Railroaded 4 Murder Page 5

  “Superglue?”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe Wilbur was using it for something in that circuit box, but there was no glue jar in sight, or on the body for that matter. The forensics team dusted everything for prints, but you know how that goes. Unless someone’s in the system or willing to offer up their prints, it won’t tell us a thing.”

  “Was Nate able to get any information from Roxanne?”

  “More like finger pointing. I met up with him for a quick cup of coffee at a Starbucks, and he relayed his conversation with the wife. Nothing she hadn’t already told him the day before.”

  “A possible affair?”

  “Yeah. And all the messiness that goes with it. Too bad she couldn’t offer up more than that. Then again, if she could, she wouldn’t have needed our services, I suppose.”

  “Bowman didn’t tell her about the evidence they found, did he?”

  “Not a word. Trust me, if any of that evidence links back to Roxanne, she’ll need a lawyer, not a detective.”

  And she’ll have to hide the other tap shoe if it was her. “If it does turn out to be murder, and you and Nate get called into the case, wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest?”

  “Roxanne hired our office to find out if her husband was cheating on her. The contract was nullified by both parties once Deputy Bowman informed her of her husband’s demise. That’s why Nate went over there in the first place. He’ll let Augusta know on Monday. Between you and me, he’s fairly certain this is a suspicious death and we’ll be working this case as well.”

  “What makes him so sure?”

  “Intuition, I suppose. That and another bit of evidence Bowman uncovered. Wilbur had two restraining orders issued for former members of the Model Railroad Club. Both were filed in the past month. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is. And before you ask, Roxanne didn’t know a thing about them.”

  “Guess we’ll have to sit tight till Monday and see what happens. Meanwhile, there’s a hot corned beef and cabbage meal waiting for us to devour it.”

  We let the subject of Wilbur drop as we chowed down on one of my favorite comfort foods. Unfortunately, that hot topic emerged with a new vengeance as soon as the evening news came on.

  “Do you want to get that phone call or should I?” Marshall asked. “It’s probably—”

  “I know. I’ll get it.”

  Expecting the call to be from my mother, I wasted no time getting right down to it. “Yes, yes, we caught the news, too. Wilbur Maines. Roxanne’s husband. Er . . . late husband.”

  “I don’t know any Roxannes. Or Wilburs. Is this about the corpse on the railroad tracks? I caught the last part of the news and missed the story. Is that what your mother’s message was about? Another dead body in Sun City West and not a novel I need to order online? She’s still not answering her phone, by the way.”

  “Aunt Ina?”

  “Of course Aunt Ina. Who did you think it was?”

  “Actually, I thought it was my mother. She must have gone out to dinner with one of her friends. It’s Saturday night. Cheeseburger night at Putters Paradise, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Well, as long as you seem to know what’s going on, you can tell me.”

  I turned to Marshall, rolled my eyes, and mouthed, Aunt Ina.

  Have fun, he mouthed back and picked up the remote. I tried to be short and succinct as I gave my aunt the salient details, leaving out anything that could remotely compromise a murder investigation. If, indeed, that was about to happen. Unfortunately, my aunt preferred the long version and not the CliffsNotes.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Wouldn’t be the first time a woman did her husband in for cheating. Do you think that’s what happened? And why pick a public spot? Hmm, now that I think of it, I guess it’s better than having the body in the house.”

  “It may turn out to be an unfortunate accident, Aunt Ina.”

  “An unfortunate accident is when you overcook a casserole. Hold on a minute, I want to see if Louis recognizes the name. He’s in the other room, practicing his saxophone. He didn’t watch the news.”

  Before I could say a word, I heard her yell, “Louis! Do you know anyone by the name of Wilbur Maines? Louis! Can you hear me?”

  “That’s okay, Aunt Ina,” I said. “It really doesn’t—”

  “Give me thirty seconds and I’ll call you right back.”

  The line was dead in an instant.

  “What was that all about?” Marshall asked.

  “Aunt Ina. She’s checking with my uncle to see if he knows the deceased.”

