“Give me your phone, Katy. I’m going to put my number in it.”
I scavenged through my purse and gave it to him, hoping he didn’t catch the tremble in my hand. I couldn’t help it. He was putting his number in my phone, and we all know what that means.
Josh nodded toward the building. “That didn’t take long.”
“Huh?” I’d been fixated on his nimble fingers typing his number into my phone.
“Our guy’s leaving the office.” He handed back my phone and started the engine.
Nelson yanked off his yellow tie and loosened his collar as he rushed toward a blue PT Cruiser. After buckling up, he finger-combed his stringy hair in the rearview mirror, then peeled out of the parking lot.
As a kid, I’d watched Magnum P.I. reruns with Grandma Ruby and dreamed of being a private investigator in Hawaii, and now here I was, almost living the dream in Santa Lucia. I wondered if we’d have a car chase. I snugged my seatbelt and set my feet square on the floor, ready for action.
Josh let Nelson pass by, and when he was about a block ahead, we pulled out, following at old-lady-speed, letting a few cars slip in between. Nelson turned right onto Muskeg Street, one of the main streets through downtown. Three blocks down he drove into the parking garage.
At the tollbooth gate, Josh said, “I’m dropping you off here. Then I’ll park while you cover the exit door. If he leaves before I catch up, follow him and call me.”
Oh. That’s why he put his number in my phone.
I jumped out of the car and dashed for the door facing Muskeg Street. It’s not the only door out of the building, but most people use that one. A few minutes passed while I lurked in the shadows of a nearby shoe store alcove.
“Come on. Come on,” I murmured, tapping a toe.
The heavy metal door swung open, slamming into the concrete wall with a hollow clang, and the perp stepped through. There was no sign of Josh, so while I tailed Nelson, I rang my partner’s cell.
“You following him?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m eyeballin’ the sleazeball right now.”
I heard a chuckle. “Good girl. Where are you?”
“I’m at a stoplight at the corner of Muskeg and—”
An arm slipped around my shoulders, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then Josh murmured in my ear, “Let’s pretend we’re a couple.”
Walking became virtually impossible, as if my rubbery legs had done a complete disconnect from my brain. The only thing I was aware of was the weight of his warm arm draped over my shoulders.
The light turned green, and Nelson scurried across the street. I stumbled off the curb, and Josh gripped my arm, keeping me upright. Halfway down the block, Nelson entered Victoria’s Secret.
“Guess we’re doing a little shopping.” Josh held the door open for me. “After you, m’lady.”
Inside, we loitered at the panty display table, perusing the wares. Nelson was studying a mannequin adorned in a black lacey bustier and red garters.
“This is cute.” With an impish grin, Josh brandished an itsy-bitsy pink, polka-dot bikini.
I ripped it out of his hand and laid it neatly back in its slot on the table, thinking maybe I should get a pair. You know. Just in case.
“Look,” whispered Josh. “He’s talking to a clerk about that frilly thing.”
“It’s called a bustier.”
“Well, it sure can’t be for his wife. She’s a pretty hefty woman. No way would she fit into that thing.” He pulled out his phone. “Let’s do a selfie.”
“Seriously? Now? Here?” I said.
He put his arm around me and turned me around. In the phone screen, I could see Nelson behind us, holding the bustier, still chatting with the clerk. “Now tilt your head toward me so that I can get a clear shot of him.”
I tilted.
“Little more. Little more.”
I tilted until my temple was touching the nape of his neck.
“Perfect.” He clicked several photos. “Okay, he’s moving to the register.”
We pulled apart and watched Nelson purchase the garment while Josh snapped more photos.
“May I help you?” asked a tinsel-teethed young salesgirl.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” said Josh. “The little wifey wants a—hold on.” His eyes flicked to Nelson heading out the exit. “Sorry. Gotta go.” He grabbed my hand, dragging me through the store.
Outside, Nelson was walking briskly toward the parking structure.
“I parked on the same level as him, so let’s get up there before he does.” We scurried past Nelson and raced across the street as the light turned red. Inside the building, Josh bypassed waiting for the elevator and opened the door to the stairs.
On the third level, he stopped and held the door, waiting for me. Good thing because one more floor and I would have keeled over. I’d been out of breath since halfway up the second flight of stairs, and my sore shins were throbbing. As I slipped by him, I tried to squelch my desperate gasps for air so he wouldn’t catch onto how out of shape I am.
“Are you all right?” he asked, furrowing his brows. “You look like you’re limping.”
“It’s nothing.” Don’t make me talk. I’m trying to breathe. “My legs are a little sore, that’s all.”
While I got into his BMW, he kept his eyes on the elevator. “I see Nelson getting out of the elevator.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.
I fumbled to snap my seatbelt buckle and accidentally grabbed his hand. A jolt of electricity zinged through me, and I wondered if he’d felt it, too. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“No worries.” He gunned the engine as we waited in awkward silence for Nelson to get in his car.
