Saddled Up 4 Murder

Chapter 1

Bagels ’n More

Sun City West, Arizona

It’s only a matter of time, Myrna Mittleson announced, before someone loses it altogether and shoves that deli-witch from the library bell tower. She patted her brunette curls and gave her head a shake. And why that woman insists on running up and down those steep stairs is beyond me.

My mother reached across the table for the salt shaker and proceeded to add salt to the lox on her bagel. It’s her exercise routine. She made a big deal of it when someone asked her about it at the deli.

I was used to my mother’s book club ladies and conversations that came out of nowhere, but this time, I was totally lost. Deli-witch? Library tower? Will someone fill me in?

The ladies and I were seated at Bagels ’n More, their favorite haunt across the road from their retirement community in Sun City West, Arizona. It was early April, and while the weeds had begun to take over, the snowbirds were slowly departing for points north and east.

Myrna took a deep breath, clasped her hands, and sighed. "The deli-witch is Billie C. That’s what her name tag from the supermarket says. Don’t know what the C stands for but everyone we know refers to her as the deli-witch."

Try curmudgeon, cranky, crass, callous―

We get the idea, Lucinda, my mother said. The woman’s a veritable nightmare.

I moved my head from left to right, making eye contact with Shirley Johnson, Lucinda Espinoza, Cecilia Flanagan, Louise Munson, and Myrna Mittleson, before looking directly at my mother. If she’s so unbearable, then why do all of you use that deli? There are a zillion supermarkets around here and all of them have delis.

Oh, honey, Shirley replied, it’s a matter of convenience. At our age we want to keep things as easy as possible. Once you figure out where everything is located, the last thing you want to do is switch markets. I’ve got those aisles memorized to the point where I could walk down them blindfolded.

I nodded. I suppose you’re right.

Louise reached across the table and grabbed three sugar packets. Forget about the deli. I have to deal with that misery of a woman every time I do my cardio exercises on those stairs.

Lucinda gave her a funny look. Why don’t you use one of the fitness centers? You’ve got a Rec card. You’re entitled to make the most of it.

My doctor wants me to walk up and down stairs. Something about belly fat. Forget the stairs at Palm Ridge. Not many steps. Anyway, Billie takes over that tower as if it were hers alone. Last week she sideswiped me out of the way as she flew up the stairs. I was so incensed I called her every name in the book and then some.

She reached for another sugar packet and my mother handed her the small tray. I hope no one heard you, Louise.

Everyone heard me. Herb Garrett was in the computer room and he told me my voice carried all the way in there. It doesn’t matter. That she-witch deserved a tongue-lashing.

Myrna propped her elbow on the table and leaned her head into her fist. Like I said before, one of these days someone’s going to give her a shove and send her flying. We’ll know because the bells will be ringing something other than the Westminster Chimes.

Oh, that reminds me, my mother said, Herb was supposed to stop by and join us. I wonder what’s keeping him.

Common sense.

You don’t suppose he called that pinochle crew of his and invited them, do you?

Judging from the pained expressions on the ladies’ faces, I hoped that wasn’t the case. There’s only so much grousing and complaining I could take in one sitting.

My mother looked around the room and continued. He probably spotted some good-looking woman in the parking lot and he’s out there ogling her. Then, she stretched her neck and pivoted in Shirley’s direction. Have you told Phee about our idea for Streetman’s special wedding outfit?

At the mention of the words wedding outfit, I felt a sudden knot in my stomach. That instant, I wanted to talk about the deli-witch and every other witch from Salem to the latest Stephen King novel, but once the subject of my upcoming nuptial came up, there was no turning back.

In less than two months, I’d be tying the knot with Marshall Gregory, my boss’s partner at Williams Investigations in Glendale, Arizona. This would be my second marriage, having failed miserably at my first with one exception―my daughter Kalese, who just began her teaching career in Minnesota, where I’m from.

