THE SOUND OF MURDER (14 page)

CHAPTER 31

“I
s Hank working today?” The next morning I sat at Marge’s kitchen table, talking on my cell and holding a nearly empty yogurt container for Lassie to lick. I was pretty sure it was good for him. Probiotics, you know.

“Not until Thursday,” said Bitsy. Perfect. I didn’t want him around when I picked up the information about the suicides. “Do you want to leave him a message?”

“No, I’ll just catch him later. See you in a few.”

I jumped in my Bug and headed to the posse station. Bitsy met me at the reception desk. “Here you go, dear.” She handed me a manila file stuffed with papers. “These are all the incident reports from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department for this area over the last several months.”

“Why not the posse’s reports?”

“Since we operate under the sheriff’s department, all of our logs go to the county.”

“So they respond too?”

“Sometimes. We do a lot of health and welfare checks, that sort of thing. The sheriff’s department only responds if a call is serious. Fire comes too, for medical emergencies, and in case they need to use the lockbox to get in.”

I remembered the lockbox in front of Charlie’s house. And Marge’s. “Do posse members have access to the lockboxes?”

“Oh, no.” Bitsy shook her head. “We don’t have that kind of authority. Posse members aren’t even allowed to go into the house unless they’re invited.”

I opened the file and skimmed the first page. Then the second. And the third. “This is it?” I asked. “This is all the information?”

Bitsy came out from behind her desk and stood next to me, close enough that I could smell her makeup. She ran a pink fingertip down the report and stopped at one line. “See here? It says ‘dead body.’”

It didn’t say much else. The report listed the date, time, location, and description of calls the county officers had responded to. Nothing that would let me know if a dead body was a suicide or if a burglary involved the theft of a catalytic converter. Even worse, there were no actual addresses listed, just locations like “400 block S. Arnold Palmer Court.” Could this really be all the information available?

Bitsy seemed to read my mind. “If you could find the names of the people who died, you could get their autopsy reports.” I inwardly groaned. The last time I’d applied for one, it took a month to get it. “And if you wanted to know about catalytic converter thefts, specific reports might have information about what was stolen. Of course, you’d need to have the exact addresses of the burglaries to request the reports.” She smiled brightly like what she told me was good news instead of a gigantic pain in the butt. How in the world was I supposed to find exact addresses and names when all I had was “400 block S. Arnold Palmer Court?”

That led me to another question that’d been bugging me: “When a posse patrol car receives a call, they must get an address to respond to, but do they get a name as well?”

“Of course not. That would be a privacy issue.”

Then how did Hank know it was Marge who’d had the accident?

“And is it against the rules for a posse member to smoke on duty?”

Bitsy pursed her lips together in disapproval. “Of course.” Her eyes focused on something behind me. “Why, Hank! What are you doing here? I just told Ivy you wouldn’t be in until Thursday.”

I turned around. There was Creepy Silver Hank, wearing a pearl-buttoned Western-style shirt, cowboy boots, and his mirrored sunglasses. He stood stock-still but tightly wound, like those guys in the haunted house who jump you when you walk past.

“Decided to stop in and check my schedule,” he said. Then to me, “Thought your name was Olive.”

“Ivy’s my stage name.”

“That right?” Hank spoke so slowly and deliberately that I wondered if he was drunk. I stepped a little closer to him to see if I could smell alcohol. Nothing.

“Ivy’s in
The Sound of Cabaret
with me.” Bitsy patted her perfectly coiffed white hair.

“What’s that you got there?” Hank jerked his chin at the manila folder I held.

Bitsy said, “Ivy’s interested in—”

“It’s just something for Uncle Bob,” I interjected.

“But Ivy, I thought you wanted to talk to Hank about—”

Dammit, Bitsy. “Thursday would work better. I’ve got to run right now.”

“Alright then.” Hank started to leave, then turned back to me. “I got my eye on you.” He left.

Bitsy seemed oblivious to the threat hanging in the air. “Didn’t even check his schedule.”

That’s because Hank wasn’t there for his schedule. I was pretty sure he was there for me. I watched through the glass doors to make sure he got in his car. Didn’t want him waiting for me in the parking lot.

