THE SOUND OF MURDER (7 page)

CHAPTER 14

As I made my way back to Bernice’s house, I rounded a corner, nearly rear-ended a slow-moving golf cart, and solved a small mystery. I knew why the streets of Sunnydale were empty. Everyone was at the annual Spring Craft Sale.

Banners announced the sale in the main rec center parking lot: “Stock Up on Gifts! Support the Sunnydale Elks Club!” As I drove past the pancake booth, the smell of bacon wafted in my open car window and I had to stop. I had to. Bacon somehow overpowers every impulse in my body, especially if I’ve only had a banana for breakfast.

The Elks Club pancake booth sat at the far end of the rec center parking lot, surrounded by long folding tables full of happy bacon-eating people. I pulled in, paid my five-dollar donation, and ate too many pancakes and way too much bacon. I did think about my midriff-baring costume at one point as I dipped an especially crispy slice of bacon into a pool of maple syrup, but decided that eating for a good cause karmically canceled calories.

When I couldn’t eat one more bite, I sat back and enjoyed the sun. Its warmth felt good on my shoulders, but its reflection off the asphalt was near blinding. I dug around in my bag for sunglasses, and pulled out Arnie’s spy shades. I put them on. Wow. They really were cool. I could see everything behind me: the whole craft sale with tables full of handmade quilts, wooden toys, and stained glass sun catchers.

What the heck, I had a few minutes to spare. I pushed me and my full belly out of my chair, and started down one of the long aisles. I was just checking out some beaded earrings when I heard a familiar voice say, “My grandkids love these mittens.” I used Arnie’s sunglasses to look behind me. Yep. It was Bitsy, standing behind a table and holding out a pair of lumpy striped mittens to a mustachioed man who had stopped at her booth. Some instinct kept me from turning around.

“You are
not
old enough to have grandkids,” the man said.

Oh, please.

Bitsy—white-haired and obviously grandma-aged despite whatever work she’d had done—gave a tinkling, flirtatious laugh. “I do, but they’re
very
young.”

“Your grandkids live here in town?” The guy, buff in a fitted gray t-shirt and athletic shorts, looked to be late fifties.

“I can do custom work if you like those, dear,” said the woman behind the beaded earring booth. I ignored her. I wanted to hear what Bitsy said, especially since she had never mentioned grandkids even once. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard her mention family at all.

“In Nebraska,” replied Bitsy. “That’s why the mittens come in handy. So to speak.” She laughed at her own joke.

“You and your husband from Nebraska?”

“My husband passed away a few years ago. Do you know Nebraska?”

“No, ma’am. I just know it’s cold,” the guy said with a little chuckle. “I’m from the south, originally.” He stuck out a hand. “Colonel Carl Marks.”

Even from my vantage point, I could see a shadow flit over Bitsy’s face. “Karl Mar…”

“Not the communist,” the guy said, grinning. “Just a man who fought communists.”

“I also have some with peacock feathers,” the earring lady said to me. I nodded, hoping the gesture would keep her quiet for a moment.

Carl Marks picked up a blue dog sweater with pink felt hearts. “This is great.” He looked it over. “But it’s too big for my dog. Too bad,” he said. “You’re very talented, ma’am.”

She wasn’t. I’d seen some of the things she had knitted during breaks in rehearsals.

“I can knit one to order,” said Bitsy. “And I have many talents.” She dipped her chin and looked at him from under her eyelashes.

“I see,” said Carl in a slow drawl. “Maybe I could bring the dog in question over to your house. Just to get his measurement for the sweater, of course. Maybe around the cocktail hour?”

This was getting weird. Bitsy was probably nearing seventy, a good fifteen years older than the buff Colonel Marks.

The earring lady handed me a little square of tissue paper with her business card taped to it. I guess she had taken my nod for a buy signal. “Ten dollars, dear.”

In Arnie’s glasses, I could see Carl and Bitsy exchange business cards. I took a twenty out of my wallet and paid the earring lady.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Those peacock feathers will look lovely against your blonde hair.” She opened a metal box. Inside were neatly stacked bills, some quarters, and a business card that said, “Colonel Carl Marks.”

“Unusual name,” I said, pointing at the card. “Carl Marks.”

“I know. What were his parents thinking? Nice man, though. Or at least I hope so, since he’ll be coming by my house tomorrow,” said the earring vendor. “He just ordered some custom work from me.”

