Railroaded 4 Murder Page 18

  “Remind me to stay on the good side of the law. Even when it comes to jaywalking. Seriously, Nate, I think I may be on to something and I’m going to be late getting back to the office.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Roxanne said she donated those tap shoes to the Resale Shop in Sun City West last October or November. She remembered the volunteers who worked there that day and told us they were Choo-Choo Chicks but didn’t know their names. Anyway, what if one of them was having an affair with Wilbur and he dumped her after leading her on to believe he was going to leave his wife for her? That would give the woman a motive for murder, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s one of the theories we’ve been playing around with, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay, here’s more. With Roxanne’s tap shoes in her possession, not only would she have a motive, but a means as well. All she had to do was wait for the right opportunity or, in this case, create the opportunity.”

  “Why wait four or five months?”

  “So as not to cast suspicion on herself if she was recently dumped. And here’s the really diabolical part of the equation—set up Roxanne to take the fall.”

  “I see. But why are you calling me? Couldn’t this wait until you got back to the office?”

  “I want to make a stop at the Resale Shop to find out who their volunteers are and if they’re the same ones who were working there in the fall. That’ll be the easy part.”

  “And the hard part?”

  “Finding out how the tap shoe got back inside Roxanne’s house.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The Resale Shop in Sun City West was a nonprofit enterprise created to support community families in need. It sold furniture, clothing, jewelry, and household goods. Housed in the same plaza as the posse station, it shared the same beige color and design. I figured the developer must have gotten a deal on paint.

  A few cars were parked out front when I pulled up. Other than a really nebulous plan to get the information I needed, I walked inside totally unprepared to start the conversation. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. A buxom brunette with dark leggings and a long, color-block tunic waved from across the room. It was only when she got closer that I realized she had to be in her seventies and not seventeen.

  “Welcome! Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked.

  “Tap shoes.” The words flew out of me like a belch.

  “Hmm, we haven’t had a pair of tap shoes in here for months. Maybe you’d have better luck at Goodwill.”

  “Um, I’m not in a big hurry. I just thought if you had a pair that was my size, I would buy them. I like to support this community. My mother lives here.” Oh why, why did I say that? Now she’ll ask me for my mother’s name. Unless she’s been living under a rock, she’s bound to know who Harriet Plunkett is.

  “Would you care to leave your name? If we do get a pair, we can call you.”

  “Uh, sure. That would be nice of you. Does a particular volunteer handle the shoes and clothing?”

  The woman shook her head. “We all do a little bit of everything. But come to think of it, Tracee Pearl usually works with the clothing. I much prefer the household goods and jewelry. And everyone wants to handle the furniture. Ever since HGTV came on the air, we all like to think of ourselves as interior designers.”

  “Tracee Pearl, huh?” I have to be subtle. “Gee, come to think of it, I believe I’ve heard that name before. Something about the Model Railroad Club.”

  “Oh goodness. Tracee talks about that club all the time. You would think they invented the locomotive.”

  “Does her husband belong to the club?”

  “Tracee’s single, although she was dating someone last year who was in the club.”

  “Was dating?”

  “It was one of those short-lived things. Not uncommon in these communities. Face it, men at a certain age are only after two things: a nurse or a purse.”

  Yeesh. “I’ve never heard it put quite like that. Guess Tracee was smart to walk away.”

  “I’m not sure if she walked or he walked, but someone did. Anyway, she seems much happier now than she did last fall. Next time you stop by, if she’s working, I’ll introduce you. She’s a lovely lady. Even if all she does is yammer on and on about the Model Railroad Club now that she’s an official member and not a visitor.”

  Yep. One step ahead of you there.

  Just then, two ladies walked into the shop, followed by three or four more.

  “We’ve only got fifteen minutes before our Jazzercise class starts across the street,” one of them announced. “Where are the towels?”

  “So sorry,” the brunette said, “looks like I’m needed. Nice chatting with you. Leave your name and number on the counter and we’ll call if we get tap shoes.”