“I’ve got to get going too.” Bitsy took her purse from a desk drawer. “I need to be at the theater early. An added rehearsal, you know.” She looked down at the floor, a look of contemplative sorrow on her face, like a sad nun. “It’s too bad about Marge,” she said. “Didn’t even get a chance to perform in front of that big producer.” She waved goodbye as she walked out the posse doors.

How did Bitsy know about the producer? As I followed her out the door, I tried to remember if Roger had said the visit was secret when a bigger fish grabbed my mind’s pole: The extra rehearsal. Bitsy now had Marge’s role.

CHAPTER 32

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I was driving up to a resort. The one-story Spanish tile and stucco building occupied a prime piece of real estate with views of the desert and the bare rocky hills to the west. A wide circular driveway served as a place to drop off guests, who were greeted by the cool sounds of water splashing from a massive fountain near the front door. It was only when you stepped inside Mountain View Care Center that you knew its true function.

A few people dozed in wheelchairs in the front room. A woman with beautifully coiffed salt-and-pepper hair said “Good afternoon” to me as I entered, while a man sitting on a pastel flowered couch mumbled to himself. Thankfully the place didn’t smell of urine and Lysol like I’d feared, but it still had that smell peculiar to hospitals and nursing homes—not a horrible smell, and yes, probably some mix of bodily and cleaning fluids, but weirdly unidentifiable.

A smiling young woman behind a desk greeted me concierge style: “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Marge Weiss.” I hoisted the paper grocery bag I carried. “I’ve brought her some things from home.”

She asked me to sign into the visitors’ log, then gave me directions to Marge’s room. Off I went, passing a short round woman determinedly pushing a squeaking walker toward the front doors. A young aide in pink scrubs came up behind her and touched her gently on the shoulder. “Effie, it’s Tuesday. Your family will be here
tomorrow
.”

I found Marge’s room and knocked on her closed door. I heard a soft, “Come in.”

The room’s walls were cream with just a hint of blush. The sturdy whitewashed southwestern-style furniture was stylish and practical, and a large picture window opened onto a courtyard where twittering birds bathed in a smaller version of the fountain out front. The whole effect was calmingly cheerful.

Marge was not calm or cheerful.

“Why are you still in bed?” I watched her kick off her blankets and put them back on again.

“No reason to get up,” she muttered, not looking at me.

This was not the Marge I knew, but I proceeded as though it were.

“So.” I sat down in a chair next to her bed, put the grocery bag next to my feet and pulled a wheeled bed tray in front of me. “I brought your hairbrush, mascara, powder, some blush,” I placed each item on the little table as I named it, “a couple of lipsticks—I thought you’d want more than one color—a sweater,” this I placed on the bed next to Marge, “and most importantly, lots of chocolate.” I handed her a smaller paper bag I’d filled with M&Ms. “Oh, and…ta da!” I set a thermos on the bed tray. “Some of your own coffee, with cinnamon in it.”

Marge held the paper bag full of M&Ms. She hadn’t opened it.

“It’s okay for you to have the chocolate. I checked with the nurse.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Marge snapped. “I’m demented, not diabetic.” Her face softened immediately. “I’m sorry, Ivy. I just can’t believe this is happening.” She put down the bag of M&Ms.

I couldn’t either. Just a few days ago she was wowing the audience at Desert Magic Dinner Theater. “I bet this will be temporary. They’ll get a treatment plan figured out for you and you can get back onstage where you belong.” I had no idea if any of what I said was realistic, but it felt like the right thing to say. “Everything’s fine at the house. Roger is going to take care of your pool as well as Bernice’s.” When he came over for dinner and pool duty last night, he immediately offered to help. “And Lassie is just a little lovebug.”

“Ha!” Marge’s laugh startled me. She picked up a red tube of lipstick I’d put on the tray. “This isn’t lipstick.” She took off the cap to reveal a little spray nozzle. “It’s pepper spray. One of the gadgets Arnie bought me.”

