Broadcast 4 Murder

Book 7: Sophie Kimball Mystery

by J.C. Eaton

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

All of Arizona’s Sun City West heard Sophie “Phee” Kimball’s mom scream bloody murder, but it’s up to the reluctant sleuth to find the killer …
Phee's mother Harriet is going to be a star! At least, that's how the Sun City West retiree describes her chance to host a live radio program of her book club's Booked 4 Murder Mystery Hour on Arizona's KSCW. But instead of chatting about charming cozies, Harriet ends up screaming bloody murder over the airwaves after discovering the body of Howard Buell, the station's programming director, in a closet--with a pair of sewing shears shoved into his chest.
The number one suspect is Howard's ex-girlfriend Sylvia Strattlemeyer who believed she was going to host a sewing talk show before Harriet was offered the spot. But not only do the fingerprints found on the scissors not match Sylvia's, they belong to a woman who passed away twenty years ago at the age of ninety-seven. Now, with the whole town on pins and needles, it's up to Phee to stitch together enough clues from the past to uncover the identity of a killer in the present...

Release date: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Myrna Mittleson, all five-foot-nine of her, charged out of my mother’s house and nearly bumped into me on the walkway. “Oops! Sorry, Phee! I’m in a rush to get to the beauty parlor. God bless the state of Iowa!”

It was a Saturday morning in late January, and I was returning a large salad bowl I had borrowed for a neighborhood dish-to-pass party. Before I could utter a word, Myrna blew past me and raced to her car, a nondescript beige sedan. God bless the state of Iowa? I knew my mother’s Booked 4 Murder book club friends leaned toward the eccentric side, but for the life of me, I had no idea what Myrna was talking about.

The door to the house was still ajar and my mother stepped outside.

“Did you hear that?” I asked. “Iowa? I thought she was from Brooklyn.”

My mother ushered me inside. “She is. But right now we’re enamored with the state of Iowa.”

“Huh? Why? I don’t get it.”

“Quick! Come in. Close the door behind you before Streetman runs out. I think I heard a bird chirping and he’s likely to run after it.”

I looked around the room and spied the little Chiweenie sitting on the couch, trying to tear off what looked like a Christmas tree plastered to his back.

“Um, I don’t think so. And what’s he wearing? Is that supposed to be a Christmas tree with a hoop skirt under it?”

“It’s one of Shirley’s designs. We’re getting an early start for the Christmas in July program.”

“Good grief! The holiday event was only a few weeks ago.”

“You have to plan early in these retirement communities.”

“Your dog is planning early. Look! He pulled off one of those dangling ornaments.”

My mother groaned, walked over to Streetman, and removed the costume. “We’ll try later,” she said to the dog.

I shuddered. “Anyway, here’s your salad bowl, and for heaven’s sake, please tell me what’s this business with Iowa. Not another retirement community you’re looking into, I hope.”

“Good grief no! I’m not leaving Arizona. I love Sun City West. Best thing I did was get out of those Minnesota winters. Same deal with Myrna, only she’s from New York.”

I tried not to roll my eyes and nodded as my mother continued.

“Last night Myrna and I got the most wonderful news about Vernadeen Stibbens. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. I was going to call you, but I knew you’d be stopping by on your way to work.”

I was totally lost but used to the way my mother’s conversations circumvented the main idea until boomeranging back to the point. I plopped myself down on a floral chair so as not to disturb the dog’s position on the couch. God forbid I upset that neurotic little ball of fur.

My mother put the salad bowl on the coffee table, grabbed the chair next to mine, and leaned toward me. “Vernadeen Stibbens was asked to be one of the judges for the sewing contest for the Iowa State Fair, and she’ll be on the homemaking committee as well. She still has her condo in Davenport, so technically she’s a resident there. She was one of the judges for that contest back in 1995. Can you imagine? She’ll be reprising her role once again.”

“And you and Myrna are doing cartwheels because someone you know is going to be on a committee? Or worse yet, judging someone’s stitching? I don’t get it.”

