Dressed Up 4 Murder, page 15
“Why?”
“Because that’s what’s in the dog food—Asian carp. Not to say the food doesn’t contain salmon, tuna, or other fish, but the carp make up a large percentage of the product.”
“Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“Nope. The ingredients are listed on the packaging, according to content, and the labels are rather generic. They use words like ‘ultra formula,’ ‘premium formula,’ ‘natural formula,’ and my personal favorite, ‘healthy formula. ’ Everything’s on the up-and-up. Anyway, Tucker had a good chuckle when I told him we thought there might be a connection.”
“So, the dogs eat that canned food, huh? Fish bones and all. Pretty dangerous, if you ask me.”
“Not canned. Kibble. The carp, bone and all, are crushed. Pulverized. Then processed. It’s what they do at the plant in Chandler. Like I said, all on the up-and-up.”
I tossed a T-shirt to him and he promptly folded it. “So much for that theory. Now what?”
“We keep at it.”
For the next three days, up until Thanksgiving, that was exactly what Nate and Marshall did. More interviews. More timelines. And more disappointments. Ranston called to let them know he finally located the men who delivered the Galbraiths’ grill. They were employees for the big-box store where the grill was purchased. Employees with spotless records, no priors, and no reason whatsoever to dump a body behind the house where they had made a delivery.
“Let’s all enjoy the long weekend, shall we?” Nate said as we left the office Wednesday night. “Maybe Monday morning will be more promising. At least it will be quieter. I’ve got to drive Mr. Fluffypants down to Sierra Vista for Thanksgiving, and he’ll be squawking the entire time. Oddly, my aunt misses him. Too bad the assisted-living place refuses to let him stay. Anyway, see you all on Monday.”
Augusta put the key in the lock and gave the door an extra tug. “Yep, see all of you on Monday.” Then she patted Marshall on the arm. “I’d take some Pepto capsules with me tomorrow if I were you. While your stomach’s trying to digest the food, your brain’s likely to be spinning.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s only my mom, Shirley, and Lucinda. Oh, and maybe Herb. She usually invites Herb.”
“Like I said, can’t go wrong with some Pepto in your pocket.”
Marshall gave my hand a squeeze as we walked to our cars. “As long as there’s not another naked person running around or another teenage hookup at the neighbors’ place, we should be fine.”
Our contribution to the Thanksgiving meal, in addition to the rolls I bought, was an amazing dill dip Marshall had prepared. He even got up extra early to buy two fresh rye breads for the dip and cut out the round openings on top.
“What time do we have to be there?” he asked when he got back from the store.
“Around two. Harriet Plunkett time. That means anytime between one thirty and two thirty.”
“Great. That red dust is getting to me. I’m going to hose down our cars and sprawl out on the couch when I’m done. Someone’s bound to be playing football somewhere. Or soccer. I’m not particular. What about you?”
“I’m going to give Lyndy a call about getting together sometime this weekend. She and her aunt are going to be dining out for Thanksgiving. They’ve had reservations for months. Then I intend to tidy up and check out the Black Friday deals.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me you want to get up at some ungodly hour tomorrow and wait in a long line with a bunch of—”
“Equally crazy nutcases? No. I’m looking at online deals. There’s nothing I absolutely have to have that would compel me to fight those crowds. Last year alone, three fights broke out in Walmart’s and Target’s areas.”
“Good. Because you had me scared for a minute.”
Marshall and I arrived at my mother’s house at a little past two. Shirley’s maroon Buick was parked out in front and we pulled up behind it.
“She probably picked up Lucinda,” I said. “They usually drive together.”
While Marshall juggled the rolls, bread, and dip, I rang the doorbell. “I’m warning you again. This isn’t going to be like any Thanksgiving you’ve ever had.”
“Good. Mine include the cousins overeating and barricading themselves in the bathroom while my uncles relive their army days.”
The door flung open and my mother ushered us inside. “Hurry up. Come on in. We need your opinion.”
With that, she turned her back and walked into the kitchen.