I took the pepper spray from her under the guise of examining it. It really did look like a lipstick—maybe slightly longer than a regular tube, but obviously good enough to fool me. I slid it into my purse when Marge wasn’t looking. Didn’t think it was quite the thing to give to a confused person.

Marge opened her powder compact and examined herself in the small mirror. “How is Arnie?”

“Brokenhearted,” I said truthfully. I scooted closer. “Won’t you just let him—”

“No.” She shut the compact lid like she was closing a case. “Don’t you see? This is why I couldn’t marry him. I was afraid I might do something like this, and now—”

“Wait a minute. I thought you said an intruder caused all of this.”

“That’s right.”

“Then stop blaming yourself. Can I at least tell Arnie—”

“No.” Marge snapped her mouth shut like a turtle’s.

“Okay.” I felt awful for both of them. “Let’s figure out what really happened. If you still want me to investigate, that is.”

Marge still had that no-lips turtle look, but she nodded stiffly.

I helped myself to a few of the M&Ms I’d brought. “To begin with, is there any chance there was something slick on the garage step where you fell?” Jeremy said this could be the other reason Marge fell backward, that she slipped and her feet went out from under her. “Maybe you had a glass of water with you?”

Marge shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Who has keys to your house?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t remember anything. That’s why they’re going to keep me here.”

“Marge, stop feeling sorry for yourself. They
will
keep you here”—I hated being harsh—“unless you help me prove it’s not necessary. Now think. Who has keys to your house?”

It worked. Marge straightened up in bed and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate. “Arnie, of course, and Bernice. I think that’s it…oh. There’s that lockbox outside too.”

“Good. Great. Thank you.” It actually wasn’t that helpful, but it was a start. “Do you ever leave your keys where someone might be able to pick them up?” It was a long shot, but maybe someone had made a copy before Marge realized they were gone.

“I don’t know.”

“Marge,” I said sternly.

“I guess someone could have picked them up when I’m swimming.”

Omigod. The unlocked locker. I about choked on an M&M.

“Your keys were stolen that day I was with you, weren’t they? Did you ever get your locks changed?”

“I forgot.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to kick that horse.

“And someone could have picked them up at the theater. I just leave them in my purse in the dressing room.”

I was about to give Marge an Uncle Bob-style lecture about preventing burglary, but an M&M got in the way and I bit my tongue. Literally. “Ow!”

“You okay?” Marge looked directly at me for the first time. She looked depressed—sagging mouth, drooping eyes, frown lines on her forehead—but her eyes were clear and focused.

“I juth bit my tongue.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “Tho,” I said, playing up my temporary disability, “how elth could thomoen have gotten into your houth?” A definite tug on her lips. “Did you let anyone in rethently?”

“Sure.” Marge wasn’t exactly smiling, but her face was animated and she hadn’t answered with “I don’t know.” Success. Then her face drooped again. “Well, not
recently
. I couldn’t. The Post-it lists…I couldn’t let anyone see them.”

“Of course.” I nodded understandingly. “How about before you put them up?”

“Well, Arnie, of course, and Bernice…” Bernice’s name kept coming up. I really wished I could use her as a suspect, but it’d be awfully hard to pull off a caper from New Zealand.

“The guy who fixed my dishwasher…” Marge waved away the question I was about to ask. “I don’t remember the name of the company, but there’s paperwork in one of the kitchen drawers. I think that’s it.” She sat back against her pillows, looking better than when I’d arrived. The power of getting something done, I guess.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Colonel Carl Marks too.”

“Carl Marks?” His clipped mustache and too-expensive shoes flashed into my head.

“What a name, huh? Wonder if his parents had a clue,” Marge said, almost smiling. “He gave me a viatical settlement.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the reason I can afford this place.” Marge waved at her room, which I now realized was a private one. “And a fancy way of saying that Carl bought my life insurance policy from me.”

CHAPTER 33

“Hi, Olive-y.”

“Hey, handsome.” I trapped my cellphone between my neck and shoulder so I could use both hands on the fire extinguisher.

“Will you go on a picnic with me at Encanto?”

I sprayed the still smoking engine of my Bug, emptying the extinguisher. “Sure.” Encanto was the greenest park in town and our favorite picnic spot.

