Railroaded 4 Murder Read online

  “But how did he wind up with copies of those reprimand letters? Did Francine say?”

  “Wilbur was in management and was cc’d on those letters. But why he kept them for years is beyond me. I still need to slog through them. Hopefully I can locate Thomas Tartantian. If anyone had a motive, he did. Wilbur cost him his job and possibly ruined his career.”

  * * *

  A few days went by with Nate and Marshall juggling their cases and tracking down leads. Meanwhile, I couldn’t seem to track down anything until it was too late. I was convinced the pixie-hairdo woman was Tracee Pearl, but when Nate told me she wore her brown hair in a bun and had readers around her neck on a chain, I knew I had been mistaken. As it turned out, Tracee also had a bona fide alibi for the morning of Wilbur’s murder. Nate was able to ascertain she was at Talking Stick Resort in Scottsdale for a concert and stayed overnight. So much for my revenge theory.

  As far as the pixie-cut woman went, Cecilia hadn’t heard from her. Or Candace Kane, for that matter. According to my mother, Cecilia stashed the gold charm in her fire safe, along with some rosary beads, and decided to wait it out.

  “Right now Cecilia has enough on her plate with that tap show,” my mother told me when we last spoke. “The Spring Fling Thing is coming up fast and she’s practically a nervous wreck. You do plan on attending, don’t you? I’ll get tickets for you and Marshall. What performance do you want? They have Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday matinee.”

  I told her I’d let her know and secretly prayed for an earthquake.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Spring Fling Thing came up faster than indigestion after a heavy meal, and Marshall and I found ourselves on the way to the opening night performance. A week and a half had gone by with no progress whatsoever on the Wilbur Maines case. Well, no progress as far as our office was concerned. It was an entirely different matter for Deputies Bowman and Ranston. A trial date had been set for Roxanne, and that meant their end of the investigation was completed. To say I was frustrated would be an understatement. I was stymied, baffled, and confounded.

  “We need to take a step away from this case,” Marshall said.

  I grabbed my purse and tossed a lightweight sweater over my shoulder. “You’re not going to drop it, are you?”

  “Actually, it has been dropped as far as the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office is concerned, but we live in the same state as your mother, so dropping that investigation would be paramount to putting our heads on a chopping block. No, all I need—we need—is to take a breather and let it marinate.”

  “Marinate? We’re not broiling a steak.”

  “Sometimes when we get too mired under with a case, we tend to overlook the little things that can make a difference. Stepping away for a few days gives us breathing room. No different from taking a break from cleaning or any other chores. Meanwhile, our minds are still at work, and somehow the subconscious thoughts surface and surprise us.”

  “You’ve been hanging around Rolo Barnes too long.”

  Rolo was the cybersleuth our office used whenever we were stuck with encryptions or needed someone to hack into offshore banking accounts in order to track down seasoned thieves or killers. Rolo used to work for the Mankato Police Department and drove me crazy in the process. He had an aversion to certain numbers, so I had to be careful when issuing him a check. When he went into business for himself, he preferred to be paid with kitchen gadgetry in order to keep up with the latest fad diet. If it wasn’t for Rolo’s purchases, IKEA would have gone out of business long ago.

  Marshall laughed. “Where do you think I came up with it? Only Rolo uses food terminology to describe an investigative process.”

  “My mother and the book club ladies purchased tickets in the front two rows,” I said as he started the car. “I’ll insist we sit on the end in case you need to make a quick escape.”

  “Nice thought, hon, but I think we’ll be stuck for the entire performance. None of our cases are about to call me away. Lucky Nate; he’s in Sierra Vista for a few days checking on his aunt. And the worst thing about it is, he has to drive with Mr. Fluffypants in the car so she can visit with him.”

  “Argh. That parrot drives Nate nuts. At least Streetman can’t talk.”

  When we pulled into the parking lot it was packed. Marshall had to circle around the building until he nabbed a spot in the back, near the arts and crafts rooms. A few minutes later we got seated in the second row, with my mother right next to us. Aunt Ina and Uncle Louis were in the front row and, thankfully, she wasn’t wearing any of those outrageous hats she owned. Instead, she’d braided her hair with red and mauve ribbons that formed weird-looking tassels at the end.

