Railroaded 4 Murder

Book 8: Sophie Kimball Mystery

by J.C. Eaton

Genres: Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

While planning her wedding, Sophie “Phee” Kimball gets sidetracked by the murder of a model train enthusiast . . . 
 
Phee’s marriage to Marshall Gregory promises to be the wedding of the year in Arizona’s Sun City West—that is, if you ask her mother Harriet. But before she can walk down the aisle, it looks like she has to solve one more murder. At a model train exhibit, Phee, Harriet, and their beloved Chiweenie, Streetman, discover the body of Sun City West’s railroad club president, with an incriminating tap shoe near his lifeless corpse.
 
Wilbur Maines may have loved model trains but apparently he was not a model husband. There are rumors of affairs with hot-to-trot hobbyists the Choo-Choo Chicks. The police suspect his wife—and Harriet’s friend—Roxanne, who dances with the Rhythm Tappers, but Phee’s mom is convinced they’re on the wrong track. Before the poor woman is railroaded into spending the rest of her life behind bars, Phee, Harriet, and the book club ladies will need to do some fancy footwork, infiltrate the dance group, and find the real culprit before the killer leaves the station . . .
 
Praise for the Sophie Kimball Mysteries
 
“Fun characters, a touch of humor, and a great mystery, the perfect combination for a cozy.”
—Lena Gregory, author of the Bay Island Psychic Mysteries on Ditched 4 Murder
 
“So cleverly written, you won’t guess the perpetrators until the very end.”
—Mary Marks, award-winning author of the Quilting Mystery Series on Booked 4 Murder


 

Release date: August 24, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Ugh. Another phone call from my mother during my break time.

“Of course you can get him into the Glendale City Hall,” she said. “He’s a service dog.”

It was a good thing I swallowed my last bite of a donut before hearing my mother’s comment or I would have choked to death. “A service dog? Have you gone bonkers? Streetman is anything but!”

“Well, he’ll be performing a service, won’t he? He’ll be carrying your wedding rings in a pretty little gauze bag and bringing them down the aisle or whatever setup they have for a civil ceremony.”

Not if Marshall and I have anything to say about it. “Look, Mom, I’ve got to get back to work. My break is almost over. And the wedding isn’t until June. The end of June, to be precise. That’s three months from now. We wanted to make sure Kalese will be done teaching so she can fly in from St. Cloud.”

“My granddaughter would want Streetman at the ceremony. She adores that dog.”

“Look, I know you have your heart set on having him take part in the wedding, but maybe we can bring him back a doggy bag or something from the reception. Besides, you know how that neurotic little Chiweenie gets around people. He’ll either duck under the seats, grab someone’s sweater and refuse to let go, or, worse yet, lift his leg on the podium.”

“He’s making progress, Phee. He now stands on his rear legs and does this adorable little doggy dance to get treats. Or when he hears music on the radio or TV. He’s improving every day. He just needs some time.”

And a refill of his doggy Xanax . . . “I’ll keep that in mind. Talk to you later.”

No sooner had I hung up the phone when Augusta, our secretary, leaned against the doorjamb to my office. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. Honest. But you did get a bit loud. Especially the bonkers part. Don’t tell me. Your mother wants the dog to be in the wedding party?”

I groaned. “It’s not a wedding party. It’s a simple civil ceremony for family and friends, followed by a nice luncheon at the Renaissance Hotel in Glendale. And yes. She does. She wants the dog to participate. And worse yet, if I relent and say yes, she’ll get her friend Shirley to design an outfit for him that would put Lady Gaga’s designers to shame.”

“Maybe you and Marshall could elope or something. Vegas is nice that time of year.”

“Trust me. We thought of that, but she’d only follow us, along with that book club of hers. Anyway, I need to get back to these spreadsheets. The accounts aren’t going to reconcile themselves.”

Augusta chuckled and walked back to the outer office. She and I comprised half of the four-person team at Williams Investigations, about twenty miles northwest of Phoenix and a stone’s throw from my mother’s community of Sun City West, Arizona.

