Botched 4 Murder Page 6

  Chapter 7

  Of all days for that annoying Streetman to get up early, Saturday had to be the day. The change in his schedule prompted a change in my mother’s, and she and the book club ladies decided to have an early breakfast at Bagels ’N More, instead of their midmorning one.

  Claudia and I barely had a chance to introduce ourselves and order breakfast when I heard that all too familiar voice.

  “Phee! What are you doing here? Aren’t you working today? Oh, it must be next Saturday. I keep forgetting with the every other Saturdays.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “I know. I know. The dog got me up early. What can I say? The ladies will be here any minute.”

  She turned to Claudia before I could utter a word. “Harriet Plunkett. Phee’s mother. Nice to meet you.”

  Claudia smiled, shook my mother’s hand, and, in that split second, I managed to introduce her.

  “Claudia is Cindy Dolton’s neighbor. I wanted to talk with her about the gardening club,” I said.

  “The gardening club? Your house is a virtual death zone for any living plants. Even the ones that don’t require water. Are you going to give it another try?”

  “Maybe.” I was squirming when who of all people but Bill Sanders raced over to us.

  “Harriet! I was going to call you later. Um, hi, Phee. Hi . . .”

  “Claudia,” I said as he glanced at my table companion.

  “Yeah. Good. Hi, Claudia.” He turned immediately to my mother, but there was no way Claudia and I could avoid hearing their conversation. We sat intently and took it all in.

  “Harriet. Listen carefully. You have got to talk to Myrna. She’ll ruin us. That bocce tournament is two and a half weeks away, and she’s gotten worse. I didn’t think it was possible, but she has. Ever since Tuesday, when she thought one of her bocce balls killed that Sorrel lady, she’s taken a whole new approach. Hardly tosses the ball at all. Lets it drop slowly in front of her and waits to see if the damn thing can even roll toward the target.”

  My mother wasn’t at all moved. “Well, whose fault is that? Granted, she kind of heaved those balls, but it didn’t help that all of you kept telling her she’d wind up killing someone. Oh my gosh. Speak of the devil, she’s walking in. Shh. Not a word.”

  “Talk to her, please,” Bill said. “And, uh, nice meeting you, Claudia. Bye, Phee.”

  Bill took off and was out the side door before Myrna made her way toward us.

  “Oh no,” my mother said. “I’d better grab that middle table before someone else does. Usually they know we’re coming and hold it for us. Come on over. I insist.”

  “Um, our orders are on their way. Maybe when we finish. Okay?”

  My mother muttered something to herself and raced to the middle table, arriving there at the same time as Myrna. I quickly turned to Claudia and gave her the rundown on Myrna’s bocce team before I asked her if anyone in the garden club had had it in for Sorrel. Fortunately, Claudia couldn’t wait to spill the beans.

  “That woman had more than a screw loose. Always coming up with bizarre ideas like distributing organic seed packets to shoppers in supermarket parking lots. Just what they needed—propaganda extoling the virtues of home gardening. Then, of course, her plot of land idea for the homeless. It kept getting worse and worse. Finally, we found a solution.”

  Oh hell. Is she going to tell me they killed her?

  “Um, er, uh . . . so, what did you come up with?”

  “We pulled some strings and got her appointed to the recreation center’s board of directors. We figured if that didn’t keep her busy, nothing would. And it worked. It really worked. Until she wound up dead, that is. We feel awful about it.”

  “Tell me, how did you get her on the board exactly?”

  “Oh, real easy. Marlee Madison’s husband is friends with someone on the board, and Marlee is in our club. She convinced her husband to have his friend recommend Sorrel for the appointment.”

  “I see.” That’s one way to solve a problem.

  Claudia twisted her bracelet as she spoke. “Probably not exactly ‘kosher,’ but we were desperate.”

  “I understand. I won’t divulge anything. But I do have one more question. Does anyone, I mean, did anyone have a real problem with Sorrel, other than those bleeding-heart ideas of hers?”

  “Actually, quite the opposite. One of our members, Frank Landrow, had a thing for her.”