I gave Marshall a shrug. “Guess you can put the dip in the fridge and the bread on the counter.”
The usual platters of nuts, crackers, cheeses, and spreads took up the coffee table and the end tables in the living room. Shirley and Lucinda were seated on the couch, but that wasn’t what caught my eye the minute I set foot in the room.
Giant poster boards featuring assorted costumes for Tchaikovsky’s Mouse King were all over the place. On the sideboard table, against the walls, and on one of the floral chairs.
I gasped. “What on earth . . . ?”
“Which one do you like?” Shirley asked. “And please don’t tell me it’s the one with the heavy metal chains and grizzly fur. That design is way too extreme. Even for me.”
“I, I, um . . .”
My mother set another platter of canapés on the coffee table and motioned for Marshall and me to take a seat. “Just move the big poster. There’s plenty of room. Well? What do you think? And before you say a word, you’ll never guess where these posters came from.”
“Um, Holiday World in Scottsdale?”
My mother sighed. “Don’t be silly. They specialize in holiday attire for people and their pets, not theatrical costume posters.”
“Okay, fine. I give up. Where? Where did these come from? And why are they so . . . so . . . strange?”
“They’re not strange,” my mother said. “They’re historical. And they happen to come from your aunt Ina.”
Marshall all but spit out the cheese and cracker he had popped into his mouth. “This I have got to hear.”
I jabbed him in the elbow and mouthed the words, No you don’t, but it was too late.
My mother puffed up her chest as if she was about to deliver a soliloquy. “When my sister found out we had chosen the Nutcracker theme for Streetman, she told Louis. He, naturally, had a friend who once worked for the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow and just so happened to have a collection of posters depicting some of the costumes for the Mouse King. These posters are on loan. They arrived yesterday. Special delivery from Toronto. That’s where Louis’s friend lives.”
I was speechless. Literally speechless. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Not even small guttural sounds. Luckily, no one noticed and my mother kept talking.
“We have to return the posters next week. That’s why it’s paramount we decide on Streetman’s costume.”
I looked around. “Um, speaking of the little rat, where is he?”
“In your mother’s bedroom with a rawhide chewy,” Lucinda said. “It was our Thanksgiving treat for him.”
“Well?” my mother asked. “Which design do you like best?”
I glanced at Shirley, who looked as if she was resigned to anything at that point. “Gee, I don’t know, Mom. They’re all kind of complicated and weird. Except maybe for the one hanging on the bathroom door.”
My mother jumped. “That’s not a Mouse King costume. It’s a painting I bought at the craft sale. And if you look closely, it’s not a rat, it’s a cute little mouse with daisies.”
Yep. And this is why I’ll never volunteer to judge any kind of contest.
“I like the sassy-looking one, Harriet,” Marshall said. “The rat with the blue velvet jacket and those big teeth.” Then he turned to Shirley. “How would you do the teeth?”
“Oh, easy enough. The teeth would be part of a mask that would hang over the dog’s nose. Kind of like a muzzle. Of course, with Streetman being so fussy about anything on his face and head, I think I’m better off working it from the collar.”
Too bad. A muzzle on that dog is beginning to sound good to me. Especially the way he behaves around other canines.
My mother shook her head and looked at the posters again. “Those dark tailored suits with the gray faux fur look stunning, but I’m afraid it would be too heavy for Streetman. Yes, I suppose Marshall’s right. The blue velvet is rather regal looking and, with a gold crown and large rodent ears, Streetman will be breathtaking.”
If he doesn’t lose the ears and stomp on the crown.
Just then the doorbell rang and we heard Herb’s voice. “It’s me. Herb. Hurry up. My arms are getting tired.”
“What’s he bringing?” I asked.
Lucinda rolled her eyes. “Probably the same thing he did last year. Two six-packs.”
Marshall quickly got out of his seat. “Sounds good to me.”
Herb said hello and headed straight for the refrigerator. “Don’t need these babies to sit out in room temperature. Good. No one started eating without me.”
