THE SOUND OF MURDER (12 page)

CHAPTER 25

“Na na na na. Na na na na,” the firemen sang as I kissed Jeremy. “Hey hey hey, goodbye.” I waved goodbye to them all and headed off for Sunnydale. If I made good time, I’d have an hour before I had to be at the theater.

Nope. I don’t know where all the people were going in their incredibly slow cars, but by the time I drove past the Sunnydale exclamation points, I only had twenty minutes to spare. I decided to make the most of it, and stopped at the Sunnydale Posse Headquarters.

The building looked like a smallish police station, with flags flying, a gated lot for official vehicles, and a few patrol cars parked outside. I parked next to one of them and headed in through glass doors, only to stop cold at the reception desk.

Bitsy.

The Alzheimer’s comment had cemented my dislike of the woman, but there was something else, something sneaky about her that raised my antennae. For one thing, she seemed to be everywhere—the theater, the rec center, the craft fair. And here she was again.

“Ivy! So nice to see you.”

Bitsy’s sincere-sounding greeting made me feel bad I’d doubted her. But just a little. “You too,” I replied.

“Have you seen Marge today? I’m a little worried about her.”

I shook my head. I’d called Marge this morning, but no answer. I even went over and rang the doorbell. I heard a dog bark, and then what sounded like Arnie’s voice. Good. Maybe they were making up. But whatever was happening, I didn’t want to discuss it with Bitsy. “I didn’t know you volunteered here,” I said instead. A gray-haired woman walking down the hall smiled at me and studiously avoided looking at Bitsy.

“Oh, I do a little community service,” said Bitsy.

“More like servicing the community,” the gray-haired woman mumbled as she passed me and walked out the glass doors.

Huh.

“What can I do for you—oh dear,” Bitsy glanced at the clock on the wall, “in the next ten minutes?”

This was awkward. I really needed some information, but felt like I should keep my investigating to myself.

“Is this about Charlie? How did your neighborhood investigation go?” asked Bitsy.

Guess that particular train had left the station. “I was wondering if anyone had their catalytic converters stolen recently.”

“Don’t think we’d have that information, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’d also like to find out a little more about the suicides you’ve had here recently, the manner of death, specifically.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not public record, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“How about the names of the people who committed suicide?”

“Arizona is a closed record state—to protect our privacy, you know, but—”

“You’ll see what you can do,” I finished.

“Wait here just a sec.” Bitsy punched a number into the phone on the desk. “Can you cover the reception desk for me, just for a minute?” she said into the receiver. Then, “Thanks a bunch.”

A short-ish man with a comb-over hurried down the hall toward us.

“Thanks, Max.” Bitsy got up from her desk and trotted down the hall. She knocked on a closed door and was admitted.

“Having a nice day?” I asked the guy, who now occupied Bitsy’s chair. He didn’t answer me, just ran a hand over his elaborate hairdo. I decided to give the shy fellow a break and turned my attention to the framed photos on the walls. Most were pictures of posse members in uniform, but there was also a big photo of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Since the posse was organized under the county, Sheriff Joe was its head honcho. He was also “America’s Toughest Sheriff,” famous for housing inmates in tent cities, reintroducing chain gangs, and making all inmates wear pink underwear (for better inventory control, he said). I wondered if the sheriff’s for-the-public version of the underwear (with “Go Joe!” stamped on them) sold well. I wondered if the Spanish version (“¡Vamos Jose!”) was still on offer. I wondered how Jeremy would look in pink boxers. Before I could wonder how Jeremy would look out of pink boxers (I admit I was heading down that path), Bitsy returned.

“It’s as I suspected. I can’t give you much, but I can put together some information for you. I’m working here again on Tuesday afternoon. Why don’t you come by then?”

“Sounds good. See you at the theater.” I was about to leave when Bitsy said, “You know, you might talk to one of our posse members, Hank Snow.”

My ears perked up at the mention of Creepy Silver Hank. I briefly wondered if they literally did that, stood up a bit more, but directed my curiosity to the matter at hand. “Why him?”

“It’s a funny thing.” Bitsy shook her head in disbelief. “He’s been on every single one of those suicide calls.”

CHAPTER 26

“Do you think real nuns get hot?” I asked. I was. Candy and I were walking through the greenroom to our dressing room after curtain call for the Sunday matinee and I was dripping. “Especially here in Arizona. I mean, they wear all this black fabric.” Yards and yards of it, if my costume was any indication.

