The Unfur-tunate Valentine's Scam (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 6)

by Alannah Rogers

  “Forget that. I’ll do something better—I’ll pay you.”

  Beatrice crossed her arms. “I have one of the top ten businesses in Ashbrook. I don’t need your money.”

  “Fine. But I know you haven’t had a case in over a month. That has to make you restless.” Abigail cocked an eyebrow at her and waited for her answer.

  Cripes. The woman had her there. Beatrice needed a distraction from all of this Valentine’s Day business. Plus, she was never going to become a private investigator just by reading Agatha Christie novels by the fire. There was a lot she needed to learn and the best way to do that was by getting out in the field.

  The cats seemed restless too. She watched them prowl around the café, sniffing for scraps or begging for pats. The harsh winter weather had confined them indoors more than usual and they were getting testy. Lucky had been licking himself vigorously, to the point that Beatrice was afraid he was going to go bald. Petunia had developed a strange fascination with chasing her tail and Hamish, well, he just seemed grumpy. There were only so much more of his glowering, slightly accusing looks she could take.

  “Alright Abby, buy me a coffee and a snack and let’s talk.”

  They settled at a table by the front window. Beatrice sipped at a tall cappuccino with lots of rich, creamy foam. Abigail was quiet for a moment, all her hubris gone. She played with her phone nervously with manicured fingers and stared out into the dark bluster of a winter’s night. The streetlights barely illuminated the brick alleyway and a half moon hung heavy in a sky filled with whispers of cloud.

  Beatrice’s curiosity was mounting by the moment. Something was clearly unnerving this woman and for something to bother Abigail, it had to be serious. The woman was usually an iceberg personified.

  Abigail leaned in across the table. “I’m going to ask you to sign a confidentiality contract first,” she whispered. “I don’t trust you not to talk and this matter has to remain strictly private. I will take legal action if I hear a word of this getting out. So you can’t tell your buddy the sheriff, that stringy pastry chef of yours, Matthew, any of your cohort … do you understand?”

  Beatrice twisted in her seat uncomfortably. She hated keeping secrets. So she and Matthew hadn’t been chatting much lately. But not tell Zoe? Or the sheriff? That was like asking her to give up chocolate for Lent. But if she wanted the job, she had to try.

  “I guess I can do that. I mean, you’re not into anything illegal are you? This is all sounding very cloak and daggers.”

  “Nothing illegal. Sign the contract.”

  Beatrice did so. Petunia jumped on her lap, tail sticking straight up and tickling her nose. She looked into her owner's eyes adoringly as Beatrice sneezed.

  “Okay done. So fill me in,” she said, patting Petunia to make her lie down. Her fur was full of static from the dry indoor heating.

  “I need you to investigate a man who may or may not be in love with me,” Abigail said.

  Beatrice paused, trying to evaluate whether her rival was serious. But Abigail was incapable of making a joke. “Go on,” she said as neutrally as possible.

  “I signed up for a, well, a dating website. InstaLove.com. This was about two months ago, just before Christmas. George told me he’d gone on and found this nice lady and told me I should give it a try. I used to think that online dating stuff was silly. But if George was suddenly doing it well, I wasn’t about to be left in the dust.”

  George Pierce was Abigail’s ex–husband and the owner of a local restaurant. They had been married far longer than Beatrice and Matthew had. About twenty years, in fact. They’d even had three kids.

  Beatrice still wasn’t clear on why they’d split. It was probably for the same reason that other older couples she knew had: they didn’t hate each other, the relationship had just run its course and both partners were ready for something new. Simple and bloodless. And Abigail and George were still friends, albeit competitive ones.

  “Anyway, I made a profile. It wasn’t so bad,” Abigail said, pushing up her glasses. “Looking at photos, reading profiles, getting new messages. I mean, I’ve dated here and there but it’s not like Ashbrook is known for having a lot of eligible bachelors. That said, none of the men online were terribly interesting. I can’t tell you how many photos there are of balding guys holding up fish they just caught. And not just fish—sharks, even turtles.” Abigail shook her head and sighed. “As if a dead fish would ever make a woman fall in love.”

