Cindy straightened. “Doing? You shouldn’t be doing anything but posting invoices. Aunt Babby?” Her voice grew shrill. “Don't tell me she’s working a case. She’s not qualified to do anything but paperwork, and even that’s doubtful.”
“Calm down, Cindy. Maxine’s doing exactly what I need her to be doing. Right now, that’s posting invoices and sending out billing statements, right Maxine?” She picked up the phone and dialed.
I focused on the computer. “Of course it is, Aunt Babby.”
Cindy’s gaze rested hot on the side of my face. “It’s not fair. Maxine gets away with everything.”
Ah, sweet memories. That pouty voice was the soundtrack of my youth.
“Get back to work, dumpling. We’ve got a lot on,” Babby said.
“I’ve got errands to run, anyway.” Cindy snagged her handbag and stalked to the door. She pulled it open and a chunky old lady in a flowered dress and Sunday-best straw hat eased inside and sat at Kay’s desk. She cracked open a bottle of water and drank deeply. Cindy walked out without a backward glance at the stranger who had invaded Lost and Found.
Babby was deep in a phone conversation about a missing child. I had no choice but to defend Kay’s domain. “Excuse me.”
The little old lady pulled a dainty handkerchief from a white clutch and dabbed at her hairline.
I stepped over to Kay’s desk and bent close. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A pair of eyes so brown they were almost black looked up at me. Her face was a mass of wrinkles that crinkled even deeper, if that was possible, when she giggled. I straightened. The giggle turned into a full belly laugh and I took a step back, glancing at Babby whose full lips were quirked in a half smile.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
Babby covered the phone and whispered, “Talk to the poor girl.”
“It’s me, Maxie-moo,” a surprisingly strong voice said. “How’s my costume?”
It was a voice I knew and a nickname I hated, but I couldn’t begin to match it to this shriveled figure. “Aunt Kay?”
She lifted the straw hat and straightened its bow, then peeled a curly white wig from her head, revealing honey-blonde hair matted to her skull. “I’m not doing Elsie again, Babs. Not until it cools down. Wearing this get-up in one hundred degree plus temps is beyond the call of duty. Maybe even suicidal.”
Babby fluttered her eyelashes and continued her conversation, jotting notes.
I watched, fascinated, as a set of gnarled fingers tugged at the little old lady’s face, pulling a fully formed mask from the forehead and cheekbones to reveal a sweaty Aunt Kay. She turned her desk fan on and breathed deeply from the cool stream.
“Why in the world are you wearing that,” I flapped my hand, “outfit? It’s Mrs. Doubtfire on a bad hair day, which is saying something.”
Kay stood. “Unzip me, sugar pie. I’ve got to get out of this thing before I explode." I obliged as she explained. “Who are the people nobody notices, Maxine?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those who don’t exist because we turn our gaze away. Who are the last people to stick in your memory?”
I helped her peel the floweredy dress off, followed by lumpy pads that rounded out her slender shoulders, hips, and thighs. She stepped out of the puddle of costumery at her feet, wearing only a body suit. “No wonder you were burning up,” I said.
“Elsie goes in the closet until it cools down.” She padded to the large bathroom at the back of the office, sweat stains dark between her shoulder blades and at the small of her back. “This is an important lesson, Max. Think about it while I’m cleaning up. Who are the invisibles?”
THE INVISIBLES
I RETURNED TO MY desk, half listening to Babby’s soothing murmur, and tapped listlessly at the invoice system. The invisibles, I wondered. Those who don’t exist because we turn our gaze away. I made a few notes and then settled into the mindlessness of printing checks.
When Kay returned, it was as if she had never gone out in the heat. She was fresh and perfectly made up, not a hair out of place. The brown contacts were gone and those clear green eyes with the flecks of gold near the pupil and rim of dark blue around the iris were back. “So?” she asked.
Babby was off the phone by then. She stood and stretched. “I’d love to hear this, but I’ve got to start some cookies.”
“Brandon Johnson again?” Kay asked.
Babby nodded.
“Remember the Snickerdoodles. That Sutton kid won’t touch a chocolate chip cookie.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked Kay.
“Brandon’s going through a difficult spell. He’s gone missing several times. Always comes home within a few days, and the police don’t get too excited when his parents call.”
“Aren’t they supposed to issue an Amber Alert?”
“Yes, but we must be into double digits by now. We think he’s got a hiding place in Deadwood Hollow.”
“Aunt Kay! Drug dealers, meth heads, that’s where the wacko set up to shoot the Franklins not long ago. It’s no place for a kid.”