My boss, Nate Williams, was a retired detective from the Mankato, Minnesota, Police Department, where I had worked in accounts receivable. A few years ago, I’d gotten a good taste of Sun City West when my mother and the book club ladies became convinced they were reading a cursed book responsible for a series of unexplained deaths. Tired of listening to her histrionics, I flew out west to see what was going on and, within minutes, found myself embroiled in murder and mayhem. Not to mention gossip, exaggeration, and downright wackiness. But that wasn’t the worst of it—Streetman, my mother’s dog, was.

When one of her friends went into assisted living, she rehomed the litter guttersnipe and proceeded to spoil him like nobody’s business. The dog came with a litany of behavioral issues, but none of that mattered to Harriet Plunkett. As far as she was concerned, Streetman was her little prince. Go figure.

Then there was my mother’s Booked 4 Murder book club, where the gossip and innuendo traveled faster than the speed of light. I vowed not to return anytime soon, but Nate made me the proverbial “offer I couldn’t refuse” to relocate to Arizona and handle his bookkeeping and accounting. Using the old what-have-you-got-to-lose? ploy, he convinced me it would be a good move. Go figure.

I was a mid-forty-something divorcee and a licensed bookkeeper and accountant. Now I’m engaged to be married. Sometimes I look at the ring on my finger and have to touch it to be sure I’m not imaging things. My fiancé, Marshall Gregory, is the third employee at Williams Investigations. Like Nate, he’s a retired Mankato Police Department detective, albeit fifteen or so years younger. My age, to be precise.

I’d had a schoolgirl crush on Marshall for years while I was employed in Mankato. Little did I realize, he felt the same way. So, when he moved out here to join Williams Investigations, we both “came clean,” and our relationship took off.

We share a rented home in Vistancia, a multigenerational neighborhood not far from the office, and unless our wedding ceremony gets mucked up because my mother decides to sneak that little dog of hers into the Civics Building, the next ring on my finger will be a wedding band.

Thirty seconds later, my cell phone rang, and like a Pavlovian dog, I answered it immediately. It couldn’t be my mother again because she always used the office line. Something about needing “a real connection.”

“Hey, Phee! It’s me, Lyndy. I figured you’d be on break. Just checking to make sure we’re still on for Mexican at Abuelos after work.”

“Absolutely. I can taste their guacamole already. Marshall won’t be back from Yuma until tomorrow afternoon and I dreaded the thought of a frozen dinner, or worse.”

“He must get tired of testifying on some of those cases.”

“The long drives are a pain, but I don’t think he minds the rest of it. Anyway, I can’t wait to tell you about my mother’s idea for a ring bearer. It’s a doozy.”

“Does it have four legs?”

“Aargh. You know her too well. See you after work.”

I ended the call and smiled. It was good to have a friend my age who understood about wacky families. Lyndy Ellsworth moved out west following her husband’s death and found herself dealing with an eccentric aunt who, like my mother, also lived in Sun City West.

It was a little past six when I spied Lyndy at Abuelos. Because it was a weekday evening and some of the snowbirds had already headed home, the place wasn’t as packed as usual. Our table was adjacent to the indoor courtyard fountain and flanked by two giant ficus plants. Lyndy waved me over and proceeded to tell me about her day.

“I swear, they deliberately change the health plans just to frustrate me. Do you know, I can recite the nuances between the old Medicare Supplemental F and now the new plans in my sleep?”

“Ugh. Glad I just work with numbers, not health plans like you do.”

A twenty-something waiter with wavy, brown hair took our drink orders as we perused the menus. Enchiladas with carnitas for Lyndy and a giant bowl of shrimp and jalapeño chowder for me.

No sooner had I put down the menu when I glanced across the room. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no!”

“What?” Lyndy asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t make any sudden moves that will call attention to us. If we move quickly, maybe we can leave some cash on the table and sneak out of here.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Whatever you do, do not turn around. That’s my mother across the room from us with two of her book club friends, Shirley Johnson and Lucinda Espinoza. They must not have noticed us when they came in. Thank God for these giant ficus plants.”