  Sure enough, the phone rang as promised. “Your uncle Louis doesn’t know Wilbur Maines, but he knows Montrose Lamont.”

  “Huh?”

  “Montrose Lamont is a clarinet player. Widowed. Lives in Sun City West. He and your uncle have worked the same gigs in the area.”

  “What does that have to do with Wilbur?”

  “I’m getting to that, Phee. You’re as impatient as your mother. Montrose was in that Railroad Club with Wilbur until the two of them got into some big row over a proposed railroad track expansion. According to Louis, Wilbur was a real jackass and used his authority as the club’s president to boot Montrose out. Then Montrose threatened to get even, so Wilbur had a restraining order placed on the guy.”

  “You got all of that in thirty seconds?”

  “Your uncle doesn’t waste time getting to the point. Anyway, if your mother calls, tell her to call me. I want to know what to bring for the potluck book club meeting this month.”

  “Um, sure.”

  Marshall leaned over on the couch and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “So, what tidbits of wisdom did your aunt have to share?”

  “Half the equation on those restraining orders. My God! Louis Melinsky knows everyone.”

  I gave Marshall the quick rundown and we both uttered the same word at once: motive.

  “Seems that way,” I said. “If he was murdered, the wife had motive, and so did this Montrose guy. Although I really can’t fathom how a little spat over a railroad design could result in a homicide. By gosh, I’m not even sure whether he was murdered, but I’ve got a list of suspects, beginning with the unknown, jealous husband of a woman who might have been having an affair with him and two legitimate people who may have had their own reasons.”

  “I’m sure Bowman and Ranston will be going over those restraining orders with a fine-tooth comb. They’ve got the same information your uncle Louis has, plus the other name.”

  I widened my eyes and waited for him to continue. Nothing. “Did Bowman give you the other name?”

  “Nope. But if the lab comes back with a definitive homicide verdict, I’m sure Nate and I will get all the information we need. Face it, Wilbur was president of the Model Railroad Club. Got to be a zillion members in that one. Think of all those interviews Bowman and Ranston don’t want to conduct.”

  “Yikes.”

  The rest of our weekend, oddly enough, was a normal one. Except for a few pestering phone calls from my mother. Apparently, Cecilia was so distraught over finding a real dead body and not river rocks covered with pond fronds, she all but sequestered herself in church on Sunday, attending every Mass they had. In fact, according to my mother, Cecilia asked Father Mulroney if the church would consider adding an additional four-hour Mass.

  Monday at work went by without incident and Tuesday started off the same way. Until eleven fifteen. That was when Deputy Bowman called our office to deliver the news. The autopsy confirmed Wilbur Maines suffered a serious blow to the right temple from a blunt, flat object. That hit on the head turned out to be the cause of death. The coroner also confirmed Wilbur suffered a minor electrical shock prior to receiving that fatal strike. Bravo, Lyndy!

  Up until now, I had put the thought of that tap shoe on hold because it could have belonged to any one of the women in those tap-dancing clubs, or maybe even someone who wasn’t associated with Sun City West. But once the victim’s name was revealed, I serio
usly wondered if it wasn’t his wife who did him in.

  “Kind of hard to pull fingerprints off a shoe that’s been on the ground for who-knows-how-long,” Marshall said when I mentioned it that afternoon. “And why leave it there to be discovered? Unless, of course, something spooked the culprit.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” I tried not to laugh.

  “Oh, I know all right. We’ll be called in to assist with interviews. First that Railroad Club, then those tap-dancing, pom-pom women, or whatever you call them.”

  “I think my mother said they were the Jazzy Poms and the Rhythm Tappers, but I could be wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If the shoe fits, Nate and I will be wearing it.”

  Six hours later, the early evening news came on, followed by the Booked 4 Murder Club’s own gossip hotline. By ten, the women were convinced poor Roxanne was going to be arrested for murdering her husband. Somehow, the news anchors got wind of the tap shoe and offered their own speculation about the case. So much for the journalism of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite. My mother had called at ten twenty-five, insisting, “Nate and Marshall, do something before an innocent woman is placed behind bars.”