  I was tempted to leave a business card but thought otherwise. I found a small piece of scrap paper in my bag and gave her my cell number. Next to it, I wrote “Sophie” and bolted out the door.

  “I may be on to something!” I announced as soon as I got back to the office.

  Augusta looked up from her computer and Nate, who had just pulled a drawer open in the file cabinet, turned his head.

  The enthusiasm I felt was hard to contain. “Tracee Pearl! She’s the lady you interviewed, Nate. The one who said she’d take any action that came her way. That Tracee Pearl. I’m positive it’s the same woman.”

  Nate closed the file cabinet drawer and stepped toward me. “You spoke with Tracee? She works at the Resale Shop?”

  “No and yes. I spoke with a buxom brunette who told me Tracee volunteers there and pretty much handles the shoes. The woman told me Tracee was working in the fall, when Roxanne dropped off those tap shoes. Maybe Tracee took her relationship with Wilbur more seriously than she led on with you. Maybe she was the other woman. The one he was going to leave Roxanne for. And maybe those tap shoes never saw a sales shelf. Maybe Tracee snuck them out of there intending to kill Wilbur and frame Roxanne.”

  “Lot of maybes, if you ask me,” Augusta said.

  Nate crinkled his nose and grimaced. “It’s a theory all right. I’ll give you that much, but it’s a far cry from the solid evidence we’re going to need in order to prove Bowman and Ranston wrong. I will, however, dig into Tracee’s whereabouts the morning of the murder.”

  I turned to Augusta and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Still a lot of maybes,” she muttered.

  “Marshall in his office?” I asked.

  Nate went back to the file cabinet and opened the drawer again. “Nope. He’s in Laveen, south of Phoenix, and from there to Avondale. At least it’s a straight shot.”

  “New cases?”

  “New leads. He tracked down two names from those reprimand letters and set up meetings with those folks.”

  “Suspects,” I said. “They could be suspects.”

  “Right now, they’re ‘folks.’ Remember, those infractions they were cited for don’t merit a full-blown reaction like murder.”

  I brushed a strand of hair from my brow and took a breath. “Thomas Tartantian’s did. That was intellectual theft. Piracy.”

  “True enough, but that wasn’t one of the names.”

  “Then who? Who?”

  “You’re sounding like an owl, Phee.” Augusta looked up from her computer screen.

  Nate laughed. “Might as well give her the names, Augusta. You wrote them down. Otherwise she’ll be pestering us all afternoon.”

  Augusta tapped on her keyboard and moved the mouse. “Gerald Albus, continued tardiness, and Francine Elitsky, excessive absenteeism without a valid reason.”

  Nate pulled a file folder from the cabinet and closed the drawer. “We’re not holding out any great hope that those former employees from Sherrington are suspects, but they may have some insight as to who might have carried a long grudge.”

  It turned out Marshall had gotten a late start on those meetings and wouldn’t be back in time to see me before my seven o’cl
ock engagement at Bagels ’N More. I’d lost so much work time between speaking with Roxanne at the Fourth Avenue Jail and my impromptu stop at the Resale Shop, I decided to stay at the office and work until it was time to drive to Sun City West. I figured I could always grab a bite to eat at the restaurant. After all, that was what they were in business for, not rumormongering.

  At six thirty I locked up the place and drove straight to Bagels ’N More. Oddly, the traffic was light and I was the first person to arrive. Or so I thought. What appeared to be a dazzling burst of color in the back of the restaurant turned out to be my aunt Ina’s backside. She stood to reposition her blazing crimson ruana wrap on the chair, and at first I didn’t realize it was her.

  It was only when she turned and called out my name that I rushed over and took a seat next to her.

  “Guess we’re the first ones to arrive, huh?” I said.

  “Good thing, too. I got us this table in the back. Look around. The one to our left is reserved, and the last thing we need is to be in the center of the room should things go south.”

  “Go south?”

  “A debacle, a screaming match, hair pulling, insults. Do you want me to continue?”