  “A thing? As in a crush or something?”

  Claudia gave me a slow nod just as our waitress delivered our food. “Not exactly a crush, more like one of those kindred spirit things. You know, where two people aren’t so much attracted physically as idealistically. Frank always supported Sorrel’s ideas, no matter how far-fetched they were.”

  “Do you know if they ever saw each other outside of the garden club?”

  “Offhand, no. Unless you consider both of them volunteering to distribute flyers for our annual plant sale. They worked together on that.”

  Distribute flyers . . . go out for a long lunch ...

  I wasn’t about to jump to conclusions, but it sure was tempting. So tempting that I had to find out more. “Do you have any idea if Frank is married?”

  “He’s married all right. Wife’s name is Eleanor, but that’s all I know. I’ve only seen her one or two times, usually at our holiday parties. Quite the opposite of Sorrel.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked as Claudia cut into her omelet.

  “Sorrel Harlan never got out of the seventies. Wavy gray hair and Birkenstock shoes. God forbid she would wear a pair of heels. Shied away from makeup, too. Eleanor, on the other hand, dresses to the nines. Classy clothes, bright lipstick, eye shadow. You get the picture.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I tried not to give in to my mother’s usual explanation for unsolved murders. It always involved a love triangle gone wrong. Maybe because that seemed to be the plot for so many of the mysteries she and her friends were reading. Still, the Sorrel and Frank connection was rather tempting as a motive for murder. Especially if it was a love affair gone wrong.

  Claudia took a bite of her toast and glanced at the middle table, where the Booked 4 Murder book club ladies were seated. “I’m sorry. I know your mother invited us to join them when we finish, but I really have to get going. I’ve got a million errands to run this morning, not to mention a load of wash that’s been staring at me for days. Please give her my apologies.”

  “No apologies needed. This was so nice of you to agree to meet with me. We all want Sorrel’s murder to be solved as soon as possible, and any information at all is a big help.”

  Claudia and I finished our meals and paid at the counter. She headed out the door, but I wasn’t so fortunate.

  “Is that you, Phee?” It was a voice that made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My aunt had walked in the front door as I stood near the cash register.

  “Aunt Ina! Nice to see you.”

  “This is an ungodly early hour for the book club to get together. Whatever was your mother thinking?”

  “The dog got her up early.”

  “I know. And thanks to that little ankle biter, all of us have had to rearrange our schedules. Good thing I’m rested from my staycation. Nothing like being pampered at a four- or five-star hotel.”

  I wouldn’t know. My idea of being pampered is getting one of those chair massages at the mall.

  “Come on, the table is filling up.”

  “Um, actually, I ate already, and I was headed—”

  She grabbed me by the wrist. “Tell me at the table, Phee. I need a cup of coffee.”

  Something furry brushed against my face, and I realized it was some sort of faux fur scarf my aunt was wearing. She had given it a toss as she raced to the table. I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I joined the ladies for a minute or two before heading out.

  The usual crew had arrived—Shirley, Lucinda, Cecilia, Louise, and the new snowbirds, Riva, Marianne, and Constance
. Riva was a short, gray-haired woman with wire-rimmed glasses and tiny crystal posts in her ears. Marianne had curly brown hair and freckles that were trying to peek out from under a layer of makeup. She appeared, by far, to be the youngest member of the group. And Constance looked like what I pictured someone who was named Constance to look like, a Pilgrim who had arrived on the Mayflower. Tight, wavy brown hair parted in the middle and pulled into a bun, starched long-sleeved white blouse, and no jewelry. All she was missing was the long apron.

  My aunt practically shoved me into a seat and plopped herself down next to me. The waitress, who was standing a few feet away, immediately came over to fill the empty coffee cups in front of us. I quickly put my hand over the top of my cup and signaled that I didn’t want any. “Hi, Everyone! I’m only going to be here a few minutes. I already ate.”

  “Phee’s decided to grow houseplants,” my mother announced. “Either that or find out how to resurrect her dead ones.”