“If you’d let me finish, Phee, I’d explain. Vernadeen Stibbens has her own live radio show on KSCW, the voice of Sun City West, every Tuesday morning. Sewing Chats with Vernadeen. Of course, they tape it and run it over and over again during the week.”

“I’m still—”

“Shh! I’m not done. Anyway, Vernadeen will be gone most of the spring and summer because of her role at the state fair. That means Sewing Chats will no longer be on the local airwaves.”

“And that’s a cause for celebration?”

My mother shuffled in her chair and the dog immediately jumped down from the couch. “Isn’t that adorable? He thinks Mommy is going to give him a treat. I can’t disappoint him. Hold on a second.”

My mother walked to the kitchen and returned with a dog biscuit. The dog immediately devoured it.

“Now,” she said. “Where was I? Oh yes, Vernadeen’s show. It was deadly. Topics like nuances of double stitching and harmonious hemming with cross-stitches. Herb Garrett from across the street said he recorded it for nights when he had insomnia. When he found out she had been one of the state fair judges, he asked how many people she put to sleep with her commentary.”

“I’m still not sure why you and Myrna are so overjoyed.”

My mother patted the dog’s head as she grinned from ear to ear. “Myrna and I are rejoicing because we’ve been asked to take over Vernadeen’s slot on the radio with our own show.”

My jaw dropped and I had to remind myself to breathe. Heaven help us. “Ah-ha! And now the real reason! But what show? What are you and Myrna going to talk about? You don’t sew and Myrna wouldn’t know a cross-stitch from a straight stitch. Now, if you said Shirley Johnson, I could understand. She’s a talented milliner and teddy bear maker, but you and Myrna? Seriously?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Phee. We’re not going to have a sewing program. We’re going to have our own murder mystery show! No one knows more about mysteries than our Booked 4 Murder book club. Cozies, forensic, hard-boiled. . . You name it, we’ll talk about it. Myrna even has her own little segment planned for elements of suspense.”

“The only element of suspense I can think of is when Aunt Ina finds out.”

“Oy! Don’t remind me. I’d better give my sister a call before she hears about it from the grapevine. You know how people around here can gossip.”

Intimately. I know this intimately. “Um, when do you and Myrna get started?”

“Tuesday morning we’re going over to the radio station to meet with the station manager to find out what’s involved. It can’t be all that hard. If I have any questions, I can always ask Herb.”

“Herb Garrett?”

“Of course Herb Garrett. How many Herbs do I know? He and his pinochle buddies have their own show on Thursday nights: Pinochle Pointers. Once our show gets underway, Myrna and I will have guest speakers from our club. Cecilia and Shirley are already chomping at the bit to do a program about household poisonings as they relate to murder mysteries.”

“Gee, I’m surprised Louise Munson doesn’t have one planned about parrots that kill. Especially given the one she owns.”

“Don’t give her any ideas. Those things bite. I suppose Ina will want her own segment, too. I can just see it now. She’ll be rattling off about obscure authors from countries none of us have heard of.”

“Er, um, yeah. I suppose. Look, Mom, I’ve got to get going. I’m working from ten to noon this morning and it’s already nine twenty. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for the salad bowl.”

I made a beeline for the door before she insisted I pet Streetman or, worse yet, give him some “kissies.” Besides, he seemed perfectly content back on the couch.

“I’ll call you later. On your real phone. I hate when that cell phone of yours goes to voice mail. It always cuts me off.”

“Okay, fine. Later. Love you!”

I was out the door and buckled up in my car just as Cecilia Flanagan pulled up. Her old, black Buick was unmistakable. Yep, word did travel fast, especially with my mother at the other end of the phone line. I imagined Cecilia had stopped by to get all the juicy gossip about Sun City West’s latest radio show. I beeped the horn and waved as I pulled away from the curb and headed to Williams Investigations in Glendale, where I’m employed. I have my own office and appropriate door sign that reads, “Sophie Kimball, Bookkeeper/Accountant,” even though everyone calls me “Phee.”

Nate Williams, the owner of the detective agency, was a longtime friend of mine, and like me, had worked for the Mankato Police Department in Minnesota. When he retired as an investigator, he moved out west and convinced me to take a leave of absence from my job in accounts receivable to do his accounting. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and one that got better the following year, when another detective from the Mankato Police Department, Marshall Gregory, also retired and joined the business.

