Death on Planet Pizza Read online

  Markstone Printing was a non-descript two-story aluminum-sided warehouse sandwiched between a rock quarry and the Santa Fe Dam in the industrial city of Irwindale. Carl Markstone started printing flyers in his garage in 1963. In the 1970s, he graduated to corporate brochures and pamphlets. It was his wife, Eileen's, desire to have her book, "The True Nature of the Aspidistra", published that propelled the tiny shop into the fascinating world of the vanity press.

  Today, Markstone customers are counted not only among the local supermarkets and strip malls, but also among the pseudo-literati of Southern California. And a more diverse group of would-be Saroyans you could not imagine. Markstone Printing ran the gamut from sales on artichokes at Finkbiner's to the first edition of local chiropractor Emil Carty's dissertation on the beneficial effects of Echinacea.

  It was Carl Markstone who'd hired Spenser. A tall, bare bones, no nonsense kind of guy with tired eyes and a slow smile. She'd been on the interview circuit for nearly eight months and close to burn out. By the time she'd stumbled into Markstone, from an ad in the PennySaver, she felt like a piece of salt water taffy; pulled and twisted and beaten into submission. But nowhere near as sweet.

  Maybe Carl had sensed her desperation or maybe it was he who'd been desperate. Whatever. He'd hired her. She'd liked him. Maybe he had liked her. Unfortunately, she would never know for sure. Carl died only five months after she'd started work. She'd known him for a very short time, but she'd felt the loss none-the-less.

  At her age, she reckoned she should be getting used to this inevitable intrusion, but death made her angry, dammit. Angry and fatalistic and convinced of the efficacy of having few acquaintances and even fewer friends. Introspection is a bitch. Spenser shook her head, trying to dislodge morbid thoughts. She slipped the Shadow into the courier's parking space and idled facing the dam. Surrounded by a rock quarry, the Santa Fe Dam was constructed, fittingly, of local granite. It was an impressive structure, but hardly comforting to anyone living or working in its shadow.

  "One good earthquake, Bessie...," Spenser refused to finish the sentence. "So much for banishing morbid thoughts."

  Spenser got out of the car and turned instantly into an unwilling participant in a wet T-shirt contest. Calling the heat oppressive was a kindness. To whom she wasn't sure. All she knew for certain was that beyond that double-paned door was a reception area cooled not only by a cousin to Alaska's Mendenhall glacier in the form of a Carrier air conditioner, but also by a lush forest of philodendron, ficus, coleus, hosta, pothos and, of course, aspidistra.

  She stepped gratefully into Markstone and was greeted by a wild cacophony of irritated voices. Presiding regally at the reception desk was Constance Clementine Watts, receptionist, dispatcher, queen mum extraordinaire.

  CC, putting it bluntly, was round. Everything about her was round. She was 5'4", 260 pounds, with powerful truck driver arms, thanks mainly to her confinement in a wheelchair. She had a gray-haired Charlie Brown head, holding Orphan Annie gray eyes and a chin that folded twice down to her ample cleavage. She was loud and gregarious, cynical and overbearing. And being wheelchair bound for almost six years had not slowed her in the least. She was also one of the few people Spenser liked without reservation.

  Standing toe to wheel with this very formidable woman was the no less formidable Mike Moran, chief printer and bane of CC's existence. Moran was a banty rooster of Italian heritage, despite his Anglicized name, with a temper that proved his Calabrese antecedence. Their arguments were legendary, but Spenser often suspected that the outward belligerence masked a deep, okay very deep, respect that neither combatant would ever acknowledge to anyone, let alone themselves.

  Standing some distance from this barrage from the Merrimack and Monitor, with arms folded and coiled to strike, was Carl's widow, Eileen. She was stretched to her impressive 5'10", feeding her recalcitrant employees just enough rope to hang themselves. Spenser had seen the trenchant Mrs M in action before and it was indeed a sight to behold - cool, collected and used to getting her way. This particular discussion, if such stridence could be thus defined, seemed to be centering on a poster. A poster riding the air in the animated hands of the printer.