“Darlin’, have you been under a rock? Most nuns just wear normal clothes today.” Candy opened the dressing room door for the both of us. “Probably because they got too hot.”

Made sense to me.

“But we could ask my cousin,” she said.

“She’s a nun? One who wears a habit?”

“No, but she was.” Candy sat down and took off her too-tight shoes. The costumer didn’t have nun-looking shoes in a size twelve, so Candy squeezed her enormous feet into size elevens every night. “In a past life. She was beheaded. S’got the birthmark on her neck to prove it.”

I began taking off my habit. The veil and wimple came off pretty easily, but the habit itself had way too many folds. I pulled it over my head, engulfing myself in a sea of sweaty black rayon. “Wouldn’t it be really hard to climb the Alps in habits?”

“I don’t know.” Candy sighed happily. I bet she was rubbing her feet, but I couldn’t see because I was still stuck inside my nun costume. “The girls in the movie wore dresses. Maybe the Alps aren’t so hard to climb. Or maybe there’s a back way.”

Since I still had black fabric covering my face, Candy couldn’t see my look of doubt.

“I think you’re just complaining ’cause you want to wear your curtain costume for bows,” she said.

Busted. In our play, Mary makes the Vaughn Katt dancers some new, less-skimpy costumes out of drapes. Mine was adorable, a short flirty skirt and lace-up Bavarian-style bodice. I looked like that girl on the German beer label.

“That costume is sexy, in an innocent sort of way,” Candy went on.

I could see the light at the end of my habit and struggled toward it.

“Sort of like Cody’s girlfriend,” Candy said as I finally emerged. I managed not to make the “she’s not his girlfriend” statement again, but just barely. “She’s cuter than a sackful of puppies.” Candy continued. “What’s her name?”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah.” Candy was down to her undies and putting on her street clothes. “Do you think they’ve done it yet?” She stepped into her jeans.

“Candy! What is with you lately?” Candy was always sassy, but lately she’d been a bit over the top, inappropriate even.

“I know.” She zipped up and sat in her chair with a sigh. “I’m getting as bad as Zeb. I think I’m just feeling restless.”

“Why? I thought things were good.” Candy had Matt, a job that worked with her schedule, and she was never without acting work of some kind.

“I just wonder what I’m doing here.” She peered at herself in the mirror. “I think I’m getting crow’s feet.”

I put those two thoughts together. “You’re worried that you’re wasting your youth in a dinner theater in Arizona.”

Candy looked at me in the mirror. “You’re getting to be a pretty good detective.” She shrugged. “If I’m really going to be an actress, I’d better hop to it.”

She had a point. But I didn’t want to talk about it, because then I’d have think about it too.

“But something’s up with you too,” Candy said. “Every time I say Cody’s name lately you frown,” she said. “And I don’t think you said ‘boo’ to his girlfriend when she came on opening night.”

Didn’t I? Maybe not. “I was probably hot and grouchy because of this ridiculous nun’s outfit, which did I mention is a stupid costume for curtain call?”

“Yeah, you just did.”

“None of the audience can even tell who’s who,” I finished.

“’Cept for Marge,” said Candy, pulling a hot pink t-shirt over her head. “’Cause she looks like an apple doll nun.”

Marge had tried lighter foundation during dress rehearsal but she looked like a kabuki nun. “Apple doll nun” was a step up.

“She said anything to you?” Candy corralled her unruly curls into a ponytail.

I shook my head. Ever since Friday night, Marge had slipped into the theater at the last possible moment as to avoid all of us offstage. She remembered all her lines and did a decent job of the show. I’m sure none of the audience could see the pain behind her eyes, but we could. And judging from Arnie’s long face and unusually demure demeanor (even his cigar looked limp), the two hadn’t made up.

As worried as I was about Marge, I had other things on my mind, like the catalytic converter conundrum, and Hank. I was sure the two were connected. But how? Maybe if I could tail Hank, I’d find out the link. But not only was my car the only yellow, fire-prone VW around, I was one of the few under-fifty folk in Sunnydale. He’d peg me in an instant.

Candy smoothed her nun’s habit as she hung it on the rack in the dressing room. “I kinda like my habit,” she said, smoothing the fabric. “Because—”

“La la la,” I sang. “I don’t want to hear about playing ‘Naughty Nun.’”

“
Because
,” Candy continued, “it’s so different from clothes anyone wears, yet you sort of disappear into it.” I wondered if she was referring to my tendency to get stuck in the costume, which I seemed to do with regularity. “It’s like you’re hiding in plain sight.”