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“Of course I’m sure. I can recognize my own mother. Even if she changes her hair color every time the wind blows. And there’s no mistaking Shirley and Lucinda. One tall, elegant black woman accompanied by a frumpy woman with blondish-gray hair. Yes, it’s them. We’d better make a move. Now! Good grief. What are they doing here? They never leave the compound. Unless—”

“HomeGoods is less than a quarter mile from here. They must be having their March sundown sale,” Lyndy said. “Maybe we can just keep our heads down. I’m starving.”

Just then, the waiter returned with our drinks and asked for our orders. I was doomed. It was only a matter of minutes. Minutes? Who was I kidding? Seconds. I detected a slight movement from across the room, and all of a sudden, my mother was standing shoulder to shoulder with the waiter.

“Phee! I thought you’d be heading right home from work.” Then she nodded to Lyndy. “Nice to see you again.” Then back to me. “I’m with Shirley and Lucinda. HomeGoods is having a late-day sale. We thought we’d eat first.”

Lyndy kicked my ankle under the table and I tried not to laugh. “Uh, sounds like fun.”

“You’re welcome to join us, you know. Dinner and shopping. We can move the place settings in no time.”

I threw my hands over my bread plate as if protecting a government document.

Meantime, the waiter stepped back. “We’re more than happy to accommodate you.”

“No,” I all but shouted. “I mean, that’s not necessary. Um, you’ve got our orders, so we’ll stay where we are.”

He nodded and took off before my mother could call him back or, worse yet, grab him by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Thanks for asking, Mom. How about we stop by your table for a few minutes after we eat. Coffee maybe?”

“All right. I’ll tell the girls. And think about HomeGoods. There must be something you need. Especially because we had to return all those stolen goods from that garage sale a few months ago.”

“You don’t have to remind me. Anyway, Marshall and I are all set. Enjoy your meal.”

“Good seeing you again, Mrs. Plunkett,” Lyndy said.

“Same here.” My mother traipsed back to her table, and I waved to Shirley and Lucinda. “Whew! That was a close one. Usually she nags until she gets her way. Of course, we’re not off the hook yet. I had to open my big mouth and tell her we’d join them for coffee.”

“That’s okay. Your mom’s friends are really quite entertaining.”

“That’s a nice way of saying ‘loony.’ I’ll give you that much.”

And while my meal with Lyndy was slow-paced and relaxed, our desserts with my mother and her friends made up for it.

“I’m telling you, Harriet,” Lucinda said, “one of these days Roxanne Maines is going to wind up murdering her husband. It’s just a matter of time.”

Lyndy dropped her spoon and it clanked on the small dish under her coffee cup.

“You’ll get used to this,” I whispered. “Just play along. It’ll make sense eventually.”

“Are they talking about a soap opera?” she whispered back.

“No. It’s not one of the Telemundo names I’m familiar with, and believe me, I get a weekly earful from them. Lucinda translates the Spanish, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

Shirley wiped the sides of her lips with a napkin and sighed. “Lordy, Roxanne must have the patience of a saint. I could never put up with that man’s nonsense.”

“The pack rat business is one thing,” my mother said, “the philandering is another. I would have given that geezer the boot decades ago. What did he do now?”

Lucinda leaned into the table, forcing the rest of us to follow suit. “He was seen locking lips with some floozy from the Sun City West Model Railroad Club. One of the Choo-Choo Chicks.”

Lyndy and I looked at each other and I shrugged.

“I give up,” I said. “What’s a Choo-Choo Chick?”

“A female member of the club,” my mother answered. “But if Roxanne gets her way, that woman may find herself face down on the railroad tracks.”

My mother’s comments weren’t usually prophetic, but in this case, she came awfully close.

I was used to the conversations the book club ladies had. It was like dealing with Swiss cheese. One slice per speaker. Holes and all. But if you put another slice behind the first, some of the holes would get filled in. A few slices later, you might know what was going on.

In our case, it took Lyndy and me two cups of coffee and I lost count of the Swiss cheese slices.

“You remember Roxanne from my Bunco group, don’t you, Phee?” my mother asked.

“I, uh, um . . .”