  “Um, no. I get the idea. But don’t you think these women will be civilized?”

  My aunt grabbed me by the wrist and shook it. “Tsk-tsk. You haven’t been privy to the kinds of things I have. There’s nothing worse than two women fighting over the same man. And in this case, there will be three of them. Of course, the man in question is six feet under, but still, it becomes more a matter of possession than sentiment.”

  I reached for a water glass and took a sip. “How long have you been here? The waitress filled up all the water glasses.”

  My aunt took a sip of her water as well. “About twenty minutes. Like I said, I didn’t want us to wind up in the middle of the room. And I wanted a seat that would afford me full view of the restaurant.”

  Wow. Broadway dinner theater without the pricey tickets.

  At that moment my mother came through the doorway and made a beeline for our table. “Ina! You look like one of those Peruvian women in National Geographic. The only thing you’re missing is the llama. Why are you dressed like that?”

  It was true. My aunt had always been a bit extreme when it came to fashion. Oh, who was I kidding? She was the epitome of hyperbole. And those long braids of hers, which either hung down like a princess from one of those Wagnerian operas or wrapped around her head like a rope, didn’t help matters. Today’s ensemble consisted of a banded skirt and an elaborate peasant blouse. Thank goodness the ruana wrap was slung over the chair.

  “Nice to see you, too, Harriet,” my aunt replied. “I’m getting used to traditional Peruvian attire because Louis and I will be in Lima next month. He’s part of an international symposium on indigenous cultural music.”

  My mother took a seat and rolled her eyes. “Indigenous cultural music? He plays the saxophone, for crying out loud.”

  My aunt took another sip of water. “Louis is one of those Renaissance men, with many talents and a penchant for learning. He’s well-known in the music world. He has connections everywhere.”

  I imagined my uncle made those connections during his years playing the sax on cruise ships. He also made a boatload of money due to his extraordinary gambling skills.

  “No sense wasting time,” my mother said. “We’d better move those two tables for four next to us so we’ll be able to seat everyone. Give me a hand.”

  With that, my mother stood and gave the first table a shove so it butted up against ours on the right side. Then she did the same with the other one. “There. Now we’ve got room for everyone. Oh look! There’s Cecilia now. My God. It looks like she’s wearing a burial shroud.”

  “It’s not a burial shroud.” Good grief. How would I know what a burial shroud looks like? “It’s a cream-colored pashmina. Although I’ve never seen one draped quite like that.”

  “The black shirt and black hose don’t help the outfit,” my aunt muttered. “And why on earth is she wearing a yarmulke?”

  I had all I could do to keep my mouth shut for fear of bursting into hysterical laughter.

  “It’s not a yarmulke,” my mother whispered. “It’s some sort of hideous cloche with a fake velvet flower on it. Cecilia told me she was going to wear it so the women would be able to spot her in the restaurant.”

  “And you couldn’t talk her out of it?” my aunt asked.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me, but now wasn’t the time to discuss fashion.

  “Over here!” My mother waved and Cecilia quickly took a seat facing the entrance. Seconds later Myrna, Louise, and Lucinda walked in and sat down.

  “Where’s Shirley?” my mother asked.

  “Parking the car,” they answered in unison.

  Then Lucinda added, “She saw a good spot. Someone was leaving as she let us out.”

  I was smack-dab in the middle of what appeared to be Bagels ’N More’s version of the Last Supper. “Um, I hate to say this, but this looks like a tribunal. No one’s going to approach this table. Even if they came to claim the Hope Diamond.” Then I turned to Cecilia, who was seated at my left. “There’s a table for four off to the side. I think that’s where you should sit. Much less intimidating for those three women who’ll be making an appearance any time now.”

  “Phee’s right,” Myrna said. “Besides, we’re close enough to hear the conversation. Hurry up, Cecilia, plant yourself at that table before someone else does.”

  Cecilia stood and edged her way behind our table and over to the adjacent one.

  “Hurry,” Louise said. “And act nonchalant.”