  Beatrice found herself leaning forward further and further. Online dating? What was this strange and magical world? She’d downloaded Tinder, a dating app, for about a day until she realized it was trying to match her with every jock from her high school who’d ever called her a nerd or a freak. It also tried to match her with eighteen–year–old boys who actually were still in high school—which felt vaguely illegal and made her delete the app immediately.

  “Tell me more,” Beatrice breathed.

  Abigail’s normally narrowed grey eyes relaxed and looked almost dreamy. “Well, then this man messaged me. He had a full head of hair and he was smiling in his profile photo. It wasn’t a fake smile either. He actually looked happy.” She sniffed. “Not that I’d be taken in by a smile. I’m a practical woman. He lives about an hour away and has his own import–export business. Seems reliable. Anyway, he’s the one I want you to investigate.”

  Petunia suddenly stood up again and started digging her claws into Beatrice’s pants and butting her head against her owner for pats. It took a great deal of petting to get her to settle down again. “Alright, well, what’s he like? In person, I mean.”

  Abigail froze. There was a moment of silence. Background sounds stood out sharply: the hum of chatter, the clinking of forks, a sudden laugh from some corner, the faint jazz soundtrack.

  “That’s the thing: we haven’t met,” Abigail said. “Not in person. Not yet. We started talking about six weeks ago or so and since then he’s emailed, texted, or called me every day. His business has him on the road most of the time so I’ve gotten calls at three in the morning from Singapore and texts from London. He’s sent me flowers. He even…” Her pale, almost translucent cheeks flushed, “…well, he sang to me.”

  Beatrice was speechless, her mouth hanging open. Abigail was happy and what’s more, possibly in love. Smitten, at least. It was as if a monkey had climbed onto the table and asked her what time it was. Who was this Abigail Freedman? This besotted, saccharine, receiver of flowers and songs Abigail?

  Love was a funny thing.

  “What song?” Beatrice asked.

  “What?”

  “What song did he sing you?”

  Abigail’s color deepened. “‘Fields of Gold.’ By Sting.”

  “Yikes. Really?”

  “One can’t be choosy about these things,” Abigail snapped. “When’s the last time someone bothered to sing you a song?”

  Never, Beatrice thought. No one’s ever sung to me. “We’re getting off track,” she said darkly.

  “Then get us back on track.”

  Beatrice shooed a kneading Petunia off her lap. “Fine. Why haven’t you met?”

  “I told you: his schedule. He always has an excuse. He’s flying to Brazil, he has to see his daughter, he’s getting over jetlag.” She threw up her hands. “I know how it sounds. I’m not some silly little woman. That’s why I contacted you. I want to know if this is a scam. Surely you’ve heard of these sorts of things?”

  Beatrice had, though in passing: older women targeted by men in foreign countries. First came the romance, then the request for money. Lots of money. She scratched her neck. “Sure I have. Any other red flags?”

  Abigail stirred her latte absently, her gaze darting about. “Yes. He told me he’s Brazilian but grew up in the United States. Still, he has this accent like he’s English. And his emails and texts can be a bit, well, random or vague. Not related to what we were talking about. The kicker is that he says his parents are dead and he doesn’t have
any family. I mean, that’s a little cliché, don’t you think? My friends think I’m absolutely nuts.”

  “It doesn’t sound good,” Beatrice admitted.

  “But he hasn’t asked me for money!” Abigail’s eyes widened and for a moment Beatrice felt a sliver of pity for her. “Not once.”

  Hamish jumped up on Beatrice’s lap and meowed loudly. “Oh now you want attention.” His tail brushed her nose and she sneezed again.

  “You know those cats aren’t allowed in here,” Abigail said primly.

  “I had no idea. Listen, Abby, let me be frank: why don’t you just demand he meet you once and for all?”

  The woman squirmed in her seat like an anxious schoolgirl. “I’ve tried to put pressure on him. But his excuses, they seem legitimate. And I don’t want to be mean. He really does seem busy…”

  Abigail Freedman not want to be mean? That was like the devil saying he was no longer interested in evil and hellfire. But at the end of the day, Abigail was just as human as the rest of us: she liked someone and she didn’t want to get hurt.