  "Listen, you," croaked Moran, "mauve is not purple."

  "Mauve is not purple like yellah is not ambah," fumed CC, her broad Texas drawl even more pronounced than usual.

  "Oh, such a expert on color all a sudden," returned Moran. "Ehi, Missy, I been mixin' colors 'fore you was even old enough to wipe yer nose. So don' chu go tellin' me this ain't mauve." Moran shot the poster under CC's nose.

  "When I say I want mauve, you depraved Da Vinci, I mean I want mauve." CC's eyes became small slits throwing large daggers. "Not some plum-y slag that looks like a Barney the Dinosaur reject." She grabbed the poster with such force it ripped in two.

  "Ha," derided a sniggering Moran, "plum is mauve."

  Spenser looked at Eileen. Uh, oh. This was it. Mrs M'd had enough. The elderly woman had moved to within inches of her battling employees. It took only the slightest of moments for her proximity to register on the two. It was, after all, impossible to ignore that powerful presence. They turned and grinned sheepishly at the septuagenarian.

  "I noticed an old shipment of Caribbean Blue on the dock, Mr Moran." Eileen's voice was soft and creamy, like peanut butter on marshmallow fluff.

  "Caribbean Blue?" echoed Moran.

  "Yes, I believe it was from a cancelled order.” She smiled benignly. “A beautiful color, don’t you think, Constance Clementine?" cooed Mrs M.

  "I...uh...well...," tripped out of CC's mouth.

  "Perfect for posters and such." Eileen's face was angelic. "Personally, I would choose that color since we seem to have quite a bit on hand.” She looked at Spenser and smiled. Spenser smiled back.

  You could cut silence with a palette knife. “Of course," countered Eileen, an ominous tone invading her words, "the alternative would probably involve charging you," she looked at CC, "full price for a new order...and scheduling you," her gaze fell on Moran, "to finish the poster after hours." Moran's mouth gaped open. "No overtime, of course." Eileen's cobalt blue eyes were sharp enough to cut diamonds.

  CC sighed, defeated. "Oh, all right," she answered, martyrdom oozing out of every pore. "But," she appended, looking directly at Moran, "it better be blue and not somethin' stupid like cyan."

  "Yeah, right," sniggered Moran, "like you'd know cyan if'n it came up and bit you on the..."

  "Blue," interrupted Eileen. "Just blue."

  "Blue," acknowledged the pegged down Italian-American. He harrumphed loudly then reluctantly disappeared into the yawning maw of the print shop.

  The owner then faced CC and tsk-tsked in mock school marm fashion. "Sometimes, Constance Clementine, you and Michael act worse than my grandchildren." Eileen Markstone lifted her chin, nodded to both women and regally climbed the stairs to her office, just a trace of a smile sweeping over her almost stern face.

  CC and Spenser waited for the office door to close then burst out laughing.

  "What was that?" asked Spenser.

  "Moran's doin' the poster for Tucker's play."

  Spenser took the torn poster from CC's hands and reconnected the halves. Tucker, CC's only child, lived at the Sunflower Home for Adults, a residence for the mentally and physically challenged.

  The home was raising money to expand their game room by presenting a residents' version of "Peter and the Wolf".

  "Who's Tucker?" asked Spenser.

  "The grandfather," beamed CC. "You should see him in his lederhosen." A laugh started in her toes and shook her whole body on its way to her throat. "Damnedest thing I ever did see." She wiped tears from her eyes. "And Gina Mae, playin' a duck? Well, ain't nothin' better to bring a smile to your heart."

  Gina Mae was Tucker's current girlfriend. She was 28-years old with Down's Syndrome, a Puckish sense of humor and an irreverent streak that always seemed to get her, and Tucker, into lots of trouble.

  "Do
me a favor, Spenser..." CC carefully placed a folder on the counter. "Take this velox over to the Sunflower, will ya." The velox, a glossy paste-up, displayed the program cover design with the cast names and a sketch of Richard Kelsey's 'Peter and the Wolf'. "Ask for Dr Saunders. She's the new director. If she gives the okay, tell her we can get the program over to her by next Friday."