  Shirley and Lucinda were backstage because they had signed up to do costumes as part of Operation Agatha. Louise was in the front row with two of Herb’s cronies. Myrna was in our row, and next to her were Herb and the rest of his crew.

  “Don’t you men make any wisecracks about the ladies’ legs, or any of their body parts for that matter,” Myrna said to Herb.

  “And take the fun out of all this?” he replied.

  “I mean it,” she said. “This isn’t a burlesque show.”

  Just then, something bumped against my leg. I looked down and saw a huge Vera Bradley tote bag that appeared to be swaying. “I can’t believe it,” I whispered to my mother. “You’ve got Streetman in there, don’t you?”

  “Shh! It’ll be fine. I’ll put the bag on my lap once they turn out the lights. I didn’t want to leave him alone at night.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I read an article about nocturnal anxieties for dogs.”

  I shuddered. “Speaking of anxieties, how’s Cecilia holding up?”

  My mother bent down and repositioned the bag. “What can I tell you? She’s a nervous wreck. I’m afraid the slightest little thing might set her off.”

  “Does she know the dance numbers?”

  “Of course. If she were to give a performance in the privacy of her house, it would be spectacular. It’s the audience that’s an issue. Anyway, I think she’ll manage.”

  “Too bad she wasn’t able to hone in on more scuttlebutt regarding any of the dancers who might have had a motive for killing Wilbur. Of course she did find that gold charm, but we already knew about Candace and we have no idea who the woman with the pixie hairdo is.”

  Louise turned around and put a finger to her lips. “They’re blinking the lights. Show’s about to start.”

  The opening number was dazzling. A full cast ensemble with everyone decked out in Arabian costumes and the backdrop that featured minarets and lush gardens. I spotted Cecilia with a group of dancers off to the left, and their timing was impeccable.

  Maybe she’ll pull this off after all.

  The next scene was a marketplace whose dancing vendors and castle guards moved around the stalls with style and precision. I knew Cecilia had a few solos, but I had no idea when. The show continued with Aladdin—played by a fifth grader, according to my mother—making his grand entrance.

  By the fourth number I began to relax. The Vera Bradley tote was no longer at my feet, and I figured the dog would be safely contained on my mother’s lap. Marshall glanced at his phone for a second, then put it back in his pocket. “Just checking the minicam at the Railroad Club,” he said under his breath. “All’s well.”

  Cecilia was in the next number, along with five other tap dancers. She was part of a harem and the only one wearing a bodysuit with a painted belly button. The other women had no problems showing off their midriffs.

  Then the women tapped their way offstage and Cecilia moved to the center. The lighting changed from gold and red hues to soft blue and the tempo of the music picked up. It was syncopated and sharp. And the tune was somewhat familiar.

  My mother jabbed my elbow and whispered, “It’s a pizzicato dance,” and that was when all hell broke loose.

  Marshall’s cell phone alert vibrated and he immediately c
hecked the screen. “Gotta check this out. Someone’s near that blasted showcase and it’s not the painters. I should know. I’ve watched them in action a few times as a result of alerts. Evelyn was right. They take their time. Gotta run.” He was out of his seat and up the aisle before I could blink. No sooner had that happened when Streetman waggled his way out of the tote and made a beeline for the stage.

  “The pizzicato music!” My mother gasped. “Streetman dances to an old tape I have that’s called Pizzicato Moonbeams. Do something, Phee. You’re close enough to grab him.”

  “Not anymore. Look! He’s on the stage already. That little stinker just raced up the side stairs and he’s right behind Cecilia. She has no idea he’s there.”

  Wails of laughter filled the audience, and poor Cecilia looked at her belly button before continuing her dance. Then the dog began to dance. He stood on his hind legs and circled around, first to the left of Cecilia and then to the right. The poor woman was totally oblivious to the fact Streetman had upstaged her.

