threw everyone off the scent by fabricating that story about Quentin’s niece. Still, we have no idea what Mary’s involvement was with that heist or with his murder. But I do know something that can get us closer. Hold on.”
He took out his cell phone and tapped it a few times. I didn’t hear what he said, or whom he called, because, at that precise second, my mother shouted, “We’re cutting the cheesecake. Streetman is getting antsy. The computer can wait.”
I motioned for Marshall to stay put and continue with his call.
“I’m right here, Mom. Marshall will be out in a second. Give the dog a biscuit or something.”
When I walked into the kitchen, mos
t of the ladies had already helped themselves to a slice of cake and Streetman was eating his portion as well. I shuddered and got plates for Marshall and me.
“What’s going on?” Myrna asked. “One minute we’re talking about Mary Olsen’s jewelry and the next minute you’re out of the room.”
“Um, er, uh, it made me think of something about the investigation, and I had to get on Mom’s computer.”
“Well, forget the investigation and enjoy the cheesecake. The giant sampler was a great idea. My favorite is the caramel swirl.”
Just then Marshall walked back into the kitchen and I handed him a plate. “How did it go?”
“It went. I’ll tell you about it in the car. I also gave Nate a buzz.”
We sat back down at the patio table and finished our desserts.
“Now we’re going to get to the interesting part of the evening,” Louise said. “We need to set up the reading list for next year. Your aunt couldn’t make it, but she e-mailed everyone her suggestions.”
“That’s our cue to get out of here,” I whispered to Marshall.
We thanked my mother for inviting us, promised to call her if we got any new information about the murders, and said our good-byes.
“Have fun selecting books,” I said as I closed the front door. “Especially Aunt Ina’s.” Halfway down the walkway, I grabbed Marshall’s wrist. “Tell me. Did you call the sheriff’s department about Mary?”
“No. I called Rolo instead. Hacking into government sites is one of his favorite pastimes. He couldn’t wait to check out passport information.”
“You mean?”
“Yeah. Given the information your uncle Louis had about Quentin’s transatlantic voyage, we don’t need Quentin’s passport dates. We know when he left Belgium. What I need Rolo to find is passport information for one Mary Olsen Melhorn. Date of entry and exit. And any Klingons. We need to know who was with her.”
“How fast can he work?”
“Depends. I’ve known Rolo to go forty-eight hours straight on something. Especially if he’s wired up on a new diet craze.”
