Botched 4 Murder Page 2

  “Okay, Mom. Okay. You win. I’ll sit in on the meeting. But I’m not going to ask Marshall to join me, understood? I’m sure he’d rather spend the evening watching the sports channel or something.”

  “Good. Good,” Herb said. “Now that we’ve got that settled, we need to get every homeowner we know to that meeting, especially the ones who live on or near a golf course. I’ve still got everyone’s email from our neighborhood block party last summer. I’ll shoot out an email as soon as I get home.”

  Louise scraped some of the butter from her bagel. “Wanda and Dolores are catty-corner from the golf course. They’ll want to come. Last year someone cut through their yard from the golf course, messing up their new landscaping. Now, with this idiotic eco-friendly park idea, we’ll have all sorts of ne’er-do-wells traipsing all over the place.”

  Shirley offered to call everyone she knew from the sewing club. Cecilia was going to send an email to the ladies social committee from her church, and Lucinda agreed to email her bridge club.

  “I’ll call the rest of the Booked 4 Murder ladies who couldn’t be here today,” my mother said. “Riva had to get her hair done, Marianne’s still getting over a cold, Constance has out-of-town company, and my sister Ina is on some retreat with her husband. What about you men? You need to get off your duffs and make some noise, too.”

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll call the canine companions club,” Bill said. “And the men’s card club, too.”

  Kenny agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to let his neighbors and friends know as well. “Good thing the meeting’s taking place in the social hall. We know that room can hold a crowd.”

  Nightmarish thoughts of the last time I was in the social hall came back to me in a flash. It was the summer my mother and the book club ladies were convinced a book curse was killing off their members. I tried not to shudder as I took another bite of my bagel.

  Herb leaned across the table, moving his head from left to right. “So, are we all set with this?”

  A cacophony of noises ensued as everyone responded at once. Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough I’d agreed to attend the meeting, Herb gave me a wink. “Maybe Phee would like to speak at the meeting. She did a good job last time.”

  If I hadn’t already swallowed the piece of my bagel, I would have choked on it. “No! I’m not speaking. The last time was different. It was that ridiculous book curse thing. This time I’m going as a spectator only. A spectator.”

  I reached for my coffee and tried to ignore the two words my mother whispered to me, “For now.”

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t mind going with you,” Marshall said when I told him about the plan Herb had hatched for the book club ladies and the pinochle crew, and all the rest of the club members to attend the rec center board meeting. “I’ve got a good sense of humor, and this might turn out to be more entertaining than anything on TV.”

  Unlike yesterday’s meal, we were having a quiet Sunday lunch at the Lakeside Grill near Lake Pleasant prior to spending an afternoon hiking the trails that overlooked the lake. It was the perfect time of year in Arizona, and we were taking full advantage of it.

  “Um, are you really sure? Those meetings can get downright explosive. I know. I’ve been to one of them.”

  “Can’t be any worse than my uncles arguing over poker and my aunts screaming at each other in the kitchen because none of them can agree on the sauce.” He smiled as he threw an arm around me and pulled me close.

  I gave his hand a squeeze. “All right. You’re on. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  We tried not to talk about Sun City West during our hike, but the subject kept coming up, like an indigestible piece of food that never should’ve been consumed in the first place.

  “I never realized senior communities would have so many issues.” Marshall kicked a rock off our path. “Up until now, the only thing I knew about them came from advertisements. All those photos of people swimming, playing tennis, and eating. I knew it was too good to be true. Except for the clear blue skies. At least they got that right.”

  “If they printed the real photos, no one would move here. People sweltering in the heat, people arguing at bridge games, people honking their horns because the driver in front of them is going three miles an hour. Still, it beats snow, ice, and freezing rain. And oddly enough, my mother loves living here. I never thought she and my father, rest his soul, would budge from Mankato, but they made the right move.”

  “Yeah, and now that little piece of Nirvana is faced with a major change. No one likes change, even though political campaigns are always built around that theme.”

  “My mother and the book club ladies are really getting antsy about it, but Herb Garrett and his buddies are going to attack that plan like storm troopers. Brace yourself for tomorrow night. That’s all I have to say.”

  * * *

  Nate Williams, my boss and the owner of Williams Investigations, couldn’t keep a straight face the next day when Marshall and I told him about the meeting we were about to attend. Augusta Hatch, the office secretary, tried to keep from laughing, but only wound up making weird snickering noises.

  “Sounds like a humdinger to me,” she said. “I’d be mighty put off if I spent an arm and a leg on a house for its golf course view and wound up on the other side of a neighborhood park.”

  “I guess I’d feel the same way, Augusta, but lots of these golf course communities are losing income because the younger generations aren’t all that interested in golf. I know I’m not. Anyway, the loss of income means either repurposing the golf courses or raising fees. It’s not a terrific scenario. My mother told me that last year the rec center sent scouts to golf communities back east and up north, hoping to lure home buyers into the Sun City West community.”

  “How’d that go?” she asked.

  “Obviously, not too great, or the rec center board wouldn’t be talking about eco-friendly parks. Then again, it could just be the opinion of their latest board member. Someone named Sorrel Harlan.”