I’m Sophie Kimball, better known as Phee, and I’m the bookkeeper/accountant for Nate Williams, who, along with my fiancé, retired from the Mankato Police Department to start an investigative business in a state where snow is optional. I joined him on a temporary basis when he made me an offer that was too good to pass up, and before I knew it, I sold my house in Mankato and took up permanent residence in Peoria, a stone’s throw from my mother. Heaven help me.

Once every month or so, when I’m not working on a Saturday morning, I have brunch with my mother and her friends at Bagels ’n More or the Homey Hut. If I’m lucky, I get to leave without indigestion or a headache.

Go on, Shirley, tell her, my mother said.

I don’t believe in upstaging the bride, so I’m keeping it simple.

Oh, believe me, wedding outfit or no outfit, that neurotic little chiweenie dog of my mother’s will upstage everyone in the Glendale City Hall. And why I agreed to let him do a doggie dance is anyone’s guess.

I swallowed a large gulp of coffee and bit my lower lip. Okay, what’s Streetman going to wear?

Shirley steepled her hands and smiled. It was impossible not to notice how the lovely shade of iridescent aqua accented her dark skin. Meanwhile, I was content with a French manicure once in a while, since it never involved selecting a color that would or wouldn’t work for me.

Your mother and I thought perhaps the dog would wear a version of a cummerbund that matched Marshall’s tie, and in addition, we’d add matching ankle booties that wouldn’t interfere with his paws.

The last time I had to worry about matching cummerbunds was for my senior prom. Even Kalese’s date, if I recall correctly, didn’t bother to do that.

A cummerbund, huh? Okay. That sounds simple enough.

Good, Cecilia said. She looked down at her white cardigan and adjusted the buttons so that the white blouse beneath it was completely covered up. At least she wasn’t wearing black. Maybe because we were approaching summer. If you must know, I found a way to avoid getting waited on by Billie. If she calls my number, I tell her I’m still thinking and she can go to the next person. Then, I get the other person at the deli, whoever that is.

I still think you ladies should shop elsewhere, or at the very least, complain to the management.

Complaining to management takes way too much time, my mother said. And it wouldn’t do us any good. We’ve got better things to do with our time, like figure out who’s going to man our Booked 4 Murder book club booth at the Bye Bye Birdie event at the end of the month.

Oh, no. Not another event. Please don’t tell me there’s another event.

My mother went on. I’ve got to juggle the Broadcast club booth and the clay club. Plus, I’m on the event committee.

I’ll fit it in somehow, Shirley said. But I’m stretched as it is with the Rip ’n Sew and the Creative Stickers. Maybe Cecilia can add another slot.

I’ve got the Rhythm Tappers, remember? You were the ones who insisted I join. What about Myrna?

Hey, I’ve got the bocce club and the clay club.

Don’t look at me, Lucinda said, I’m in charge of the clay club’s booth. What about you, Louise?

Louise Munson shook her head. I’ve got the Sunshine Animal club. The bird group, to be precise.

Then, everyone looked my way and I felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Oh, no. Absolutely not. I don’t even live in this community. I’m only in my forties.

Shirley gave me a pat on the wrist. Phee’s right. The poor girl has enough on her plate as it is. We’ll figure out a schedule and go from there.

Without thinking, the words slipped from my mouth. What’s the Bye Bye Birdie event? I don’t seem to remember it.

That’s because you were too busy with your aunt Ina’s wedding the last time they held it, my mother said. Which reminds me, everyone, Ina says to give you her regards. She and Louis are at some cockamamie meditation retreat in the Catalina Mountains near Tucson.

I tried not to laugh. My aunt Ina was a hippie long before the word was even invented. I suppose free-spirited might be a better way to describe her, but my mother’s label of artsy-fartsy was the one most family members used, including her own son, my cousin Kirk from Boston.

Oh, yes. What did you say, Phee? Something about the Bye Bye Birdie event?

She wants to know what it is, Harriet, Lucinda said before glopping more cream cheese on her bagel.