“The kitchen table’s all set,” my mother said. “I’ll start warming up the turkey and stuffing. Phee, you can microwave the yams and the squash while Shirley and Lucinda bring out the salads.” Then she looked at Herb and Marshall. “All right. I suppose you two can grab a beer and wait it out in the living room.”
Herb winked at my mother. “That’s what I like about you, Harriet. You get right to the point.”
Twenty minutes later we were all seated around the kitchen table, with Streetman directly under it.
“At least you won’t have to vacuum the kitchen,” I said to my mother. “Your Hoover is fast at work.”
I looked around and realized Streetman wasn’t the only one indulging in the Thanksgiving meal. All I could hear were chewing and chomping noises accompanied by Herb’s continual requests for someone to pass something. Casserole. Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Buttered yams. It didn’t matter. Our arms got as much of a workout as our stomachs.
At some point in the meal, I thought about that delivery to Phyllis’s house. “Hey, have any of you heard of The Bountiful Life? It’s a company that makes health food from fish. I saw their delivery van on Saturday.”
“The teal and white van with that large picture of a mermaid chasing her own tail?” Lucinda asked. “I thought it was a cleaning service that specialized in backyard water features. You know. Like a pool service only for decorative ponds. That thing’s all over Sun City West. Was that where you saw it?”
“Um, yeah. I left my sunglasses at the dog park and had to drive over.” Okay, it’s a teeny little lie.
“I’ve seen that van, too,” Shirley said. “But I thought it was one of those duct-cleaning services. Hidden dust and all that hoopla. Why worry about hidden dust in your house when there’s more than enough of the regular stuff?”
Herb gnawed a large chunk of his dinner roll and grimaced. “Health food from fish? Sounds absolutely sickening. What do they do? Freeze it and reconstitute it?”
“As a matter of fact, they do,” I said. “I was curious, so I checked out their website. And by the way, I think the design is a fish-themed cloverleaf.”
My mother’s head was bent under the table so she could feed the dog little tidbits of food. Her voice sounded muffled. “Where did you see the van? Which one of our neighbors is eating that junk this time?”
I lifted the tablecloth and leaned down. “What do you mean ‘this time’?”
The dog was still nibbling from her hand.
“Remember Gloria Wong who used to live in this neighborhood? She had a contract with those Bountiful Life people. Until they upped the prices on her. Now she’s back to shopping at Costco and checking out the health food stores.”
“Will both of you please have a conversation at the table?” Lucinda said. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
We bolted upright as if it was a drill, and my mother continued. “Gloria told me the prices for reconstituted seafood had skyrocketed because some yuppie-duppy natural dog food company was buying up most of the product.”
“Ew!” Shirley blurted out. “When I was back in South Carolina, people told tales about old folks who were so poor they were eating cans of cat food. I never really believed it. Now it turns out, some of us are apparently eating dog food and paying a fortune for it.”
Marshall, who was absently moving his fork across the plate, stopped and pushed his head back. “Spellbound Naturals. The company Elaine Meschow and her daughter own. Even though Elaine is a silent partner. And, she refers to it as her daughter’s company. Anyway, they use freeze-dried seafood. I wonder if—”
“It tastes like crap?” Herb answered before Marshall could finish his thought. “Yep. Probably tastes like hell. Enough to gag a maggot.”
Marshall pushed his plate toward the center of the table. “Well, on that note, I think I’ve had more than enough. The meal was wonderful, Harriet. And the casseroles were scrumptious.”
Lucinda and Shirley both stood up and immediately started clearing the plates from the table.
“We’ll stack them by the dishwasher,” Shirley said. “In case you have a special way of loading it.”
I stood up, too. “I’ll wrap the leftovers and get them into the fridge.”
“What about dessert?” my mother asked. “Do you want it now or should we wait a little while?”
I looked at the crew and tried to read the expressions on their faces. “I vote for waiting.”
No sooner did I say that when a chorus of “let’s wait,” “I’m full,” and “hold off until later” followed.
Suddenly Streetman got out from under the table, ran to the Arizona room, and began barking and growling at the patio doors.