  “Well, since you hate me I guess it won’t be so bad if I have to deliver you bad news,” Beatrice said. “I need you to sign a contract. And pay a retainer. Cash only.”

  Abigail looked at the piece of paper and then glared at her through her glasses. “This contract says I’m required to pay all expenses.”

  “Yep.”

  “And that expenses include cat treats and snacks for stakeouts.”

  Beatrice folded her arms. “Darn right.”

  Abigail shook her head and signed the paper. “I didn’t expect you to be reasonable. But I do expect you to get the job done. I want an answer. And soon.”

  3

  “Bee, are we going skating or what?” Zoe asked from her office door.

  It was the following day and Beatrice hadn’t had time to start on her new case. Her chief food supplier insisted there was a discrepancy with payments and she’d spent all day buried in her accounting software trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Plus, one of her waitresses had up and quit so she’d had to go riffling through her stack of CVs.

  Beatrice turned around slowly. “You look like you’ve been holding your breath all day,” Zoe said, peering at her. “What’s up with you?”

  Keeping a secret was what was up with her. “Nothing,” she said in a small voice.

  “Yeah right. C’mon boss. Free skate starts in thirty.”

  Which is how Beatrice ended up at the Ashbrook rink lacing up a pair of white rental skates on the old chipped benches near the ice. The air smelled crisp with the underlying aroma of wet mittens and burnt hot chocolate. The shrieks of children echoed from the ice; there was the scraping of skates, and “Achy Breaky Heart” was playing on the ancient stereo.

  The cats were lined up in the bleachers some distance away with collapsible water and food dishes set out in front of them. They were all wearing sweaters—Hamish and Lucky in red and Petunia in pink. Just because Beatrice didn’t like Valentine’s Day didn’t mean she was going to completely reject the season. The cats sat there like little people, looking out at the activity on the ice with great seriousness. A small child in a blue one–piece snowsuit tottered over and extended his hand towards Hamish. The big Maine Coon glared at him and abruptly swatted the hand away, sending the child running off yelling “MooooOOmmmmm…”

  “This place brings back so many memories,” Beatrice said as she looped and tightened the long laces around the hooks at the tops of her skates. “It didn’t exist when I was a kid or even a teenager. But I remember taking Matthew’s daughter here skating for the first time. Taking you skating for the first time. You were just an angry teenager. I remember you told me that you hated skating.”

  “And you said you’d buy me a pair of Guess jeans if I went. And then you never bought them.”

  “Yeah well, I lied. My parenting skills leave something to be desired, I guess. I couldn’t figure how else to make you go.”

  “Now I love skating so I guess you did alright.” Zoe said, pulling a black woollen cap down over her hair.

  Beatrice pulled on her matching knit pink mittens and hat, her gray hair spilling out everywhere. She teetered off on her skates and then launched onto the ice. She glided without effort; it was as natural as walking for her. Her dad had taught her to skate on the little pond behind her barn house when she was just five and had to wear double–blade skates.

  Zoe followed her, stumbling, wobbling, going too fast. She promptly collapsed in a heap but looked up at her friend with a big smile on her face.

  “I’ll never get better, will I?” she asked.

  Beatrice shook her head and helped her up. They started a slow circuit around the perimeter, arms linked.

  “Okay so out with it,” Zoe said. “You stole off last night like you were going to rob a bank. Something’s up.”

  “I saw Abigail Freedman,” Beatrice said before she could stop herself. She tried to tamp down her next words but they rose up like a bout of stomach flu. “She’s seeing some guy online. She wants me to check up on him. Crap! She swore me to secrecy. She made me sign a confidentiality document. Zoe, you cannot tell anyone.”

  “Abigail’s seeing someone?” Zoe said, ignoring the last part. “She’s not back with George, is she?”

  “Nope. George’s also met someone online. Have you heard of InstaLove.com?”