  "Will do." Spenser took the folder and headed with trepidation toward the exit. She stood at the door, resolve in her heart, water in her legs, the thought of once again entering that furnace outside impeding her forward momentum.

  "Be the heat." Spenser looked back to see her friend, in Buddhist posture, eyes closed and voice softly repeating the mantra. "Be the heat. Be one with the heat."

  Oy. A Texas Buddhist.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday - mid morning

  A giant white cloud cast a giant grey shadow on the Sunflower Home for Adults. Chloe Newcomb, Tony Estes, Geoff Cabral, Patty Soliven, Amy Cutler, and Gina Mae Ambrose were crouched behind a giant oleander next to the Sunflower's man-made pond. Well, Tony, Geoff, Patty, Amy and Gina Mae were crouched. Chloe was scrunched over in her wheelchair. They waited until Ival Overoye, the maintenance supervisor, had exited his tool shed and gone back inside the main building before they resumed their trek.

  This was the scary part because Mr Overoye was real strict about nobody going anywhere near his tool shed. He'd yelled at them many, many times to stay away from this whole area. But, as Gina Mae had asserted, this was the only secluded place anywhere on the grounds that they could have their secret meetings, so they risked life and limb and the wrath of Ival the Awful in the name of justice.

  Gina Mae led the way to their secret hiding place, the middle of a small copse of black oak trees. Once inside the protective canopy all, except Chloe and Gina Mae, sat on a semi-circular cement bench with Gina Mae standing in the middle. Gina Mae called the meeting of the Sunflower Detective Agency to order. She knew everything there was to know about investigating since she'd seen all seven episodes of ‘The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency’.

  "Anthony," Gina Mae started.

  Tony hated it when she called him by his proper name, but he answered anyway. "I got the list." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of rose-colored writing paper.

  Geoff started laughing. "Pink?" He raised his closed-cuff crutch and pointed at the paper. "You have pink paper?"

  "It's not pink, dork. It's rose." That made Tony mad. His mom gave him this paper. There was nothing wrong with it. Geoff laughed even harder.

  "Where's Tucker?" asked Amy.

  "He's trying on his costume," answered Gina Mae, anxious to start the meeting. "Anthony, please read the case file."

  Tony was about to say, 'please don't call me Anthony', but he figured if Gina Mae hadn't stopped calling him that after he told her to like a gazillion times, well, she probably never would. "Denise Shippie says her brooch, whatever that is, went missing three days ago."

  "Denise is always losing stuff," countered Geoff.

  "But she's not the only one," challenged Gina Mae.

  "Yeah. That's why we need the Decktive Ajee-cee," said Patty, nodding her head.

  "Detective Agency," corrected Gina Mae.

  "That's what I said," replied Patty. She looked at her best friend, Amy, who rolled her eyes. Gina Mae always knew everything. Even when she didn't.

  "Who else is on the list, Anthony?"

  Tony sighed then, checking the lined notebook paper, answered. "Amos Murray can't find his dad's pocket watch. And, boy, is his dad pissed."

  "Language, Anthony," interjected Chloe.

  Oh great, now even Chloe was going to start with this Anthony garbage. Tony tried for a stern look of disapproval, but he just couldn’t pull it off. "Barbara Dorene says someone took her gold hair clip and they better bring it back 'cause her dad's a lawyer and he'll prah, prah." Tony knew the word; he just wasn't sure how to say it. "He'll put them in jail."

  "I don't think the hair clip was gold. I saw it. I think it was fake," said Amy, her head nodding once in the fashion of someone who knows of what she speaks.

  Tony ignored Amy. He read the next entry, his voice solemn. "And Pam ...," Tony felt a knot in the back of his throat. Everyone thought of Pam Vacarro, of how sweet she was, of how much they missed her. "Pam's emerald bracelet."