My mother turned to me, and without pausing to catch a breath, gave me the complete rundown on the end of the snowbird season in Sun City West. It’s a giant send-off, she said. Think of it as a Bon Voyage party where all the partygoers are happy to see the guests leave.

I chuckled. For the past couple of years all I heard were complaints about overcrowded restaurants, congested roads, and drivers who didn’t know how to use turn signals.

Yes, Louise added. All of the clubs have booths and sell their handmade items in case the snowbirds want to bring something back to their home states. The other clubs sell foods and treats, so it’s a real moneymaker. Each year a different club performs. Cecilia’s off the hook since the Rhythm Tappers performed last time. I think the Westernaires singing group is on for this celebration.

Then, a chorus of tell her about the send-off followed.

Louise gave a nod and continued. The event begins at two in the afternoon and concludes at dusk, at which time giant balloons are released from the top of the library bell tower. The snowbirds purchase the balloons in advance and write their names and home states on them. Very touching.

Myrna motioned for the waitress and pointed to her empty coffee cup. Too bad someone couldn’t release the deli-witch. There’s one send-off I wouldn’t mind seeing.

I watched as the waitress went around the table topping off everyone’s coffee. She can’t be that bad, can she? I asked.

Just then, the waitress spoke. "Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhear you. And yes, if it’s the same woman, Billie C., she can and is that bad. Yesterday after my shift, I went to the supermarket for cold cuts. They’ve got a new system there with numbers that indicate how you want your meat sliced. One is for shaved and five is for thick. You get the idea. Well, this poor man kept asking for a half pound of low-salt ham, when that miserable woman kept yelling at him, ‘What number? What number?’ The man, obviously flustered, kept replying ‘a half pound.’ So, what did she do? Screamed even louder. I pulled the man aside and explained to him that the chart on the deli counter had numbers to indicate the thickness. After that, he said ‘three,’ and she stormed off to get his ham. Can you imagine? I’m surprised they still have customers."

I gulped. Whoa. Remind me to stick with salads.

The waitress chuckled and walked over to another table. Seriously, I said, someone needs to register a complaint.

Don’t worry, honey, Shirley replied. She’ll get what’s coming to her. I’m a strong believer in what goes around, comes around.

Myrna gave her a nudge. If you must know, I’m a strong believer in putting marbles on that library stairwell. That’ll teach her.

Marbles? How about if someone lets a few bats loose in there? Lucinda asked.

Bats? What about . . .

And for the next five minutes, the Booked 4 Murder book club wrote its own script for murder. I did at least four mental eye rolls before thanking my lucky stars I shopped in Peoria and Glendale.

Well, as much as I enjoyed getting together with all of you, I said, I really need to get home and defrost something for dinner. We ate out last night so I promised Marshall a home-cooked meal, even if it was prepared eons ago.

Ask him what color tie he plans to wear for the ceremony, my mother said. Two months is not that far off and Streetman needs to be prepared.

God forbid I upset the dog’s social calendar.

I have a better idea, Myrna said.

My mother turned to her. About Phee’s civil ceremony in Glendale?

No, about that deli-witch. Someone should dress as Quasimodo and stand at the top of the tower by the bells. That would teach her a lesson.

I shoved my chair into the table and took off. Then, I spun around and winked. It wouldn’t work. She’d just get on her broomstick and take off. Like I’m about to do.

With that, I figured I’d heard enough about the deli-witch, but boy, was I ever wrong.

Chapter 2

No sooner had I left the table and arrived at the register than Herb walked in. Hey, cutie, don’t tell me I missed all the fun.

Trust me. The ladies are just getting started.

He sucked in his stomach and stood straight up. Quick. Fill me in so I can catch up.

I sighed. The deli-witch, the Bye Bye Birdie event, and the dog’s outfit for my wedding. Don’t ask.

Billie C.? That deli-witch?

How many are there?