  “Sorrel? Who would name a kid Sorrel?” Nate blurted out.

  Marshall and I shrugged simultaneously, but Augusta broke out laughing.

  “Maybe it was a character in some book the parents read. I have a niece named Bella after that Twilight series. If she turns out to be a vampire, I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, my accounts aren’t going to balance themselves, so I’m back to my desk,” I said.

  Nate nodded and gave Marshall a jab in the elbow. “Hey, buddy, we’ve got a client meeting in a few minutes so we’d better get going.”

  The office cleared out in record time, and the day flew by. Marshall and I had agreed that he would stop by my place in Vistancia and drive us to the meeting. Afterward, we’d grab a bite to eat at a pizza place we discovered a few months back. It was a perfect plan.

  At least it started out that way. But I knew something was wrong as soon as we arrived in Sun City West. Traffic was backed up along the main road and moving slower than the line at the post office during the holidays.

  Marshall tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. “Do you think there’s been an accident?”

  “Nope. I don’t hear sirens, and no one’s getting out of their cars to look around. I think these people are all going to that meeting.”

  “Seriously? The meeting will be over by the time we get there.”

  “We won’t be so lucky. Trust me. They’ll start a bit later to accommodate the crowd.”

  As we got closer to the parking lot, I saw a considerable number of posse volunteers at the entrances. “I don’t think Woodstock had as many attendees.”

  “At least they had great music and drugs. Of course, this crowd probably has drugs, too, but mostly over-the-counter ones for headache, indigestion, insomnia, and incontinence. Oh my God! Would you look at the parking lot? We’ll need to park in the next county. Maybe I should drop you off in front and meet you inside.”

  I reached over and patt
ed his shoulder. “No, drive around to the dog park. There’s usually plenty of parking there, and we can cut through the back between the miniature golf and the pool.”

  “Got it.”

  I saw a sheriff ’s deputy car parked by the main entrance to the social hall as Marshall continued around the complex. “I think they’re banking on this being an onerous meeting. My guess is at least two deputies are inside.”

  “Relax, Phee. It’s a rec center meeting, not a demonstration.”

  “Give it time.”

  Luckily, we nabbed a parking spot by the dog park gate as the driver of a white van with bumper stickers that read I ♥ MY DACHSHUND and DOG MOMMY pulled out. In the back of my mind, I knew it was only a matter of time before my mother plastered her car with cutesy little dog-lover bumper stickers as well.

  Marshall and I walked as quickly as we could and got to the meeting just as it was starting. A large computer screen in the front of the room read SUN CITY WEST R ECREATION CENTER, FEBRUARY MEETING AGENDA. The room had probably reached capacity, but no one was counting. In addition to the regular table seating that I imagine was always set up, additional plastic chairs had been placed behind the last section of tables.

  My mother and the book club ladies, this time eight of them, were seated at a table off to the right near the restrooms. I noticed Myrna right away, mainly because of her height. And that beehive hairdo must’ve added a few inches. She gave us a wave and nudged my mother, who stood and motioned for us to join them. Seated directly behind them were Herb and his crew.

  “You didn’t miss anything,” my mother said. “So far all they’ve done is talk to each other.”

  No sooner did she finish talking when a tall gentleman with thinning hair took the microphone and introduced himself and the nine-member board—five women, four men.

  “That’s Harold Stevens, the president,” my mother whispered.

  “I know. He just said so. Which one is Sorrel? The president read off the names. I don’t know who’s who.”

  “Shh. No one does.”

  What followed was the most boring, mind-numbing experience I could ever imagine. The secretary’s report. The treasurer’s report. The committee reports. Each one longer than the one before. I thought the process would be over after the last committee report, but I was mistaken. Apparently, representatives from the companies responsible for golf maintenance and food services had to give their reports as well.

  “And I thought sitting through Out of Africa was bad.” Marshall grabbed my wrist.

  Finally, the board began with the “old business” part of the meeting. Since Sorrel’s plan for eco-friendly parks was the only old business on the agenda, we figured things would move along. They didn’t. Sorrel was asked to give a brief explanation and recapitulation of the proposal. Unfortunately, the word brief wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  Sorrel Harlan got up from her seat at the end of the table and moved to the podium on stage left, directly across from us. She appeared to be in her seventies and had an oval face with wavy gray hair that covered her forehead and ears. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She was wearing a nondescript gray suit that looked as if it was from another decade. It probably was.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “We appreciate your interest in our vital and vibrant community.”

  Those were the only words I remembered before she babbled on and on about the founding of Sun City West and the great promise it held for retirees who sought a better way of life. Marshall’s eyes glazed over. Behind me, I could hear Bill Sanders’s voice. I hadn’t noticed him when we walked in, but I sure recognized that sound.

  “When the hell is that biddy going to get to the point?”

  I don’t know if she heard him as well, but she finally addressed her vision for replacing two golf courses. It was everything that was mentioned in the article and more. Nighttime concerts, star gazing with telescopes, and Fourth of July fireworks. She was prepared for a totally new venue to replace the golf courses. What she wasn’t prepared for was the response from the audience.