“Now what?” I asked. “Does he have to go out?”
My mother shrugged. “He runs to the front door for that. I’d better see what’s going on.”
“Maybe it’s another body dump,” Herb said. “I’d better look, too.”
Shirley shot him a look that would kill. “Hush. Probably some quail out there making noises.”
Marshall was the first one to make it to the patio doors. Streetman was on his hind legs, pawing at the glass and growling.
“It’s okay. Nothing to worry about. Three coyotes are milling around your yard and the Galbraiths’ place. No big deal. Nothing to get concerned—Oh no!”
“What?” my mother shouted. “What are they doing? Someone get me my Screamer. It’s on a key chain somewhere. No, wait. That will only scare poor Streetman and he’ll pee on the floor.”
“Relax, Harriet,” Marshall said. “They’ve gone already, but they left a calling card on your back patio. Got a shovel in your garage? I’ll take care of it.”
Dessert followed the coyote incident and the rest of the visit went smoothly. I thanked my lucky stars.
Chapter 17
Marshall slid the driver’s side seat back from the steering wheel. “I have to say, that was one incredible Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at food until Monday.”
“You will. Around nine tonight. We’ll be ravenous by then.”
“Yeah, but at least your mom sent us home with goody bags.”
“It was that or she’d invite us back tomorrow. So, uh, what did you make about that whole business with Spellbound Naturals and The Bountiful Life?”
“Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t give it a thought. I mean, we don’t even know if Bethany and her mother’s company is the one responsible for the decrease in product at The Bountiful Life. Although Tucker did tell me business was booming. Really booming. Dog owners consider their canines family, not pets. And they want those four-legged relatives to eat nutritious, healthy foods. Not by-products or worse.”
“I wouldn’t give it a thought, either. Except for one thing.”
“Elaine Meschow?” he asked.
“More like Elaine Meschow’s near-death-but-not-quite sago palm poisoning. All of them, Elaine, Bethany, Tucker, Jocelyn, and, well, Cameron, are, or, in his case, were, somehow linked in this fish business. Two of them ingested the same toxin and two of them were dating. Maybe there’s more to this situation.”
We were well past Sun City West and only a few minutes from our house. As if someone turned on a switch, colorful house lights illuminated the night. Reds, greens, blues, and whites. It must have caught Marshall’s eye, too, because he suddenly changed the subject. “Geez, I don’t think I’ve ever decorated my house for the holidays. Usually I buy a poinsettia and call it a day.”
“Are you saying you want to decorate our place?”
“Uh, well, yeah. But only if you want to. And simple. Really simple. Not National Lampoon style.”
“No, I think my aunt Ina and uncle Louis will have that covered. And my mother won’t be far behind. She’ll have menorahs on the counter, lots of holiday tchotchkes, and a small Christmas tree on the patio. Growing up with mixed family traditions, we celebrated everything. And I did the same when Kalese was growing up.”
He reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “Sounds like a terrific tradition.”
As we drove onto our block, the first thing we noticed was the house across the street. Marshall stopped the car and we both stared.
“I was kidding,” he said, “when I mentioned National Lampoon. Yikes. Who on earth lives there? Clark Griswold?”
“My God. They must’ve spent the entire day decorating. So much for Thanksgiving.”
“Good thing our bedroom is in back. Those lights are blinding. And the twinkling strobe snowflakes would push me over the edge. So, what were you thinking for our place?”
I looked at the monstrosity across the street and sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe a nice wreath or swag on the door and a few little lights on our cacti.”
“Phew! That’s easy to handle. A heck of a lot easier than that tangled fishnet of a murder case we’ve got.” He pulled the car into our garage and shut off the engine. “Now, if Cameron had been the distributor who serviced The Bountiful Life, I could see someone in that enterprise doing away with him. Especially if the guy was shifting the inventory to the Meschows’ little empire. But Cameron’s company deals in high-priced seafood. Not invasive bottom-feeders, which leaves our investigation right where we started—unable to determine if it was business or something personal.”