I’d had a crush on Marshall for years and, unbeknownst to me, he felt the same way. Maybe Nate figured that out all along and pulled the right strings. Now, almost two years later, Marshall and I were sharing a house together and slowly broaching the subject of marriage. Slowly, because I was still in shock, following my Aunt Ina’s nearly catastrophic wedding ceremony to three-time divorcé Louis Melinsky. Besides, as my friend Lyndy put it, “You’re both in your forties and consenting adults. What else do you need?” Even my daughter, Kalese, a teacher in St. Cloud, agreed when I called to tell her about my living arrangements. I figured it was because she wanted me to be as relaxed about her living arrangements if and when the time came for her to drop a bombshell like that.

I chuckled as I watched Cecilia exit her car. Still the same black skirt and white blouse. Uh-huh. I know a former nun when I see one. Even if my mother says it isn’t so. I figured that by five this evening, the Greater Phoenix community would know that my mother and her book club would be hosting Murder Mysteries to Die For, or whatever title they decided to give the show. As long as she didn’t invite me to be a guest, I would be in the clear.

Augusta, our secretary, was at her desk, coffee cup in one hand and fingers furiously hitting her computer keyboard with the other, when I breezed into the office.

“I don’t know how you can type with one hand,” I said.

“Hey, good morning to you, too, Phee. I learned how to do that when I had carpal tunnel surgery a few years ago. I take it Marshall’s still on that case in Florence, huh?”

“Oh yeah. He left at an ungodly hour. He got a new lead on the whereabouts of that not-so-deadbeat dad. Can you imagine? The guy absconded with their four-year-old in the middle of the night. The wife thinks they may be with friends of his somewhere near Apache Junction.”

“Why didn’t she just go to the sheriff’s office and have an Amber alert issued?”

“According to Marshall, the woman’s madly in love with the guy and thinks he’ll eventually return. She didn’t want to sully his name. Can you believe it? Still, she wanted him found. That’s why she hired us.”

Augusta groaned and took a sip of her coffee. “Nate’s downtown, by the way, with the office manager at Home Products Plus. I don’t expect him to come up for air any time soon.”

“Yeesh. That’s a snarly case for sure. The manager’s convinced someone’s got a rogue operation going since their inventory dwindled without explanation.”

Just then the phone rang, and Augusta picked up, but not before adjusting her tightly sprayed bouffant hairdo.

“I’ll catch up later.” I walked to my office. At least my work was clear-cut and reasonable: invoices to send and a few bills to reconcile. Since Marshall was out on a case, I decided to stick around and grab lunch with Augusta, something I did once in a while because our office usually closed at noon on Saturdays.

When I told her about my mother’s latest endeavor as we munched on baked subs from the deli around the corner, Augusta grimaced. “A radio show? A murder mystery radio show? Let’s hope it turns out better than her last theatrical performance. Last thing you need is another murder.”

I let my fork slip back onto the plate. “Bite your tongue. I’m sure they’ll just be talking about murders.” Too bad I was wrong.

My mother and Myrna had gotten the grand tour of the radio station on Tuesday, and she wasted no time telling me about it that evening. I kept moving the phone from ear to ear because my neck had started to develop a cramp. Meanwhile, Marshall gave me a funny look and a wink as he grabbed the remote and plunked himself into a chair. I moved to the kitchen, leaned an elbow on the table, and muttered “Uh-huh.”

“So, like I was saying, Phee, it’s a very easy setup. George Fowler—that’s the station manager—was very helpful. And Howard Buell, the programming director, gave us the complete tour. Myrna and I will each have our own mics and all we have to do is talk. The program runs for a full hour. The station door will be open, so we can go directly to the broadcast table. Someone should be around to help us, but if not, we know exactly what to do.”

“Um, why wouldn’t anyone be around to help you?”