  Everyone started shouting at once, and the board president had to step in and demand that people restrain themselves.

  “The board will allow for questions and comments from the audience. All comments should be limited to two minutes or less,” Harold said.

  “I’ve got a comment,” a huge man in an equally loud Hawaiian shirt shouted. “If Sorrel Harlan plans on turning the golf courses into community parks, it’ll be over my dead body! No, make that hers!”

  The board president immediately responded. “We will not tolerate threats, personal insults, or rude comments. All comments must be limited to the proposal.”

  “Well, here’s a proposal comment for you,” another man shouted. “You can take that golf course proposal and run it up the community flagpole, if you catch my drift.”

  The next three comments dealt with the loss of property values as the speakers explained they’d had to pay at least forty percent more for purchasing golf course homes, as opposed to similar homes off the golf courses.

  “Bunch of whiners,” someone yelled, but Marshall and I had no idea who it was.

  Apparently, that response hit a nerve with Herb, and he all but had a coronary as he made his way to the front of the room.

  “Looks like Herb might have lost some weight,” Louise said as Herb headed down the aisle.

  “He’s just holding his gut in,” Shirley said. “He’ll have to let it out to breathe.”

  The static from the microphone ended any extraneous conversations.

  Herb pulled his shoulders back as if he planned to march into war. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Herb Garrett, and I happen to own a golf course home. Not only is it my place of residence, but it’s my investment as well. That’s right—investment. I poured a great deal of money into that property, and I don’t want to see it get washed down the drain. And believe me, that’s exactly what will happen if we allow any of our golf courses to become recreational parks. Good grief! We already have four rec centers with all sorts of activities. And frankly, this is a senior citizen’s community, not a children’s playground. Since when do we need ‘tot lots’? Use your own backyard. Not mine. And as far as nighttime activities go, let me repeat myself. This is a senior citizen’s community. Most of us are asleep before ten. And all I want to hear outside my window are owls and coyotes, not a bunch of late-night partiers whooping it up. And one more thing. If Ms. Harlan knows what’s good for her, she’ll find an eco-friendly park in another neighborhood and leave the rest of us the hell alone.”

  A thunderous applause followed Herb’s comments. He strolled back to his seat, standing perfectly tall, with his gut pulled in.

  Sorrel Harlan took the microphone and cleared her throat. It sounded like little chirps. “If we do not convert some of our golf courses, I’m afraid they will turn into weed palaces. Overgrown and unsightly.”

  Myrna, who had been fairly quiet, got out of her seat and headed to the front of the room.

  “Psst!” Bill poked my mother in the shoulder. “See how Myrna’s thundering down there? Imagine her on a bocce court.”

  “Shh! Enough with bocce.”

  Sorrel stepped aside as Myrna took the microphone.

  “I agree with Herb Garrett. Besides, we have other choices. We can open up our golf courses to other communities, we can host special golfing events, and we can create a competitive fee schedule.”

  Sorrel jumped back in. “Weed wastelands. That’s what we’ll have in a few years. My solution is the best one for the community, and I refuse to back down. I’ll do everything in my power to see to it the board votes to approve my proposal.”

  Expletives and shouts from the audience filled the room. Some people stood up, screaming, “No way!” while others simply booed.

  Finally, the board president spoke. “I need your attention. Your attention please! Now then, we thank you for your in
put. The board will consider the proposal on the table and vote on it next month. In the meantime, we must move on to the next item on our agenda—selecting a paint color for the exterior of Palm Ridge Recreation Center. We have four choices: desert beige, whispering beige, beige mist, and stone beige.”

  No sooner did he utter the last choice, when everyone seemed to stand up and head out of the room. My mother’s friends were no exception.

  “No sense hanging around here,” Cecilia said. “Why don’t we go over to the Homey Hut for some coffee and pie?”

  Bill gave her a sideways glance. “You ladies can feel free to do that, but I’m on my way to Curley’s for a brew. Just one round because we have bocce practice first thing tomorrow morning. So, who’s in?”

  It was a no-brainer. The men were off to Curley’s, and the women were one step closer to apple crisp and French silk pies.

  “Would you and Marshall like to join us?” my mother asked.

  “Um, well—”

  “Actually,” Marshall cut in, “Phee and I made plans to grab a pizza in Surprise. Maybe another time.”

  It was elbow to elbow as we made our way out of the meeting. The board president had to wait until most of the contingency left the room before he could continue with the paint color selections. People were still grumbling and moaning, many of them quite vocal.

  “She doesn’t want us to see a weed wasteland. Well, I’ll tell you what I’d like to see—Sorrel Harlan face down in one of those weedy swamps by the edge of the golf courses! Nighttime star gazing? Mini boat ponds? Fourth of July fireworks? She’s a lunatic!”

  It was a man’s voice, and he was louder than the Hawaiian shirt guy who’d bellowed his disapproval as soon as the meeting started. I looked around to see who’d spoken, but it was impossible to tell.

  Sorrel Harlan might have intended to have glorious fireworks displays, but as we left the social hall, the only fireworks that night were coming from the people in attendance as they made their way to the exits.