We followed the cheater through town to a tired looking gray house in a neighborhood of small cookie-cutter ranchers. Josh drove past the house, then did a U-turn on the next block and parked a few houses away. He reached behind my seat and hauled out an expensive looking camera with a telephoto lens and began snapping photos.
Nelson hopped out of the Cruiser, clutching the pink striped Victoria Secret box behind his back. He hurried up the weedy walkway to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened, and a middle-aged busty brunette flung her arms around him and planted a big, smooshy kiss on his lips. Nelson presented the gift, and she squealed with delight as she hauled him into the house.
“I would say he just nailed his coffin.” Josh started the car.
“So that’s it? That’s private investigator work?”
“For the most part. Not like TV, huh?”
“No. But it was kinda fun.”
“We got lucky today. These things can drag on and on. And then wind up going nowhere.”
“But you still get paid, right?” I said.
“By the hour with an upfront retainer and expenses.”
“How much is the average retainer fee?”
“Anywhere from fifteen hundred to five thousand, depending on the case,” said Josh.
That got me thinking. I could do this. I could be a private investigator. And it pays way better than graphic artwork.
“What’re you thinking, Katy?”
“Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”
He chuckled. “You’d need training, a license, bonding. Or you could work some more cases with me and see how it goes. What do you think?”
I’m thinkin’....
When I got home from the stakeout, I found a note on the kitchen counter from my sister. Working late tonight.
Eager to regale my friend, Samantha, with an account of my undercover stakeout adventure, I curled up in my favorite chair by the French doors and called her.
“Hi, Katy,” she said. “What’s going on in your world?”
I got halfway through my story when the doorbell rang. “Hold on. Someone’s at the door.”
I checked the doorbell app on my phone and saw Josh standing on the porch. Daisy was whining at the door, so I should have known.
“Gotta go, Sam,” I
whispered. “It’s Josh.”
“Call me later!” she shouted as I clicked off.
With my heart beating an allegro tempo, I opened the door, and Daisy shoved past me, wriggling her tush around her boyfriend with no shame at all.
Josh petted her, but his eyes were locked on mine. “Hi.”
I felt shy and barely able to breathe. “Hi.”
He held out a bottle of red wine. “We need to talk.”
I gulped as a shudder of urgent, delicious need overtook all rational thought. “No, we don’t.”
His soft smile collapsed, and his arm fell to his side, dangling the bottle.
I reached out, grabbed his blue button-down and pulled him through the doorway, then turned to him and leaned against the closed door.
“I brought a bottle of wine,” Josh said, his voice quiet, intense. “It’s supposed to be good. I know you like reds and....” He set the bottle on the entry table. “It’s a petite....” He moved close to me and brushed a tendril of hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “Syrah.” He traced my jawline and then gently cupped my face with warm hands.
I was unable to move, to breathe, to think as he whispered against my lips. “Katy, Katy, Katy. You crazy woman. What’re you doing to me?”
Today
I whiled away most of this morning in a horny haze, reliving every delicious moment with Josh last night when I should have been working on what to do about the pile of gold stashed in my closet. Either it’s mine or it’s not, but if it is mine, then darn it, I wanna go shopping! I have a sudden need for sexy undies.
I logged into PedigreeTree.com and found several messages and hints waiting for me. Nothing regarding my search for Mabel, but there was a hint that led me to a family tree with my great-great-grandfather’s name on it. Looking at the dates and location, it had to be him. I decided to send a message to a person on the tree who was in my age range and would also be Eugene’s great-great-granddaughter.
Dear Erin,
There is a Eugene Horatio Cranston in your family tree, and he may be the same man who was my great-great-grandfather.
My grandmother’s grandmother, Sevrine Sandanger, came from Norway to Boston in the early 1900’s and wound up marrying a man by this name. They had a child in 1913, and then Eugene told her that he was already married and had a family. She insisted that his name was on their child’s birth certificate because being an “illegitimate” child was a social stigma in those days.
His story may or may not have been true, as I am told this was often called a “poor man’s divorce” using the “already married” excuse to abandon a family.
I hope it is all right to tell you this, but given how long ago it was, I have to think it is. I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards,
Katy McKenna
Sam called around 11:45. “I’m on my lunch. Can you talk?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Or are you busy?”
“I know what you’re implying, and yes, I can talk. Josh left early this—”
“Oh, my God.” She squealed like a seventh-grader sharing secrets in the girls bathroom. “I want to remind you that besties share everything. So spill it, girl.”
“Mmmm. It was sooo incredible.”
“How incredible?”
“Like something out of a romance novel.”
“How would you know?” she said. “You don’t read romances.”
“No. But you do. And you always talk about them.”
“That’s because it bugs you when I do. Can you come over for dinner tonight and tell me everything? Spencer’s out of town, as usual; Chelsea’s going hormonal on me, and it doesn’t help that I’m PMSing. And Casey’s been acting like a little butthead the last couple days. I desperately need an adult to talk to. Puh-leeeze?”
“Oooo. As fun as that all sounds, no can do, kiddo. Got a date.” With my boyfriend.
“God, I can barely remember what sex is,” said Sam. “Is it wonderful?”