“With me and Sarah?”

“Okay.” I got back in my car to wait for the engine to cool down. Better than standing in the sun on the side of the road. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but it was already hot, especially if you stood next to a car that was recently on fire.

“On Sunday?”

“Oh, Cody, I’ve got a matinee.”

“After?”

“You bet.”

“What’s that noise?” he said as a semi driver honked, probably because I hadn’t made it completely onto the shoulder.

“Just traffic. Gotta go,” I said. “See you Sunday.”

Before I got back on the road, I wrote myself a reminder to get a new fire extinguisher. Seemed like my car was catching on fire more often these days.

Given my flaming car and all, I was pretty proud that I made it into the office in time to get a bunch of work done before Uncle Bob showed up. He came in at noon, carrying a white bag that smelled of Thai curry.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m just getting ready to eat my lunch. Which is just a poor little peanut butter sandwich. On stale bread.” A minute later, a nice plate of red curry with beef sat in front of me.

“All of those background checks done?” Uncle Bob asked as he settled down with the rest of the Thai food.

“Yep. I also typed up two reports, and researched viatical settlements.”

“Viaticals?”

Though I’d done the research for Marge’s case, I had a feeling it might apply to Charlie’s too. “I have a call in to Amy,” I said. “You know, they sounded like scams to me, but I guess they’re legal.” Basically, viatical settlements, also called life settlement contracts, enable people to sell their life insurance to a buyer before the insured person dies. The person selling the policy gets an infusion of cash and the person buying it benefits whenever the policyholder dies.

“Viaticals really helped out a lot of AIDS patients during the bad times,” said Uncle Bob, an unusually serious look in his eyes. “By the time they were really sick, they couldn’t work. They needed help and healthcare. And a lot of their families…weren’t around.” He sat back in his chair, his lunch untouched.

“You knew someone?” My uncle rarely divulged anything about his personal life.

“My next-door neighbor.” He smiled. “You would have liked him. He gave great big parties where he’d play the piano and have everyone sing corny old songs.” Uncle Bob straightened up and took up his fork. “Now, I guess, the settlements are mostly between older folks and buyers. Pretty much for the same reasons.”

My cell rang. Amy. After we’d exchanged pleasantries, I told her I was close to having some news and just had a few questions for her. “Did your dad happen to have a viatical settlement?”

A pause. “As a matter of fact, he did.” Another pause. “It was a bit strange, because he didn’t really need the money. The one he sold was a fairly new policy, and not a big one. I was still the beneficiary on his other policies.”

“Do you know who bought his policy?”

“I can’t remember right now, but it was a weird name, the name of someone famous, like Robert Kennedy or—”

“Carl Marks?”

“Yeah. I think that was it. Do you know him?”

“Sort of.” I frowned at the image of the mustachioed man that crept into my mind. What he did might not be illegal, but I still didn’t like it. “Oh, and Amy, did your dad ever talk about a burglary?”

“A burglary? No, and I’m sure he would have told me.”

“Did he have any complaints about his car, maybe about the gas mileage?”

“No.” She sounded puzzled.

I didn’t want to ask the next question, but I needed to know. “So he never told you about removing his catalytic converter?”

“What? No. Why?…Oh.” A gulp. “I never thought about the mechanics of how Dad…” Another noise, like she was holding back a sob.

“I’m sorry, Amy. Just one more question.” I scrolled down my computer screen. “I can see that your dad’s car was sold after his death, but not who to. Do you know who bought it?”

“Yeah, it was one of his neighbors. Larry Blossom.”

“Really? One of your dad’s neighbors bought the car—” I almost said “that he killed himself in” but stopped myself just in time.

“I know,” Amy said. “But Larry said he’d always liked it, and of course he got a really great deal. I mean, Dad only had the car about a month. It was brand new.”

I thanked Amy and hung up. Huh. Would someone planning to kill himself buy a brand new car? I let my mind wrestle with the idea for a moment, then asked my uncle.

“It’s possible,” he said. “You never know what people are thinking. Maybe Charlie wanted to go out in style.”

I nodded. I didn’t agree, but I nodded.