  The music got faster, but that didn’t deter either of them. Cecilia kept dancing and Streetman kept twirling.

  “For God’s sake, Phee,” my mother said, “I can’t run in heels. Get up there and grab the dog. Hurry before he ruins the performance.”

  “He’s already ruined the performance. The audience thinks it’s a comedy.”

  “Way to go, Harriet!” Herb announced. “Now all of us will be subjected to endless letters from the Rec Center about pets in public buildings.”

  “Hells bells,” Myrna exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  I took a breath and dashed down the center aisle and up the stairs to the stage, but instead of walking on, I backed up into the side curtains and tried to call the dog over. I was positive he heard me, because at one point he turned and looked in my direction, but that was about it. Streetman continued with his little doggy dance, and Cecilia continued with her solo. Had it been a circus performance, I would have given it an A-plus.

  One of the male tap dancers, dressed as a sultan, whispered in my ear, “Maybe we can dance him off the stage when this number is over. I’ll get the kid who’s playing Aladdin to give me a hand. Does the dog like children?”

  “I don’t know what he likes.” But I’ve got a long list of what he doesn’t. “He’s my mother’s dog.”

  “Okay, no problem. The music’s ending and the dancer is exiting stage left. Wow. Catch that applause. Can you believe it? The dog’s still dancing.”

  Then I heard the man call out, “Run the tape of ‘Somebody’s Got Your Back.’ ”

  A minute or so later the recording came on and the Aladdin kid and the sultan tapped their way onto the stage, each one on either side of the dog. Slowly, they tried to coax the dog offstage, but Streetman wasn’t having any part of it.

  “Don’t try to pick him up!” I shouted. “He snaps!”

  Then the unexpected happened. Streetman noticed the oversize shoes the sultan was wearing. Long, pointy things that bowed upward and covered the man’s taps. The dog stopped twirling around and sank his teeth into the tip of one of the shoes and refused to let go. He tugged, pulled, and chomped on the fabric, all to the tune of “Somebody’s Got Your Back.”

  The old adage “no good deed goes unpunished” immediately sprang to mind as the dancer tried to shake Streetman off his foot. The audience was beside itself. Gales of laughter everywhere.

  The kid who was playing Aladdin announced, “I’m outta here!” and exited stage left, leaving the sultan to contend with my mother’s neurotic Chiweenie.

  Then, in a flash of genius, I thought of something. No dog was more food-oriented than Streetman. The only problem was, there was no food to bribe him with. Then I remembered the greenroom from the last time I was backstage. That was the place where all the actors hung out when they weren’t onstage or in the dressing rooms.

  Without wasting a second, I edged my way past emirs, sultans, harem dancers, and genies. Out the rear door on my right and across the corridor to the greenroom.

  “Food emergency!” I announced the second I opened the door. “Is there any cheese?”

  “I’m not sure that’s what you give someone for low sugar,” a lady replied.

  “It’s a dog. We can’t get him off the stage.”

  The dancer sitting next to her opened the small refrigerator door. “Cheddar, Muenster, or Swiss?”

  “Everything!!!”

  With my hands full of cheese, I retraced my steps until I was once again stage right, a few yards from the dog. “Yummies!” I shouted. “Cheesy yums-yums for Streetman!”

  The dog all but knocked me over in an attempt to sink his teeth into the cheese.

  “Close the curtain,” someone shouted. It was followed by “Play the interlude again!”

  The sultan looked shell-shocked as he exited the stage, but not half as stricken as Cecilia.

  “How long was the dog on the stage?” she asked after I had scooped Streetman into my arms.

  “Oh, not that long really. By the way, you were wonderful.”

  “Really? The whole time I thought people were laughing at my costume. I didn’t know Streetman was on the stage until my number was over. Maybe he’d like to dance the other three and I can sneak out of here.”

  “Back in five!” It was the stage manager, according to Cecilia. “We’re on again. Whatever you do, don’t let go of that dog.”