“Of course you do. She’s in the Rhythm Tappers and the Jazzy Pom Tappers, too. You and I went to one of their shows at the Stardust Theater a few years ago. Tall, blond woman, shapely legs. She was a former Radio City Rockette. Of course, I’m not sure if she’s still blond. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

Lyndy took a spoonful of her flan and stifled a laugh. “I’m sure I’d recognize her if I saw her,” I lied. I’d never met the woman up close and personal, but what the heck.

Lucinda stabbed one of the caramelized bananas from her dessert bowl and held it still for a moment. “Her husband is Wilbur Maines. He’s the president of the Sun City West Model Railroad Club. Been president since the discovery of dirt, from what I’ve been told.”

“Wilbur Maines. Why does that name sound familiar? Is he one of Herb Garrett’s friends?”

Herb was my mother’s neighbor and for some reason seemed to be involved in everything—theater productions, the broadcast club, and, of course, his own pinochle crew.

“Nope, not one of Herb’s cronies.” Lucinda faced my mother. “He isn’t, is he, Harriet? I mean, you haven’t seen him going over to Herb’s place, have you?”

My mother shook her head. “No. Only the usual gang. Every Thursday night. Kevin, Kenny, Bill, and Wayne. Of course, it’s not like I’m keeping tabs on his house, but I have to take Streetman outside after the news at seven.”

Shirley, who had been relatively quiet up until that point, clasped her hands together and took a breath. “Phee probably recognized the name because there was an article about the railroad club in the Sun City Independent. Something about a ruckus over which size train track to use for the new display across from the little pavilions at Beardsley.”

“Train-track size?” Lyndy asked. “We’re talking model trains, right? Not a full-size one, like the Santa Fe Railroad exhibit in Wickenburg?”

“Oh, it’s model trains all right,” Shirley continued. “Those model railroads come in two sizes. At least I think that’s what the article said. Wilbur Maines was adamant the Beardsley display use a G track. Or was it an H track? Wait. I think it was H. I think G is my new health insurance supplement. Of course, G track sounds familiar. Hold on, maybe it was an—”

“Eight track?” The words slipped out of my mouth, and Lyndy nearly spat out the sip of coffee she’d just taken.

“Sorry, Shirley,” I said. “I couldn’t resist.”

“That’s okay. I have to admit, it was funny. Anyway, there’s a lot of grousing going on at that club over the train-track size. Good thing the project is a year off.”

My mother pushed back her chair from the table and sighed. “Well, if we don’t take off, we’ll miss that sale. Sure you girls don’t want to join us?”

“We’ve got work tomorrow, Mom,” I said. “Maybe another time.” Or decade.

Lyndy grabbed me by the arm after we exited the restaurant and walked toward our cars. “My God! It was like trying to follow a stream-of-consciousness dialogue, but without the printed version.”

“No kidding. And trust me when I tell you, tonight’s dinner conversation was pretty clear-cut. Usually it takes me days to unravel it. And we were lucky it was only my mom and two of her friends. You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like when the entire Booked 4 Murder book club gets together. Maybe they’ll put today’s gossip to rest.”

“I hate to tell you this, Phee, but I don’t think you’ve heard the last of the Roxanne-and-Wilbur saga. And those train tracks? What difference does it make?”

“Beats me, but I’m sure I’ll find out. Whether I want to or not.”

I hadn’t given Roxanne Maines or model railroads another thought until I walked into the office the following morning.

Augusta was already at her desk and the Keurig was ready to go. “Nice dinner out last night?”

“It was. Until my friend Lyndy and I ran into my mother at the restaurant. She was eating with Shirley and Lucinda.”

“You went to dinner in Sun City West?”

“Oh heavens no. I know better than to take a risk running into one of the book club ladies. Nope. We went to Arrowhead in Peoria. Thought we’d be safe. Ha! My dumb luck my mother and her friends were on their way to a sale at HomeGoods and decided to eat at the same restaurant we did.”

“Oh brother. Don’t tell me you wound up at the same table.”

“Only for dessert. And that was bad enough. Got an earful about some woman and her philandering husband. Oh. And model trains, too.”

“Must be the morning for women with philandering husbands. Nate’s meeting with one of them right now. Lady by the name of Roxanne Maines.”

“Roxanne Maines?” It can’t be.

“Uh-huh. Do you know her?”