  My aunt gave me a funny look and reached into her large embroidered pocketbook, pulling out a large book. “Speaking of death, I have the perfect novel for us. Written at the turn of the last century and translated from Albanian, The Death Hand from the Crypt.”

  “We’re not reading it, Ina,” my mother said. “We agreed to stick with nice domestic murders this year. Charlene O’Neil, V.M. Burns, Mary Marks, Kathleen Bridge, Stephanie Blackmoore, and John Lamb. I had to get a magnifying glass to read the print in that last godforsaken novel of yours. We’re sticking with close-to-home, domestic murders and that’s that.”

  “I don’t think we need to find a cozy mystery in order to do that,” Marianne said. “We’ve got our own homegrown murder already. Can you believe it? One of our Sun City West Rec Center board members killed with a bow and arrow. I swear, I’m afraid to take a walk around the neighborhood.”

  “Has the sheriff’s department made any arrests? I haven’t heard a thing,” Cecilia said as she adjusted the starched white collar on her button-down shirt.

  That woman is a former nun if I ever saw one.

  Suddenly everyone looked straight at me. Everyone except my mother, who began to slather butter on a piece of toast that was already saturated. I knew in that instant she had told them something.

  “Look,” I said, “before any of you ask me if I know anything, I don’t. Unless you count the fact my boss and his partner were asked to consult on the case. I repeat, my boss and his partner. Not me. I’m the bookkeeper. And even if I did happen to come across some information, I certainly wouldn’t be in a position to share it.”

  The ladies made annoying little guttural sounds until Louise finally spoke up. “Okay, okay, enough of the disclaimer. What do you really know?”

  “Honestly? Nothing.”

  My mother finished slathering the butter on her toast and cleared her throat. “If Phee says she doesn’t know anything, she doesn’t. But the minute she does, I’ll let all of you know.”

  Terrific. Why don’t we simply rent one of those computerized billboards and have a rolling screen of updates?

  I mouthed the words “thank you” to her, followed by a grimace. “It was nice seeing everyone, but I really should head out. I’ve got a ton of things to do.”

  “Don’t go anywhere on my account,” came a loud voice from behind me. A loud male voice that belonged to Herb Garrett. “Don’t any of you ladies leave until you answer this question. Do I look like a murderer to you?”

  Dead silence.

  Herb continued, “Well? Do I? Or a bowman for that matter? What the hell is wrong with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department? Do you believe they had the audacity to question me about Sorrel’s murder? Well, they did! Sent a deputy right to my door. Claimed I made a threat at the meeting Monday night. What threat? Did any of you hear me make a threat?”

  The ladies started muttering and mumbling, but nothing coherent was said, so Herb leaned over the table and kept talking. “According to Deputy Bowman, who, by the way, has the personality of a tomato, I was confrontational at the meeting. Confrontational. Who the heck wasn’t? It was an idiotic proposal. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you about that miserable encounter. Don’t let me interrupt anything. I only stopped in here to get a dozen bagels since they’ve got that Saturday half-price special going on.”

  “Phee’s on her way out,” my mother said, “so you’re welcome to take her seat.”

  “Nah. Thanks anyway, but I’ve got a busy morning and a full afternoon. Bill roped me into being on the sign committee for the bocce and lawn bowling tournament. I’m meeting some of the guys to start putting up the posters.”

  Myrna slunk down in her chair and avoided all eye contact with Herb. The second Herb left, Shirley asked Myrna how the practices were coming along.

  “I guess okay. For everyone else. But not me. When it comes to my turn, I freeze. All I can think about is Sorrel’s body next to where my bocce balls landed.”

  Shirley clasped her hands together. The mauve nail polish I last saw was replaced by a deep sapphire color. “Lordy, Myrna, you didn’t kill that woman. You’ve got to get over it. Think about something else next time you toss a ball.”

  “I tried. If I’m not picturing the dead body, I’m wondering if someone is going to shoot an arrow in my direction.”

  Cecilia, who was sitting next to Myrna, put her hand over Myrna’s. “Would it make you feel any better if we came to your practices and supported you? You know, like a cheerleading squad without the cheers.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that. Really, I couldn’t.”