“It was with Josh. And that guy had a lot to live up to considering how long I’ve been dreaming about him. But my dreams didn’t even come close to the reality. It was beyond perfect, except for my sore ear, that is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is he...kinky? Oh God, please say no.”
“He’s not kinky unless you call wanting me to dress in a clown outfit, kinky.”
“What?” she screamed.
“Kidding. Boy, are you easy.” I heaved another sigh to bug my BFF. And don’t feel sorry for Sam because she did this to me when she hooked up with Spencer. “But he is—how should I put this? Exuberant. But in such a good way. A really good way.”
“That doesn’t explain the sore ear.”
“You know how you told me it was a stupid idea to put those potted plants on the shelf over my bed?”
“Yeah. They look good there, but what if there’s an earthquake?”
“Exactly. Thank goodness the pot was plastic.”
“You know, I pretty much hate you right now.”
Chapter Seven
COINS AND CADAVERS
WEDNESDAY • JANUARY 21
Posted by Katy McKenna
Josh cooked dinner for me last night. Halibut piccata, potatoes au gratin, baby green beans paired with a crisp pinot grigio. We got about three bites into the scrumptious meal when he said, “How about we put this under the warming lights on the stove and—”
I practically knocked my chair over scrambling to my feet.
Josh grabbed the wine and our glasses, and we raced to his bedroom. He won since he knew where he was going.
I’m so happy.
Sam FaceTimed me late this morning. “Hey, Katy. Watcha doin’?”
I know that means I’m supposed to ask her what she’s doing.
“Nothing much. How about you?” I asked. “Hey, how come you’re in the kitchen? Aren't you supposed to be at work?”
“I’m stuck at home with a sick kid.”
“Which one?”
“Casey. Guess that’s why he was acting bratty the last few days.”
“What’s wrong with my little buddy?”
Sam was walking toward the sofa in her great room. “I think it’s a flu bug. He’s running a fever, has an upset tummy, and sniffles.”
Sam sat down, and Casey came into view. He looked adorable all bundled up in a blanket “He’s watching his favorite show. Casey? Want to say hi to Aunt Katy?”
He took the phone. “Hi, Aunt Katy. I’m weally sick.”
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”
His little mug looked so gloomy I just wanted to reach through the phone and give him a big hug.
“What’s your favorite show, Casey?”
“Paw Patrol.” His eyes grew wide. “Oh, I don’t feel good.” And then he hurled onto the phone screen.
Yuck. Did not see that coming.
This afternoon, I took Daisy to the Lago Lake dog park, hoping to run into Ruby’s boyfriend, Ben. He hangs out there a few afternoons a week doing needlepoint and watching the doggies cavort. He says he’s window-shopping and plans to get a rescue dog one of these days. He’s leaning toward getting a Labrador. Says he’s never met one he didn't like. I can attest to that. But then, I’ve never met a dog of any breed that I didn’t like. Wish I could say the same about people.
After Daisy dragged me through the park’s double gates, I wrestled off her leash and watched her make new friends before settling on the bench next to Ben. He was working on a yellow lab needlepoint project.
“Ooo. I like that. Kinda of reminds me of somebody I know.”
“You weren't supposed to see this until it was done. I had a photo of Daisy made into a pattern. I thought it would make a nice pillow.”
“Ahhh.” I squeezed his arm. “That’s so sweet. No wonder my granny is crazy about you.”
Ben Burnett is a famous (as in People Magazine famous) retired criminal attorney from Los Angeles. He makes nee
dlepoint pillows for the kids at the women’s shelter in Santa Lucia, along with giving free legal advice. He said he’s trying to make amends for all the guilty scumbags he put back on the streets during his long career.
“Did Ruby tell you what I found in my attic?” I said.
“She did. Have you moved forward on that yet?”
“No.”
Ben pulled off his wire rims, set his needlepoint on the bench, and turned to me. “Ruby said you’re trying to find the rightful owner. That would be you, Katy. You own the house, and that money had been sitting in the attic for years, which means there is no one living who knows anything about it. So there will be no claims.”
“But—”
He held up a hand to shush me. “Even if someone did try to place a claim now, their connection to the money would be so dubious that no judge would take it seriously. Believe me, it’s been tried. There was a case a few years ago in Oregon where a homeowner found a coin collection in a kitchen wall when he was having his old house rewired. The collection was valued in the high six figures. The man had lived in the house for over twenty years, and no relatives of any former owners had ever approached him about the possibility of the coin collection still being in the house. However, when the story hit the newspapers, dozens of long-lost so-called ‘relatives,’” he finger-quoted, “tried to stake their claims. Even the electrician went after him saying he found the money, so it should be his.”
“Geez. That’s pretty low. So what happened?”
“He got to keep the money. But he also had to pay huge legal fees to fight off those damned vultures. So the lesson here is—do not tell anyone outside the family circle about the money.”
“Too late. I already told Sam.”
“She’s family. And I like to think I am, too.”
“You are.” I threw my arms around the dear man and gave him a hug.
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 56