“Normally they would, or I should say Howard Buell, the programming director, would, but his pickleball team has a match in the morning. Granted, those courts are only a few yards away, but still, it’s not as if he can answer a cell phone or anything if he’s whacking around a pickleball. Besides, it’s a small setup, and most shows are live but also taped. George said he’d be in and out and not to worry about it. Myrna and I are certainly capable of pushing a few buttons.”

Thank God they didn’t volunteer for the aviation club. “Sounds good. What’s your first show going to be about?”

“Murder in general. We’ll mention our favorite authors and go from there. In the future, George or the DJ will show us how to accept callers so we can answer their questions. Oh, before I forget, I called your aunt and told her about the show. She practically shrieked in my ear. Wants to do a segment on Bulgarian mystery authors with a penchant for pistols. Guess we’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. Of course, knowing Ina, it will be sooner than we think.”

“So, next Tuesday, huh?”

“At ten sharp. Say, you take a break around that time, don’t you?”

“I, um, er, it varies.”

“Mark it on your calendar and take your break at ten. That way you’ll be able to hear the beginning of our show. Maybe Nate and Marshall would like to—”

“No. They won’t. They’re working cases. They don’t have time to listen to murder mystery book club chats.”

“Never mind, it will be taped. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the most exciting part about this. Myrna and I will get to attend the Greater Phoenix Broadcast Dinner next month. All the Phoenix radio stations attend. Maybe I’ll even be able to chat with Beth from Beth and Friends from 99.9 KEZ. It’s some sort of an award dinner. Herb went last year, but all he talked about was his porterhouse steak. Oh my gosh, maybe Myrna and I will win an award.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t get too carried away if I were you. I think those awards are meant for outstanding broadcasting.”

“Myrna and I can be outstanding. We can certainly be—I’ve got to run. Streetman is whining at the door. I’d better hurry. He gets very impatient.”

“Okay, catch you later.” I hung up and plopped myself onto the couch. “Remind me to thank Streetman or I’d still be on the phone.”

“Good timing,” Marshall said. “NCIS: New Orleans starts in a few minutes. I’ll mute the commercials and you can tell me all about KSCW’s latest programming.”

KSCW’s latest programming, as it turned out, was the hot topic of conversation for the week leading up to my mother’s radio debut. Without fail, she called me every night to keep me informed about the show. Mostly reiterating odds and ends of gossip she or Myrna heard regarding their show.

“Can you imagine,” my mother said a few days before her show was set to air, “that obnoxious Sylvia Strattlemeyer told Myrna we stole the radio slot from her? Now I ask you, who on God’s green earth would want to listen to an hour on the intricacies of selecting the appropriate beading needle? Her audience would be lining up to poke her in the arm with it. Sylvia told Myrna that Howard Buell himself promised her the slot. Of course, if you want to know the honest truth, Myrna told me Sylvia and Howard had been dating, but he broke it off. I suppose that’s why she didn’t get the slot. I’ve only met him that once, but I can tell you one thing: He was smart to call it quits with Sylvia.”

I tried to be as supportive as I could, but her endless diatribes were getting on my nerves.

The worst was the Monday night before the show. Her call came in like clockwork at eight forty-five. “We may lose the show, Phee! Lose the show! It’s awful. I feel as if someone poked a lance through my stomach.”

“Lose the show? What are you talking about?”

“I was at the checkout line in the supermarket today, and out of nowhere this balding man with a potbelly tapped me on the shoulder. I’d never seen him before, but apparently he knew who I was because he addressed me by name.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘You must be Harriet Plunkett.’”

I stifled a groan. “Then what?”

“I said yes, and he said, ‘Hope your radio show tomorrow doesn’t turn out to be your last, because the station is going to do away with all of the live broadcasting if I have anything to say about it.’”

“Then what?”

“Then the cashier asked to see my loyalty card so I could get a discount, and by the time I was done, the man was gone. Anyway, I called George Fowler as soon as I got home and told him what had happened. According to George, the broadcast club that runs the station has been offered a lucrative sum of advertising money by local businesses if the programming was to go more commercial. You know, lots of product pitches every two seconds.”

“Did George have any idea who that man was?”