  I thought I detected a look of relief on my mother’s face, but it didn’t last.

  Myrna looked down and bit her lip. “Actually, it would make me feel better. We practice again on Monday at nine.”

  What followed was Myrna laying out the entire schedule of bocce team practices and the ladies deciding who would be at each one. It was the perfect time to make my escape.

  I stood and shoved in my chair. “Gotta go.” I headed to the side door.

  Behind me, I could hear my mother yelling, “Call me later!”

  Chapter 8

  Marshall and I agreed to a late brunch the following day at the Wildflower Bread Company, not too far from where we both lived. It was twenty past ten, and I expected him at my door within the next few minutes. Under normal circumstances, I’d be glancing at the nearest clock anxious for him to arrive, but this time I checked the clock hoping he’d be running late. I needed more time to figure out how I was going to broach the subject of my unofficial interview with Claudia Brinson and my subsequent knowledge about Frank Landrow. Maybe it was a love interest gone bad.

  My God, I’m working off of my mother’s playbook.

  The doorbell rang and I nearly jumped. Talk about feeling edgy. I hated keeping things from Marshall and was determined to tell him everything I’d learned once we got to the restaurant.

  So much for that scenario.

  I managed to blurt out everything the instant he walked into my living room. “I don’t like keeping things from you,” I said.

  “Uh-oh. This doesn’t sound good. Are you about to tell me you’re seeing someone else?”

  “What? No. Of course not. Oh my gosh. No.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “Remember when I told you and Nate about the garden club and how they were angry at Sorrel as well?”

  Marshall brushed some flyaway hair from his face.

  “Well, I knew you and Nate were really busy with your own contacts and I sort of managed to have a very telling conversation with one of the garden club members. Please don’t be upset. I don’t want you to be upset. I don’t want you thinking I’m trampling on your territory. I don’t want you to ... oh, no. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’ve graduated from interested party to road yenta. Just like my mother.”

  “Calm down, Phee. You’re acting as if you committed a crime. I’m not upset. Honest. So, who was this garden club person and what did yo
u find out?”

  “Maybe we should sit down. This may take a while.”

  We moved to the couch and sat inches from each other. If it wasn’t a bright Sunday morning with the light streaming in the windows, I would have been tempted to forget about Claudia Brinson altogether. Instead, I gave Marshall the complete rundown, including Claudia’s take on Sorrel’s relationship with Frank. Marshall looked stunned, as if I’d discovered the root cause of poverty.

  “Frank? You said his name was Frank?”

  “Uh-huh. Frank Landrow. Why? Does that matter?”

  “Phee, I could kiss you!”

  Instead, he leaned over and gave me a hug. “The sheriff’s department shared some information with us last night. An autopsy of Sorrel’s body was performed by the medical examiner. That much we knew. No surprises. The arrow punctured a major artery in the neck. Since a murder investigation is underway, personal belongings couldn’t be returned to the husband. The clothing Sorrel was wearing had been placed in a bin, and it wasn’t until late Friday when the sheriff’s department found a note tucked inside one of her pockets. A note that was signed with a single letter.

  “Oh my God! Don’t tell me. The letter F?”

  “You got it. The letter F.”

  “We’ve got to start paying more attention to my mother. All those years of watching soap operas must have paid off. What did the note say? Did they tell you?”

  “They faxed a copy to the office. Do you realize your conversation with Claudia might have pushed this investigation closer to the finish line?”

  “Wow. So, what did it say? Was it a love note?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. It was more like a warning.”

  “Huh?”

  “It said ‘Watch out for stray bocce balls tomorrow. You’re liable to trip over one.’”

  “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  “That’s it. But it does prove something. This Frank guy knew Sorrel walked around the perimeter of the golf course. She must have told him she’d come across stray balls. Too bad there wasn’t a date on that note. It could have been in her pocket from weeks ago. I’ve got to find out how long Myrna’s been practicing with the team, and I’ve got to have a one-to-one with our Mr. Landrow. Can you give me a second? I’m sending Nate a text and he’ll take it from there.”