  “First of all,” I tried to restrain myself, “they haven’t been called to consult on the case. And second, need I remind you they’re private investigators, not defense attorneys?”

  “Hogwash. If they’re decent investigators, Roxanne won’t need an attorney.”

  As things turned out, Roxanne did need an attorney. She became a person of interest almost immediately, but, thankfully, an arrest hadn’t yet been made. As for my boss and my fiancé—well, they got the official word the next morning.

  No sooner had Augusta turned on the Keurig than the phone rang and it was Deputy Bowman. Sure enough, the Sheriff’s Office needed our office to assist with the investigation now that the ruling on Wilbur’s death was declared a homicide.

  “It’s those interviews. That’s why they’re calling us in.” Nate stared at the coffee maker and tapped his foot. “Enough to turn a twenty-year-old’s hair gray. And the family photos. Now everyone has a damn smartphone. Why is it these people insist on showing us photos of their grandchildren playing soccer or eating in a restaurant? Bowman and Ranston had the right idea – stick to the gangs and the drug dealers.”

  “You’re eating it up and you know it,” I said. “Besides, wasn’t it you who told me there’s nothing quite like solving an old-fashioned homicide?”

  Nate watched as the K-cup he’d put in the machine started to brew. “I probably muttered that during a weak moment. Anyway, I’ll head over to the posse station and speak with one of those deputies as soon as I’m done with my morning appointment. It should be a quick one. What does Marshall have today, Augusta?”

  “He should be done with that early appointment he had at eight with a woman who wanted him to track down a missing necklace. Then he’s got a guy from Buckeye who’s trying to locate a birth parent.”

  “If he’s still with a client when I drive over to Sun City West, I’ll fill him in later. If not, he can join me.”

  Nate had picked up his coffee cup and started for his office when he spun around and let out a sigh. “You might as well tell your mother we’re on the case, Phee. No doubt she’ll be nagging us one way or the other, wanting to know if there’s a serial killer loose. One ray of light, though: Wilbur was killed with a blunt object and not an ax. Can you imagine what Harriet Plunkett and those book club women would be like if the murder weapon was an ax? Between their imaginations and those books they read, they give new meaning to the term ‘going off the deep end.’”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until lunchtime. No sense getting my nerves in a tizzy so early in the day.”

  I made myself a cup of McCafé’s medium roast and marched directly to my office, where I remained glued to spreadsheets for the next two hours. It was only when Augusta rapped on my door that I looked up from the screen.

  She took a step forward. “Want me to get you a donut or anything? I can’t enjoy my midmorning break without a munchie, and we’re all out. So, if you’ll man the phone, I’ll get us reinforcements from Dunkin’.”

  “Deal. Vanilla or maple-frosted. Leave my office door wide open, okay?”

  Augusta took off and I went back to my spreadsheets. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I pulled out a piece of scrap paper and wrote, “tap shoe, Phillips head screwdriver, glue.” It was an odd combination of objects found at a crime scene, but, then again, this wasn’t a game of Clue. I reasoned the Phillips head screwdriver might have belonged to Wilbur because he most likely needed one for his work on that circuit box. That left the tap shoe and glue on those rocks.

  I folded the scrap paper and tucked it in the top of my right-hand drawer. Let the crime lab mull over those things. At least they’ll be able to get a shoe size, and maybe even a brand name for the glue. Then what? I reached for the mouse and clicked on one of the spreadsheet columns. At least the numbers didn’t pose any mysteries for me.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Hallelujah!” my mother exclaimed when I called her at a little before noon to tell her that Nate and Marshall would be assisting with the investigation into Wilbur’s death. “The news anchors on channel five thought the killer might have used a tap shoe. Why didn’t you tell me it was a tap shoe when you saw it? All you said was ‘shoe.’ You said you saw a shoe. That’s like saying you saw a fly when it was a dragonfly.”