CHAPTER 15

I was working on my laptop at Bernice’s glass-topped kitchen table, finishing up an insurance report for Uncle Bob, when my cellphone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I had left my number on Duda Detective Agency business cards at a lot of houses that morning, so I answered with my professional voice: “Good afternoon, this is Olive.”

“This is Colonel Carl Marks.”

I felt a stab of something like fear. Had he seen me watching him and Bitsy? I shook it off. So what if he did?

He continued: “You left your business card at my house.”

Ah, just a coincidence. Right?

“Yes,” I said. “I’m investigating the death of Charlie Small.”

A pause, a bit longer than felt comfortable. Then he said, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to tell you, ma’am.” Chewing noises followed. Was he eating lunch?

“Did you know Mr. Small? “

“Yes, but—”

“I’d love to have just five minutes of your time,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Go ahead.” More chewing.

“Would it be okay if I came over?” My uncle had taught me it was always best to question people in person, so you could see their eyes and read their body language. Of course, I couldn’t say that. “This connection isn’t great.” I crumpled some paper next to the phone and made little crackly noises with my voice.

“Well…”

“Great, thanks!” I said, making more crinkling crackling noises. I got Carl’s address, told him I’d be there in fifteen minutes, and hung up, hoping he didn’t wonder how I heard his address through my “bad connection.”

I sat for a minute, mentally prepping for the upcoming interview. The man made me nervous, but I was glad I was going to get to question him. Something was up with Colonel Carl Marks, and I wanted to know what.

Fou
rteen minutes later, I knocked on the door of the first house I’d visited that morning, the oversized behemoth just a few blocks from Charlie’s. The same belly-ringed woman opened the door. “Carl!” she shouted as she turned away and walked into the interior, her blonde ponytail swinging above tight yoga pants. “Honey? It’s that detective.”

So the guy who was flirting with Bitsy had a trophy wife. Hmmm.

Carl Marks entered the hallway from somewhere. He’d put on jeans and exchanged the gray t-shirt he wore at the craft fair for a U.S. Marine’s tee that said, “Mess with the Best, Die Like the Rest.” I wondered if he’d chosen it on purpose.

Then I saw him really see me. His eyes gleamed, just for a second. I recognized the look. I’d been getting it all my life. It was the “no one to seriously contend with” look. I was female, cute, and not particularly serious-looking (or serious-acting, I had to admit): thus, the dismissive look. It used to piss me off royally—until I learned to use it.

“I’m Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detectives,” I said, making my voice higher and softer than usual. I held out a delicate hand.

“Colonel Carl Marks at your service, ma’am,” he said, taking my hand. I made sure to keep it limp as he shook it.

I dug in my purse for the black notebook I used for work, then decided to switch to a sparkly one I’d picked up at the dollar store. “Colonel…” I said, pen in hand, eyes wide with a question.

“Carl with a C,” he said. “And Marks is spelled M-A-R-K-S.”

“Interesting name.” I wondered if the bimbo I was role-playing would know the father of communism, but couldn’t help myself.

“Yours too,” he said. “Olive Ziegwart with Doodoo Detectives.” He gave me the same grin he’d given to Bitsy a few hours earlier, his trim mustache spreading like a caterpillar going for a walk.

“Duda,” I said. “My Uncle Bob’s last name. I help him out from time to time.”

“I see.” Carl didn’t even try to hide the patronizing look on his face. “Come on in.” He led me down the tile hallway. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or a smoothie?”

I made the more bimbo-y choice. “A smoothie would be fabulous.” I slipped the notebook back into my purse, stuck my pen behind my ear and followed him into the living room, where I stopped dead.

“Wow,” I said in my real voice.

Carl didn’t notice the change. “Yeah, people usually say that when they see this room.”

I bet they did. A black leather sofa and chairs sat upon a black slate floor surrounded by black walls and topped off with, yep, a black ceiling. Giant mirrors took the place of artwork and the biggest flat screen I had ever seen took up almost an entire wall. An ocean scene played on the screen: small silvery fish darted amongst coral while a shark swam lazy circles around them.

“Cheri?” Carl shouted in the direction of the open kitchen where I could see Ms. Yoga Pants opening the fridge. “Would you make an extra smoothie for Ms. Ziegwart here?”

“Sure,” she said. Then to me, “Hemp milk okay?”

“Great,” I replied, even though I wasn’t crazy about the stuff.

“Hey!” she shouted over the whir of the blender. “I have a question for you, since you’re a detective and all.”

“Okay.”

Carl waved me toward a chair that faced the back of the house, where big windows framed a patio and pool.