  Zoe made a face as she swung her right arm wildly, trying to propel herself forward. “That’s the website that old people use.”

  “Yeah well, newsflash, we’re old. And that dating app you told me to download tried to turn me into a pedophile.”

  “I had a profile on InstaLove.com, from before I met Hunter.” Zoe chewed her lip. “I wonder if it’s still there.”

  Beatrice skated in front of her and stopped them both. “Can I see it?” she asked urgently.

  After a few more turns around the rink they both retired to the bleachers with the cats, sipping stale hot chocolate out of styrofoam cups. The speakers were blaring a fuzzy version of the old dance hit “Set You Free.”

  Zoe pulled up the InstaLove.com app on her phone. “Profile’s still here.”

  “Show me how it works.”

  Zoe went through to the rigors of showing her boss her profile and pictures and how to set up certain parameters: age, distance, education, interests, and more. Then they flicked through some profiles of young guys, most of them posing at the gym. Zoe showed her how to star the ones you like and then follow up with a message.

  “This is amazing, completely amazing.” Beatrice paused, considering. “I think I need to make a great sacrifice for the good of my case. I think I need to make a profile on this website.”

  Zoe gave her a look that veered somewhere between incredulous and terrified. “Why?”

  “To catch the scammer, of course! Abigail sent me screenshots of his profile. I’m close enough in age to her. If he’s the type who likes to scam older successful women, then I’d be a prime target.”

  Zoe’s look of terror slowly morphed into one of glee. “You know, I’ve always wanted to make a dating profile for you. Let’s do it.”

  They decided to decamp from the rink and head somewhere warmer, which turned out to be Beatrice’s converted barn house just outside of town. Zoe curled up on one of the cushy reddish–brown leather couches in the lofty living room.

  The house still maintained the character of its original function. It was paneled entirely in wood and had lofty, thick beams holding up the roof. A stone fireplace added warmth into the expansive space. A heavy chandelier provided the main source of illumination but Beatrice turned on the lamps by the couches to create cozy pools of light. She then went into the kitchen to make tea.

  “Hunter is starting to complain that I’m spending too much time with you,” Zoe said after a couple of minutes, texting furiously.

  Beatrice brought in two steaming mugs of mint tea with honey. “Hunter complains if I s
pend any time with you. He complains when it’s cold and he complains when it’s hot. He complains all the time. He’s a complainer.” She set down the mugs. “I tried to like him, Zoe. Really. But I decided I’m going to stop. It’s too much work.”

  Zoe threw her a frustrated look. “You didn’t even really try. But that’s a conversation for another day. Let’s do this on your computer.”

  With a fire crackling in the hearth and the cats curled in front of it, Beatrice fired up her laptop and started a new profile on InstaLove.com. She selected some photos from her Facebook account but was stumped when it came to writing her profile.

  “Hm. What about: once–divorced cat lady. Has all her teeth. Nice hair. Hates fishing. Looking for romance scammers.”

  Zoe grabbed the laptop. “Here, let me do it. Successful businesswoman looking for a gentleman who can think with both his head and his heart. I’m a young 62 years with a wicked sense of humor and lots of professional drive. I love to stay involved in the community, spend time with friends, hike, skate, snowshoe, read mystery novels, and enjoy a good glass of wine. Looking to take things slow with the right person. Let’s go for coffee and get to know each other.”

  With a grin of satisfaction, Zoe pressed publish on her work.

  “Where are the cats in the profile?” Beatrice asked, horrified.

  “Absent. Listen Bee, having three cats is not something you advertise in a dating profile. It’s more a ‘learn about it later’ kind of thing. Anyway, you’re not actually putting this up to find dates, are you?” She cocked an eyebrow in her boss’s direction. “I thought this was just a ploy to find the scammer.”

  Beatrice sipped her tea and looked at Zoe over the rim with narrowed eyes. “It is. Forget the cats then.”

  She grabbed the laptop and began to scroll through her options: balding man holding up a giant fish by a lake. Paunchy man standing by a slick red sports car. Grinning man with a very large rifle. Beatrice was beginning to feel queasy.