  “Honestly, Mom, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Forget the news anchors. I think they get paid to banter.”

  “I need to let the ladies know Williams Investigations is looking into the murder. I can say ‘murder’ now, can’t I? Everyone else is saying murder.”

  “Yes, yes. You can say ‘murder,’ ‘homicide,’ ‘foul play,’ or whatever you’d like.”

  “Good. By the way, the potluck book club meeting is going to be at Shirley’s tomorrow at six thirty. You’re welcome to attend, you know. We’re discussing a Harlan Coben novel. Then we move on to culinary mysteries with Linda Reilly’s Fillet of Murder.”

  “Sounds very appetizing, but I’ve got a full schedule and most likely will be working late.”

  “Fine. Let me know if you hear anything. Cecilia is a basket case. If that murderer isn’t caught soon, I don’t know what she’ll do. At least I have Streetman for protection.”

  And a family-size bottle of Resolve for the carpets. “Um, sure. Have a nice time.”

  If I thought I was getting off the hook easy, I was wrong. Dead wrong. I should have known my mother would come up with some harebrained scheme to plunge a professional investigation into a free-for-all so everyone—including Herb, who was practically bald—would be pulling the hair out of their head.

  It was two days later, on Friday, when my mother called during my break and gave me indigestion. She wanted me to know she and the ladies had devised an ironclad plan to “ferret out” the murderer and clear Roxanne’s name.

  “Clear Roxanne’s name? She hasn’t been arrested. She’s still a person of interest, that’s all.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Phee, one minute someone is a person of interest and then they’re behind bars right before the commercial break.”

  I rubbed my right temple and took a deep breath. “On TV. Depending upon the screenplay.”

  “It’s that tap shoe you found. Face it, Roxanne is a tap dancer. And the spouse. If we don’t act quickly, she’ll be carted off to the Fourth Avenue Jail in downtown Phoenix. We can’t sit around and wait like we always do when one of these heinous things happens in our backyard. This time we’re being proactive. Myrna used that word. It was on some committee report for the bocce club. Anyway, do you want to hear about this plan or don’t you?”

  I shifted the receiver to my other hand and rubbed my left temple. “Sure.”

  “We call the plan ‘Operation Agatha.’ ”

  “As in Agatha Christie?”


  “Naturally. Louise Munson wanted us to call it ‘Operation Rawhide,’ because that was Ronald Reagan’s secret service code word, but we’re not reading any westerns, so we thought we’d stick to a name more reflective of our book club rather than Louise’s obsession with the late president.”

  For a moment, I was speechless. All I could envision was a twenty-minute, heated dinner discussion about which secret code word to use.

  “Phee? Are you still listening?”

  “Uh, um, yes. I’m still listening.”

  “Good. Because here’s the plan. We’re going to infiltrate the Model Railroad Club and the Rhythm Tappers. Go undercover, so to speak, and find out who had a reason to kill Wilbur.”

  “What? You and your friends plan to join those two clubs? Yikes. I think you have to know something about building model railroads before you join that club, and as far as the Tappers are concerned, you have to know how to tap dance! And where are you going to find the time? Shirley’s in all those sewing clubs, Myrna plays bocce—or makes a stab at it anyway—Cecilia and Louise are busy with their church functions, and you have a broadcasting program. And don’t get me started on Aunt Ina. She and Louis are way too busy with all the gallivanting around they do.”

  “Are you finished? Because we figured all this out.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. “How?”

  “We divvy up the surveillance. Cecilia used to take tap-dancing lessons when she was in parochial school. She even performed with her fourth-grade class. She’ll sign up for the Tappers next week. Shirley already designs some of their costumes, so she’ll join Cecilia and attend their meetings, or practices, or whatever they do. Lucinda will also sign up.”

  “Lucinda? Pardon me, but the woman was born with two left feet! Worse than Myrna.”

  “Cecilia will coach her.”

  If there was any possible way I could have rubbed both temples at once, I would have, but I needed one hand to hold the phone.