“He sure did: Malcolm Porter. He owns a small variety store in Peoria and lives in Sun City West. Said Malcolm has been duking it out with Howard over the advertising. Even accused Howard of canceling some of the ad contracts.”

“Did he? Cancel those contracts?”

“No. Only the station manager can do that. But still, I’m worried, and I can’t tell if George supports the live programs or not.”

“Well, no sense worrying about it now. I’m sure your show will be a big hit with lots of followers and KSCW will want to keep you on the air indefinitely.” My God! I’ll stop at nothing to get off the phone.

The next morning I made it a point of letting Augusta know that at precisely nine fifty-nine we were to drop everything, take our breaks, and turn on the radio to KSCW, 103.1 FM. Marshall had left at the crack of dawn for Florence, a good two-hour drive, and Nate was conferring with a client, the first of his many appointments. At least those two would be spared.

“The coast is clear,” Augusta announced. “Grab a coffee and I’ll meet you in the breakroom. If anyone comes in, we’ll hear them. I’ll leave the breakroom door open.”

“Geez. I can’t believe I’m actually nervous about this. I hope my mom and Myrna don’t get all mucked up or babble on and on without making any salient points about the books they’ve read.”

Augusta turned on the radio to 103.1 and smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

A commercial for Melvin and Sons Plumbing ended and a prerecorded announcement came on. I guess my mother did know how to push the right buttons.

“And now for our next local show. Allow our hosts to introduce themselves.”

My mother’s voice came across very loud, and I wished there was some way to tell her to tone it down.

Augusta saw me cover my ears and laughed. “Don’t worry. Half the listeners probably forgot to put in their hearing aids.”

My mother seemed to go on and on, and I wondered when Myrna would get a chance to speak.

Then, like a bullhorn, Myrna’s voice came through. “Harriet, do something! Someone’s been murdered!”

“That should catch the listeners’ attention,” Augusta whispered.

Myrna continued, “There’s a knife in his chest! And blood. Lots of blood.”

“You’re right,” I whispered back to Augusta. “Myrna’s really good. Lots of emotion. I wonder what book she’s talking about. It could be anyone’s guess.”

Myrna’s voice got even louder, if that was at all possible. “It’s a scissors! Not a knife, Harriet. A pair of scissors is sticking out of his chest!”

Augusta crinkled her nose. “It can’t be Agatha Christie. She liked killing with poisons.”

Just then, my mother was back on the air. “Don’t touch anything. Get away from that closet! My God, Myrna! The killer could be in here with us!”

“Wow,” Augusta said. “This is better than I thought.”

Myrna let out a scream and the station went dead. Only a robotic hum remained. Augusta and I looked at each other for a few seconds.

“I don’t think that dead air is part of their radio show,” Augusta said.

I was already out of my seat and at the door. “Do me a favor, call nine-one-one, tell them what you heard, and I’ll head over to Sun City West. The radio station is inside the Men’s Club building on Meeker Boulevard. Let Nate know, too. Last I knew, he was with a client in his office.”

“Got it. Call me when you know anything.”

I don’t remember leaving Glendale or making the twenty-five-minute drive to the radio station. Everything was a blur. I tried to tune in to KSCW from the car radio, but all I got was static. Maybe my mother hit a wrong button and turned everything off. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about, and this is really her idea of a murder mystery show.

No matter how I tried to rationalize the situation, I couldn’t shake the thought that Myrna had somehow discovered a dead body in the radio station. But how? I thought she and my mother were supposed to be seated at the broadcast table. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to take any chances.

As I pulled into the parking lot behind the Men’s Club, I saw a tall man wearing an Ohio State Buckeyes jersey race to the station door. His long, curly hair bounced up and down on his forehead, and I thought perhaps he was sporting a toupee.

I bolted from my car and was at his heels in seconds. “Hold on,” I shouted. “My mother’s in there.” Off to our left was a sheriff’s posse car, so I knew Augusta had placed the call.

Sun City West was a municipality serviced by the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, unlike the nearby City of Surprise, which had its own police force.

“Which one?” the man asked. “Plunkett or Mittleson?”

“Plunkett, Harriet.”

“I’m George Fowler, the station manager. I stop. . .