She sipped a fresh cup of coffee. “Of course it isn’t. So far, he’s come home without a scratch on him. We think they - whoever ‘they’ is - are protecting him.”
“You’re kidding.”
Kay shrugged. “It’s weird, I agree. His parents are so embarrassed, or maybe frustrated, they’re calling us instead of the police. We’re hitting the juvenile grapevine, plying the kids with cookies. We made good progress with the Sutton kid last time - he’s in Babby’s Sunday School class. She thinks he knows where Brandon goes.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“I think his parents are near the end of their collective ropes. They’ve tried drugs, psychologists, psychiatrists. The next step is some kind of military boarding school.”
“That sounds awful,” I said.
“Desperate times, baby cakes.” Kay arched a brow. “You weren’t far from the military boarding school path when you were a teenager.”
Blood rushed to my face. “You might be right. But this kid has both parents. And it seems like they love him.”
“Maxine,” Kay began. “As much as I dislike your mother -”
And just like that I was close to hyperventilating. Mother was a topic best avoided. At all times. With everyone. “Can we not do this right now?” I interrupted. “Let’s talk about invisible people instead. Okay?”
Kay studied me, and I knew she read the terror in my face. “Invisible people. Go.”
I drew in a breath laced with the smell of baking cookies and felt calmer. “I’ll start with the premise that most people are so absorbed in their own problems, their own day-to-day, they rarely notice anything going on around them.”
“I agree. But we don’t deal with normal people. We’re interested in people who have something to hide.”
“Beggars. No one wants to be accosted by someone who’s asking for money, whether they’re walking down the street or standing at an intersection, cardboard sign in hand.” I was talking too fast, but Kay nodded, so I carried on. “The disfigured or infirm. Linger too long, and you’re a voyeur. Lift your gaze too abruptly and you’re insensitive, a jerk for dismissing someone based on their physical appearance. How am I doing?”
“Good. Keep going.”
“The elderly. As long as you appear fit and able, you’re part of the ebb and flow of humanity, but as soon as you put on that flowered dress and big straw hat, you become a cliché. A busybody. Someone to avoid or who needs help.” I paused for air.
“Anybody else?” Kay pressed.
I shrugged.
“You were right about normal people,” Kay said. “We tend not to notice people who are doing normal things, so long as those things are normal within the environment. Few people notice a mother pushing a stroller. A father is a little more unusual, so he might get a second glance, particularly during the week. Someone might remember him. D
addies are supposed to go to work, not stay at home and take care of the kids.”
“Why were you in the dress and hat?”
“Creating a normal environment.”
I frowned.
“I’m building a character who will become invisible to the person I want to observe. Unfortunately, I picked Elsie. Since I’ll suffocate if I dress as her again before winter, I’ll have to start over.” She traced a pattern on her desk. “Dog walker.” She reached for the phone. “If I get to the pound in time, I can make at least one pass today.”
I stopped her from dialing. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, honey?” she asked.
“Lying to you. Aunt Babby told you about the missing husband, didn’t she?”
Kay settled back in her chair. A little steel crept into her gaze. “I understand why you did it, and I admire your initiative, but no more. That was your one lie. We’ve got too much to lose here. Are we clear?”
The only time I’d heard Kay speak so definitively was when Jerry Crutchfield pushed me down in second grade. She told me he was a bully and bullies only respect people who stand up to them. I’d save myself and people everywhere miles of grief if I’d kick him in the balls as hard as I could next time I saw him. I didn’t know what balls were, but Kay advised me to aim between his legs and kick him when no one was around, then make a fast getaway. Her words and my willingness to act did save me much grief, and given that Crutchfield is now a Methodist minister, probably did him a world of good, too.
“Yes, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
She reached out and smoothed my hair. “I like this bob cut, but it’s time for conditioner, Max. Babby thinks you’re serious about becoming a PI.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t tell her the truth: that my goal was to help Cass find the freak who had raped and scarred us. I tried for something that wasn’t quite a lie. “I’m a problem solver, Aunt Kay. A good one. Everything you do at Lost and Found revolves around solving mysteries, which are really just problems. I think I can help.”
Her eyes softened into the aunt I knew was good for a few cookies, no matter how much red Texas clay I’d smeared into my hair and let dry Medusa-fashion. “Good answer, darling. That’ll do for now.”
I sent her a questioning look.
“Babby said Cass has an ulterior motive for wanting you to work as a PI, which means you have an ulterior motive.” I did my best to imitate Cass and keep my game face on. “I can ride with that as long as you do your work here and do it well.”
“I will, Aunt Kay, I promise.”