  For almost a full minute no one spoke. The wind rustled the leaves of the oaks and sycamores as jays and crows vied for the title of loudest and most obnoxious.

  Gina Mae looked from Chloe to Pam to Amy to Geoff to Tony. "Bad things are happening at the Sunflower and we have to stop it."

  "How?" asked Geoff. "I mean, we talked to everybody and they didn't see nothin’."

  "Geoff's right," offered Chloe. "No one saw anything out of the ordinary. And there aren't any strangers around."

  "'Cept for you-know-who," said Tony. "He's 'bout as strange as they get."

  Everyone nodded assent. Everyone except Patty.

  Patty poked her friend in the arm. "Who's that?"

  Amy rolled her eyes, again. "Ival Overoye, doofus."

  "Oh, right." Patty shivered. The new maintenance supervisor made her, and pret' near everyone else at the Sunflower, very uneasy. She leaned into her friend and whispered, "I think he's evil."

  Amy nodded. "That's 'cause he is."

  "So, what's the plan, Gina Mae?" asked Geoff. "How are we gonna catch the thief?"

  "We'll conduct a surveillance of the Sunflower." Gina Mae smiled; extremely proud of using the big word she'd heard on ‘The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency’ that meant watching out for weird things.

  "A what?" asked Patty.

  Gina Mae continued, a 'Patty you are hopeless' expression on her face. "Geoff, you'll keep an eye on Francis, Kyle and Cam."

  "Francis, Kyle and Cam. Check," affirmed Geoff.

  "Anthony, you'll keep an eye on Glyn, Josh and Jill."

  "Glyn, Josh, Jill. Roger that," answered Tony.

  "Amy, you'll watch Jennifer, Mari and Laurie."

  "Check," said Amy.

  "Patty, you'll watch Judy, Noma and Kim."

  "All day and night? What about breakfast, and lunch, and dinner?" asked a frantic Patty.

  Amy patted her friend's arm. "Don't worry, Patty, we'll figure it out."

  Chloe rolled closer to Gina Mae. "What about me?"

  Gina Mae looked at her best friend. She looked so pale. She knew that Chloe was in pain and that she probably shouldn't have included her in the investigation. But Chloe really wanted to be a part of the group. "We're going to keep an eye on the people who run this place."

  "Even the new director?" asked Chloe.

  "Even the new director," answered Gina Mae.

  Just then, Anne Marie Asher came bounding into the copse of trees. "Hey, Tony, Isabelle needs you to try on your costume."

  "Oh, right." Tony folded the lined paper with its list of names and placed it in his pocket. "Sorry, Gina Mae, gotta go."

  "Yeah, me too," joined Geoff.

  Amy grabbed her best friend's hand. "Come on, Patty."

  Gina Mae watched as everyone except Chloe walked toward the Sunflower. "Don’t forget your assignments," she yelled.

  Chloe rolled closer as Gina Mae sat down on the bench.

  "Do you really think the Sunflower Detective Agency is going to find out who's been stealing all our stuff?" asked Chloe.

  "Yep," answered a very confident Gina Mae.

  "But didn't Dr Saunders say she'd figure it out?"

  Gina Mae shook her head. "She's too busy being the new director. It's up to us to catch the thief."

  Chloe looked at Gina Mae with just a hint of skepticism. "How're you gonna do that?"

  "By watching everyone." Gina Mae made a gesture of pointing two fingers at her eyes then turning them outward and pointing them at Chloe.

  Chloe laughed. "All right," she said. "Let's go catch a thief."

  Gina Mae rose, moved behind Chloe a
nd started pushing her wheelchair out of the trees and onto the pavement. "Let's go to my room, grab a PayDay bar, and see what Dr Pastor is doing."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monday - early afternoon

  Spenser raced to her car, but it was a lost cause. Not even the dry desert winds could stem the tide of sweat generated by 103 degrees. In the shade! Once again, she cranked the A/C to arctic, pulled out of Markstone and headed for Rancho Cucamonga. Yes, Virginia, there really is a Cucamonga. Rancho Cucamonga, corrected Spenser.