Oh, it’s her, all right. If you want my opinion, what that woman needs is a―

Please tell me a good swift kick in the butt and not something obscene.

I know. I know. Don’t say a word. I already got the lowdown on her. Anyway, I should be going.

Sure you don’t want to stick around for another cup of coffee? I just got an email from the Broadcast club. They’ve chosen the announcers for the Bye Bye Birdie send-off. Last year my pinochle crew had the honors. This year it will be your mother along with Myrna Mittleson and Paul Schmidt. Their combination murder mystery/fishing show is a big hit. Go figure.

Go figure indeed. It’s a disaster if anyone asks me.

My mother, along with Myrna, host a murder mystery radio show once a week on KSCW, the voice of Sun City West. She figured if Herb could have his own pinochle pointers show, she and Myrna could discuss cozy mysteries. Guess the radio station management agreed. And then Paul Schmidt came along with his own show―Lake Fishing with Paul. Apparently Minnesota wasn’t the only state with lots of lakes. Arizona was on the list, too. Unfortunately, sometime last year they got the schedule wrong and the three of them showed up to do their shows at the same time.

The result was a hodgepodge of fishing and bait tips coupled with recent murder mysteries because neither was willing to give up the spot to the other person. Anyway, the radio audience, including Williams Investigations secretary Augusta Hatch, loved it. From that point on, my mother and Myrna got to do a combined show with Paul a couple of times a month.

Um, I’m sure my mother will give me all the details. And a whole lot more . . .

I paid my bill and headed for the door. Nice seeing you, I said. Enjoy your brunch. Then I bolted for my car.

The remainder of the weekend was everything I loved about living in Arizona―a late afternoon swim with my friend Lyndy, an early Sunday morning hike with Marshall, who endured another recap of my conversation with the book club ladies, and warm, balmy weather that wouldn’t turn into an inferno for a few more weeks. Too bad it was short-lived. The easygoing weekend pace had shifted to the Monday morning rush before I realized it. As usual, Marshall and I took our own cars to the office since he was constantly on the move with his cases.

According to Augusta, who kept me apprised of Nate and Marshall’s caseloads, usually before they were aware of them, nothing looked to be out of the ordinary that morning. But everything changed when their nine thirty appointment arrived. Even the static in the air, according to Augusta. I had just left my office to grab another cup of coffee out front when Augusta ran her thumb across her neck and said, Got a bad feeling about this one.

Is the client in Nate’s office or Marshall’s? And what does he look like? It’s a he, isn’t it? I thought I heard a man’s voice. Older guy? Younger guy? I leaned over Augusta’s desk and kept my voice low.

You’re getting as bad as those book club ladies. Middle-aged. I’m guessing early fifties. Tall, lean, salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven, cleft chin. No visible tattoos but he does have a scar that runs from his right elbow to the wrist. Did I cover all the bases, Miss Marple?

Uh-huh.

Good. Then now maybe you’ll let me get back to work.

I walked to the Keurig and popped in a cup of McCafé medium roast. Did he give you his name or the reason for the appointment?

It wasn’t an appointment we had on the schedule. The client left a message last night insisting he meet with both detectives this morning. Said he contacted the sheriff’s office but wasn’t satisfied.

I rolled my eyes. No surprise there if he wound up talking with Deputy Bowman or Ranston. Who’s the client? Did he leave a name?

Perry Gaynes from Wickenburg. Owner of the Dancing Caballeros Stable.

"The Dancing Caballeros? I’ve been dying for a weekend at that posh dude ranch. They’ve been featured in Phoenix magazine and there was a segment about them on HGTV not too long ago. It’s a five-star resort with every possible amenity imaginable."

Augusta patted her high bouffant hairdo and went back to her computer. Five-star or no star, a horse is a horse and your butt’s going to smell like one when you’re done riding. No amenity in the world’s going to change that.

Shh. I think I hear chairs moving. The meeting must be over. I don’t want to appear like a busybody.