  Instead of walking back down the stage stairs and into the audience, I took the long way around until I reached the lobby. Marshall was leaning against a wall, his eyes fixed on the screen on his phone. I cleared my throat and he looked up.

  “Don’t tell me you had to take the dog out for your mother?”

  I widened my eyes. “You didn’t see what happened?”

  “Sorry, hon, I’ve been glued to this screen ever since that alert came on from the minicam in the model railroad room.”

  “Pilfering?”

  “Nope. Polishing.”

  “Huh?”

  “On a Friday night, no less. Talk about not having a life. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Grace Svoboda, and she’s polishing that Golden Spike with a cloth. Here, see for yourself.”

  I grasped the dog with one hand and took the phone with the other. “Yep, she’s cleaning all right.”

  Marshall took back the phone and gave Streetman a pat on the head. “I’ll stay here and catch the rest of this. It shouldn’t be too much longer. I mean, there’s not much stuff in that showcase.”

  “Okay, see you back inside. And if my mother asks, tell her Streetman outdid himself.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Thankfully the lights were out when I returned to my seat. My mother wasted no time plopping Streetman back in the tote and securing the clasps so he couldn’t escape again. Then she proceeded to kiss him on the head. All the while, the Rhythm Tappers continued with their show.

  Herb leaned forward and chuckled. “Hey, Phee, got any cheesy yum-yums for the rest of us?”

  “Shh!” Myrna said. “It’s enough she has to contend with that dog.”

  “I heard that,” my mother replied.

  A few minutes later Marshall sat and gave my hand a squeeze. Then he leaned into my ear. “I think the Golden Spike is safe for now, but that Grace Svoboda must have a screw loose. Remind me to tell you about it during intermission.”

  When the first act ended it was practically bedlam in the theater.

  “Regular rush for the restrooms,” Herb announced. “That’s why I curtail my liquid intake when I go out.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Myrna replied. “Meanwhile, step aside. The line probably stretches to Idaho already.”

  My mother clasped the tote bag close to her chest. “I don’t dare make another move with Streetman tucked in here or he might get out. Goodness knows what he’ll think of next. He’s become quite the entertainer.”

  Entertainer? Try nuisance, ankle-biter, snapping turtle. . .
/>   Then she proceeded to tell anyone and everyone who was seated in her proximity all about the dog.

  “While she’s busy yammering,” I said to Marshall, “tell me what you observed at the Railroad Club room.”

  “It was strange to say the least, but then again, I’ve heard that as we age, our idiosyncrasies tend to grow. It appears as if Grace is compulsive about cleaning. I watched her dust and polish everything in the showcase. That wasn’t surprising. But when she repositioned the old newspaper clippings of club events, I was flabbergasted.”

  “Why? People reposition knickknacks all the time. Framed news articles wouldn’t be all that different.”

  Marshall groaned. “She used a ruler to measure the distance between the frames that housed the photos. Then she remeasured. All of this on a Friday night. Most people have some sort of social life. Bingo, cards, movies . . .”

  “At least you didn’t have to rush over there for a break-in.”

  Marshall glanced toward my mother, who was still extolling the virtues of Streetman to a captive audience. “It would’ve been preferable to this.”

  I kicked his ankle. Seconds later the house lights blinked and the curtain rose. Cecilia had three solo numbers in this act, and they remained solo numbers. Her dancing partner wasn’t about to escape from the Vera Bradley tote this time.

  As soon as the performance ended and the Rhythm Tappers took their bows, my mother announced, “I’d better skedaddle out of here before one of those nitpicking women complains to the theater management about the dog. Between you and me, some of those women have absolutely nothing to do but complain about every minuscule thing.”

  “The dog disrupted a performance,” I said. “That’s not minuscule.”

  Herb stood and laughed. “If you ask me, he improved it.”

  “Shh!” Louise leaned on an elbow and looked at us. “We need to tell Cecilia what a marvelous job she did. What do you say we all go backstage?”

  “Better yet,” my mother replied, “I’ll dig something out of the freezer and make coffee at my place for all of us. One of you just has to let Cecilia know. And don’t forget Shirley and Lucinda.”