“Tall? Blond? Maybe in her sixties or seventies?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Don’t tell me she’s in your mother’s book club?”

“No, only their gossip. I mean, if it’s the same lady. The one my mother was yammering about was a former Radio City Music Hall Rockette.”

Augusta shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Want me to buzz you on the phone when she walks out of Nate’s office? You can see for yourself if you think it might be her.”

“Geez, that’s so unprofessional. But yes, buzz me. I’ll be discreet. I’ll bring my coffee cup out here and act nonchalant.”

“I’ll say one thing. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“That’s not funny, Augusta. I may have professional reasons to find out if it’s her.”

“Really? Professional reasons? You plan on offering your accounting services?”

“One can never tell.”

“Harrumph. I’ll be sure to let you know when it’s time for your entrance.”

Both of us laughed, and I walked into my office, but instead of closing the door, I left it slightly ajar. For the next forty minutes or so, I immersed myself in invoices. The phone rang once, but it turned out to be one of our vendors, who had a question for me. Another ten minutes went by and, sure enough, there was a buzz from the outer office. I reached for my coffee cup, got out of my chair, and threw open the door.

A tall, blond woman wearing dark slacks and a clingy cowl-necked sweater walked to the front door accompanied by my boss. I pretended to select a coffee pod while eyeballing both of them. It was hard to say, but the woman certainly fit my mother’s description.

Suddenly, she turned and was face-to-face with Nate. She latched on to his wrist and, in a voice that owned the room, said, “So help me, if I find out he’s having an affair with one of those train-chugging, Choo-Choo chickens, the next thing his lips kiss will be the stone-cold pavement.”

Yep, it was the Roxanne Maines all right. Not a single doubt in my mind. I tapped the floor, waiting for the K-cup to quit brewing, and locked gazes with Augusta.

Satisfied? she mouthed.

I nodded back and smiled.

By now, Roxanne had left the office and Nate walked toward us. “The two of you will have to do better than that if you ever plan to do surveillance work. Why the sudden interest in our new client?”

“Not my interest,” Augusta said. “Phee’s the one staking a claim to this case.”

“I’m not staking a claim. It’s just that—well, if you must know, Roxanne Maines was the subject of a long conversation my mother and her friends had last night at the restaurant. My friend Lyndy and I happened to be there, and before we knew it, we got swooped up and deposited at my mother’s table for dessert.”

Nate burst out laughing and shook his head. “Like fish in a pelican’s mouth, huh?”

“In a manner of speaking. And yes, Lyndy and I were privy to some idle chitchat about Roxanne, but nothing that Roxanne probably hasn’t already told you.”

My God! I’ve become the gossip-mongering washerwoman in all those fairy tales.

Nate moved closer to Augusta’s desk, where I was now standing. “And what exactly did you ascertain from your enlightening conversation? And dare I ask which of your mother’s friends were passing along their intel?”

I gulped. “Shirley and Lucinda.”

With that, Nate leaned over and belly laughed so hard, I thought he’d lose his breath. “Shirley and Lucinda? I’m afraid to ask, so I won’t.”

Nate had gotten to know my mother’s friends in the past two years as a result of a few murders that took place in Sun City West. Had it not been for the exaggeration, gossip, and innuendo the ladies were famous for, Williams Investigations, along with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, would have solved those cases a whole lot sooner.

“We’ve got the gist of it,” Augusta said. “Rotten, cheating husband. And no innuendo there. We heard it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I thought the part about the lips kissing the pavement was a bit overdone, but what do I know?”

“About the same as I do at this point,” Nate replied. “And I’m going by the book on this case. A little digging around and some undercover surveillance. Shouldn’t be all that hard to find out if the husband is stepping out on her. From what I understand, the guy spends most of his time at the Model Railroad Club on R H Johnson Boulevard when he’s not working on the train exhibit at the Beardsley Rec Center. Won’t take a herculean effort to see if he leaves either of those places with anyone.”

“I might as well really make myself a cup of coffee,” I said, “as long as I’m standing here. I don’t even know Roxanne, but I feel sorry for her if what she says is true. I hate the idea of infidelity.” . . .