Too late for that.

I immediately removed my coffee cup from the machine and busied myself with the creamer.

You’re not fooling anyone, Augusta whispered.

Sure enough, Augusta’s description of Perry Gaynes was right on the money. As was her thumb-across-the-neck gesture. Given the expression on Perry’s face and the somber looks on Nate and Marshall’s, it didn’t take a soothsayer to figure out this wasn’t the usual fare for us.

Nate walked Perry to the door and told him Augusta would fax a contract to him within the hour. Marshall, who stood a few feet back, gave the guy a wave and a nod. Not a happy smiley nod, but more like the kind I’d seen funeral directors use at viewings.

The minute the door closed behind Perry, I walked toward Nate and Marshall. What was that about? It’s as if the temperature dropped by twenty degrees in here.

The men looked at each other before Nate spoke. The client is Perry Gaynes, owner of the Dancing Caballeros Stable in Wickenburg, but I’m sure Augusta provided you with those salient details. He crinkled his nose at Augusta, who in turn shrugged. Then he continued. Sometime yesterday afternoon, three horses were stolen from one of their stables―two were quarter horse geldings and the other a sorrel Arabian mare.

Augusta sat bolt upright in her chair. I knew it was only a matter of time before our office wound up investigating horse thieves. Too bad they don’t hang them anymore in this state.

Too bad they don’t have the resources, Marshall said. That’s why the client came to us.

I took a sip of coffee and eyeballed both men. What about the sheriff’s office? Augusta mentioned―

Nate tried not to laugh. Good grief. What hasn’t Augusta mentioned? Then he went on. "Perry called the Maricopa Sheriff’s Office and after a grueling conversation with one of their deputies, his words, not mine, the deputy referred him to the Arizona Department of Agriculture since horse theft comes under their jurisdiction."

I bit my lip. Uh-oh. I can see where this is going.

Marshall walked toward me and gave my shoulder a squeeze. You’ve got that right. That’s when he knew he was in trouble and left a message with our agency last night. Still, he did contact the Department of Agriculture first thing this morning and was referred to their livestock field office.

Moving him further down the dungeon, Mr. Gregory, Augusta said. No wonder the guy looked like a corpse when he walked in.

Marshall sighed. The livestock field office is the one responsible for investigating horse theft, which, by the way, is considered to be a property crime.

I put my coffee cup on the edge of Augusta’s desk and widened my eyes. A property crime? How can it be a property crime? Horses are live animals.

Hurrump. Augusta crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. That’s the same thing my uncle Roscoe said when his prize bovine got snatched during the Wisconsin State Fair back in 1978. They caught the thief, but let me tell you, it was one hell of a night.

Good to know, Marshall said to Augusta before turning his attention back my way. That’s just how it is. Horse theft is deemed a property crime and the factors that determine the value of the animal are mind-boggling. Was the horse a racing horse? A breeding horse? Age and condition? Then there are the circumstances surrounding the theft. Was a weapon used? Was there any sign of forced entry? I could go on but you get the idea.

I swallowed. I get it, all right. You and Nate are the guy’s last chance to ever see those horses again.

You know what the awful thing is? Nate asked. No one can remember prosecuting a horse theft in this county for at least fifty years. But right now, all I’m concerned with is finding those horses before they wind up in another state.

Augusta edged her chair closer to where Nate stood. Do you want me to reschedule your appointments today, Mr. Williams? And Mr. Gregory’s?

The cases on our docket aren’t time-sensitive, with one exception―the cheating wife. So, yeah, go ahead but keep her appointment with me. It’s not until forty thirty so Marshall and I can get started.

What about the contract?

Oh, Nate replied, I think Perry Gaynes is good for his word. Right now, we’re on our way to Wickenburg to review his surveillance tapes and interview the employees. From there, we’ll see if anyone from the neighboring ranches noticed anything unusual.

Marshall gave me a peck on the cheek