  “I’m not sure how to handle this.” Cecilia pulled a chair from the table for four and took a seat. “I’ve never been very good at handling conflict.” She clasped her hands together and placed them on the table. “Maybe there won’t be any conflict. I’ll say a brief prayer for peace in our time.”

  “Forget the prayer. Forget the peace,” my mother said. “Look who’s coming our way. Of all people!”

  While my mother shushed Cecilia, my gaze locked with the one belonging to a short, gray-haired lady. She waved and gave me a smile. I wanted to smile back, but instead I froze. It was as if I couldn’t get any of the muscles on my face to move as Grace Svoboda headed toward us.

  CHAPTER 29

  My mother, who was seated on the other side of Aunt Ina, leaned over, grabbed my wrist, and shook it. “Do you see who that is? Do you see who that is? Heavens. Wilbur must have gone after anyone in a skirt.”

  “Shh, Mom. She’ll be over here any second.”

  A chorus of “Who, who, who is that?” followed, but before my mother or I could respond, Grace Svoboda cruised past our table, gave my mother and me a wave, and proceeded to a long, rectangular table on the opposite side of the room. That table had a large Reserved sign on it that read, “RESERVED SUN CITIES ECUMENICAL COUNCIL.”

  I looked at the ladies and shrugged. “That was Grace Svoboda. My mother and I met her at the G-scale meeting of the Model Railroad Club. Seems like a lovely woman. She and another woman, Evelyn Watross, make sure the club room is tidy and dusted. Someone has to vacuum the dust from those mini villages around the railroad tracks. Those two ladies monitor the volunteers, or something like that.”

  “I think that’s the general idea,” my mother said, “but forget about dusting the Railroad Club room, catch that snazzy-looking woman who just walked in. Looks like she might have had bunion surgery, with that large boot on her foot. Still, she might be one of them.”

  Cecilia, whose head was turned so she could face our table, spun around in time to find herself face-to-face with the waitress.

  “It’s been crazy tonight.” The thirty-something waitress handed Cecilia a menu and then took a step toward our table. “Be with you in a minute, ladies. I’ll make sure your water glasses stay filled. I know you’re all familiar with our usual fare. The daily specials are
on the large chalkboard in front.” Then she was back beside Cecilia. “Are you expecting more people in your party?”

  “At least one more,” came the voice that was the answer to my mother’s “catch that snazzy-looking woman.”

  “Fine,” the waitress said. “I’ll give you a second to read the menu.”

  The conversation at our table came to an abrupt halt as everyone turned their attention to Cecilia’s table.

  “Try not to look too obvious,” I whispered.

  Just then the waitress asked for our orders. Normally, it took my mother’s book club an inordinate amount of time to determine such things as ranch dressing vs. blue cheese or sourdough bread vs. white. This time the orders flew at the waitress in breakneck speed, and she scurried away before anyone had a chance to change their minds.

  “We need to make this quick,” the woman said to Cecilia. “I told my husband I was running in here for a dozen bagels. He’s waiting in the car.”

  Louise motioned for us to bend forward. Then she spoke in barely a whisper. “Does anyone know who that woman is? I don’t think she’s a Choo-Choo Chick. I would have noticed her at the Railroad Club meeting we went to. Phooey. We should have invited Herb. If anyone would know, he would.”

  “I think it’s Candace Kane,” I said. “I kind of caught a glimpse of her on a cell phone the other night. Long story.”

  Meanwhile, Cecilia and the woman I believed to be Candace appeared to be having a conversation that was inaudible to the rest of us.

  Aunt Ina nudged my mother. “Do something, Harriet. Get Cecilia to speak up.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Ina? Jab her with a pin?”

  “This is terrible,” Myrna said. “Cecilia’s back is to us. We can’t even prompt her if she gets all tongue-tied.”

  Without bothering to explain, I stood and walked over to Cecilia. “Excuse me. Would you mind terribly if you moved to the seat next to you? Our table is kind of cramped and we need more legroom. I’ll shove your chair closer to the table if you can change seats.”