Oh.

Oh.

Perfect.

CHAPTER 27

It was Monday morning and way too early, but Bitsy had told me Hank was due at the posse at six a.m., so I dutifully got up at the crack of dawn, got dressed in my habit from
The Sound of Cabaret
, and drove Bernice’s golf cart to my first stakeout location. The cart wasn’t exactly what I thought of as a nun-mobile, but it did fit Sunnydale better than my VW, and I thought there must be nun golfers somewhere.

I parked around the corner from Hank’s street where I could see his one-story Spanish-style house. My plan was to follow him to see if he cased any potential victims’ houses or did anything else generally suspicious. I had reread the chapters on tailing people in all my PI handbooks and brought the recommended gear: notebook, mini tape recorder, and camera. I also skipped my morning cup of coffee. “Don’t want to lose someone because you have to make a pit stop,” one of the books warned.

After twenty minutes of waiting (during which I heartily regretted my no-coffee decision), I finally saw Hank back out of his drive. I slunk down in my seat so he wouldn’t see me. This was when I realized that golf carts are not the best vehicles to hide in. No doors, you know.

Luckily Hank didn’t seem to notice. He drove to the posse station, parked out front and walked in the entrance.

I pulled around to where I could see the official posse parking lot, where all the cop cars were kept behind locked gates. Though the posse was made up of volunteers, their cars were exact copies of Maricopa County patrol vehicles, down to the radio antennas and flashing lights.

After a few minutes, Hank strolled into the lot, started up a car, and pulled out of the lot. I turned on my mini tape recorder. “Hank pulled out of the lot at 6:10 a.m., driving a posse car, license plate HDB 8913.” I waited for him to pass by, and pulled out behind him, staying as far behind him as I could without losing him.

Over the next hour, I tailed Hank, making note of his route and of every house he slowed down in front of or stopped at. Twice he stopped for a smoke, once in a church parking lot, once near a golf course, both times looking around to make sure no one saw him.

“Note to self,” I said to my tape recorder. “See if it’s against the rules for posse members to smoke.” I was pretty awake now, but when Hank pulled into a 7-Eleven I was really happy. Coffee!

I didn’t know how long he’d be in there, so I needed to move quickly if I wanted a cup. I grabbed the spare pair of glasses I’d found at Bernice’s house, put them on as an added disguise, and dashed into the 7-Eleven.

Or at least as far as the curb.

Peering through Bernice’s glasses, the curb looked lower than it really was. Not only did I trip over it, I caught my foot in my habit too.

“Oh dear, are you all right?” said the first woman who rushed to help me.

“Have you broken anything?” said another man.

“Are you European?” said another.

“What are you talking about?” a woman (probably his wife) said to him.

“You know any nuns around here who wear habits?” he asked.

“Are you here for the golf?” said another woman, pointing to Bernice’s cart.

“Ja,” I said, trying to disentangle myself from my habit. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” I really hoped no one did speak German since I only knew the few words I’d learned from the play.

“Olive?” said the next voice. Oh no. I peered up through Bernice’s incredibly thick glasses to see mirrored sunglasses. Hank shifted a full paper bag to one arm and pulled me to my feet with the other. Pretty strong for a sixty-something guy.

“Almost didn’t recognize you in that getup,” he said. “Until I heard your voice.” Even speaking German? This guy was good. Or he’d been onto me for a while. “You should be more careful.”

Was there an undertone of menace in his carefully modulated voice? I couldn’t tell, and I couldn’t see his eyes through those damn sunglasses. I shivered a little despite my hot polyester costume.

A packet of Twinkies started to slip off the top of Hank’s grocery bag, which was full of chips and cookies. Hank let go of me, caught the Twinkies, and stuffed the bag in his car. “Why are you dressed like that?” His walkie-talkie crackled and a voice said, “Stand by for a nine-oh-one.”

“Ten-four,” said Hank, sliding into his driver’s seat.

“It’s a promotion for the show.” I’d come up with this nun disguise excuse earlier, but now it sounded pretty lame. “Everyone,” I said in a loud cheerful voice, “come see
The Sound of Cabaret
at Desert Magic Dinner Theater. Dancing nuns!”

“Didn’t she just say she was German?” someone grumbled.

“With Marge Weiss, Arizona’s Ethel Merman!” I said, trying to distract from my gaffe.

A few “oohs” from the crowd, then Hank’s flat emotionless voice from inside his patrol car: “Not anymore. There’s been an accident.”