“Hemp. That’s pot, right?” Cheri said as she poured the brown sludgy liquid into glasses.

“Hon, we’ve been over this,” said Carl.

“But it’s the same plant, right? Right?” She aimed the last “right” at me as she walked toward us, a tall glass in her hand.

“Umm…” I said, trying to figure out if I was being put on.

“So why isn’t hemp milk illegal?” She set the smoothie down on the black glass coffee table in front of us.

“What a kidder!” said Carl, swatting Cheri on the ass. She shook her head at him, and padded back to the kitchen to get her smoothie. Carl reached into a jeans pocket, pulled out a piece of gum, and popped it in his mouth. Ah, the chewing noise over the phone.

I leaned forward to get my drink, dipping my head just enough that my pen flew out from its place behind my ear. “Dang. Did you see where my pen flew to?” I bent over the edge of the couch, and peered at the floor by Carl’s feet, pursuing my own little investigative theory.

“Here you go,” said Carl, handing the pen back to me.

“Thanks,” I said, facing him now and meeting his eyes. “So why all black?”

“It’s Cheri’s favorite color.” He smiled and chewed his gum at the same time.

“Is not,” said Cheri, who now carried her smoothie in one hand and a shivering Chihuahua in the other. She nodded at Carl. “
He’s
the one who likes black.” She and the dog headed out the sliding glass door to the pool.

“Me too,” I said to Carl. “It’s slimming.” I sipped my smoothie, which was cool and chocolaty, but still not exactly delicious. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Anything I can do to help, ma’am,” he said. “You’re looking into Charlie’s death?”

“That’s right.” I set down my smoothie and took my sparkly notebook out of my bag again. Outside, I saw Cheri slip out of her clothes. She ambled, buck naked, toward the diving board. Two thoughts wrestled for control of my mind:

1: This was one strange household.

2: I would drink hemp milkshakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if I could be guaranteed a figure like that.

The colonel followed my gaze. “Oh.” He grinned and snapped his gum appreciatively as he watched Cheri dive into the pool. “We’re ‘clothing optional’ at home. Hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head. Thanks to shared dressing rooms and quick changes backstage, the sight of unclothed people didn’t bother me. I took another sip of my smoothie. Though it was growing on me, I decided against a diet of hemp milkshakes. I’d miss bacon.

“So, Charlie’s death…” said Carl. Was he chewing his gum a little faster?

“Yes.” I gave him a bimbo-like smile to cover the fact that I was employing Uncle Bob’s waiting game.

He didn’t bite. “What would you like to know?”

“What can you tell me?” I said, trying the answer-a-question-with-a-question game.

“Not much. Sad situation. Killed himself, despondent over the death of his wife, I guess. I saw the police and fire trucks at his house that morning, but nothing else.”

“About what time was that?”

“Maybe oh-six-hundred hours.”

“Did you see or hear anything else that morning, or the evening before?”

“No, nothing unusual.”

I was afraid I was beginning to sound like a real detective so I mixed it up. “This house, it’s not like the rest of Sunnydale.” I made my voice go up at the end of the statement so it sounded like a question.

“No.” Carl sat up straight with misplaced pride. “None of that old-fogey stuff for us. We wouldn’t have moved here if we couldn’t have something new. There are just a few of these beauties around. This was the first of them. We snapped it up as soon as it came on the market.”

“When was that?”

“About a year ago.”

“It’s beautiful.” I gazed around the scary black room with a rapt look on my face. Being an actor
was
handy when it came to detecting. I made a mental note to tell Uncle Bob. I brought my eyes back to Carl’s face. “How did you know Mr. Small?”

“He was my neighbor, obviously. And I used to be his insurance agent.”

“Used to be?”

“I’m retired.” He looked at me with flat, dark brown eyes.

“So you knew him before you moved here a year ago?”

“…No. Met him right before I retired.” I caught a faint flicker in those guarded eyes.

I looked directly at Carl, intentionally letting the bimbo mask slip. “Did Charlie have any policies with you?”

“You know, I think he did.” He definitely sped up his chewing gum tempo.

I stared at Carl until he fidgeted. “What type of insurance?” I said in my real voice.

“I can’t remember exactly.” He tugged the collar of his t-shirt. This guy really needed acting lessons.

“I see. Well, I’m sure I’ll be able to find the policies.” I rose, enjoying the “what the hell just happened” look on his face. Carl stood.

“I’ll let myself out.” I walked down the hall. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Marks.”

“It’s Colonel.”

I knew that.