“As with all things, Maxine, time will tell. Babby and I have agreed you’re on probation for three months. During that time you’ll pursue your license and work on assignments as directed. Once the probation period has passed, we’ll evaluate your next steps with the agency,” she lifted an eyebrow, “or without.”
I couldn’t draw a breath. It hadn’t dawned on me that I might not get to keep working at Lost and Found as long as I wanted to. Kay was staring me down, so I managed, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Babby told me the investigation is getting interesting.”
I pulled myself together and filled her in.
“Nice work, honey. We’ll loop you in on our status meetings. We have them every couple of days to share information about our cases. When things get busy or we’re working on multiple cases, it’s easy for something to get dropped. Working together ensures we give our clients the very best.” She gave me a pointed look and I blushed, then she went for the coffee pot and asked Babby how long the cookies would be. After filling mugs, she returned to her desk and handed me one. “There are a few things we do behind the scenes that might help. Blue is worried about the amount of money her husband is spending, right?”
I nodded.
“Have you asked for bank and credit card statements?”
I shook my head. “But I’m seeing her tonight. I can ask for them then.”
“Text her and tell her you’ll run by at lunch to pick them up.”
“There’s a rush?”
“We need to know what kind of money she’s talking about. He can bankrupt them both in short time. And most of us are creatures of habit. His spending patterns might provide a clue about where he is.”
“Ah.” I pulled out my phone and texted Blue.
“In the meantime, I’ll show you how we gather other data. Get a chair. We’ll use a case I’m working on as an example.”
I waited as Kay clicked on a file and tapped in a password. She paused before hitting ‘enter’. “This document,” she said, “holds the firm’s userIDs and passwords to the databases we use. These are the keys to the kingdom. We only use them for good.”
“Wonder Woman stuff, right?” I giggled but she slammed me with a glance. “Got it,” I said. “Unlock those doors and let’s get to work.”
RETAIL WARFARE
BLUE WAS AN ABSOLUTE star and had the documents I needed waiting at lunch time. I stepped inside Cedar Bend Winery to a rush of cool air and the sounds of piped in jazz, and the hunky host met me with a heavy envelope.
He shot me a winning smile. “Blue said you’d come by for this. She also thought you might need a little something to keep you going.” He turned and waved to the woman manning the wood-fired oven, who slid a wide paddle bearing an uncooked pizza into the glowing cavity. “She picked a margarita because she wasn’t sure what you’d like. We’ve got salad and desert, too. To go?” I nodded and he motioned to a table. “Iced tea?”
“Yes, please.”
I sat and opened the envelope, sliding out a hefty pack of paperwork. Blue had provided personal and business credit card and bank statements going back six months, and I wilted. Paperwork isn’t a problem for me, but this was a lot of data. A note from Blue said that any unusual activity on the winery’s bank or credit card accounts was Bret’s; she always used her personal accounts for personal shopping. I was planning my strategy of attack when the handsome host appeared, winery bag in hand, delicious smells wafting my way.
“I’ve added a bottle of Blanc du Bois - it’s light enough it won’t knock you out if you have a glass with your pizza.” I opened my lucky Louis Vuitton and he stopped me. “Blue said this is on the house. She wanted to be here when you stopped by, but had to go out, and said she’ll see you tonight.”
“Tell her I said thanks,” I said, giving him my ten-megawatt smile. “What was your name?”
“Will,” he said. “And yours?”
“Maxine. Nice to meet you.” I stood, flexing a toned leg. “Will I see you this evening?”
Will flashed an equally bright smile. “I certainly hope so.”
Well, I thought as I headed into the boiling summer afternoon, date problem not solved, but I’ll have great eye-candy to go with dinner.
__________
I CHOSE THE RED sofa as my battle station. Its leather is supple, its cushions just the right amount of puffy, and the color deep enough to fuel my fighting bloodlust. I changed into yoga pants and top, opened the bottle of wine, and placed the pizza and salad within reach. Headphones in place with the Barenaked Ladies’ Stunt album on tap, I assumed the lotus position and scanned Blue’s paperwork while I nibbled and sipped.
Marriage to a wealthy man has its advantages. So does divorce when you’ve got enough dirt to make the monthly stipend generous. Thanks to Neil’s decision to see me as a beard to hide his alternative lifestyle, I’d had a fair amount of time on my hands during our marriage. I’d spent it, and a chunk of Neil’s income, freely across Dallas-Ft. Worth. As a result, I was on a first name basis with many of the assistants and managers in the establishments on the winery’s and Blue’s personal credit cards.
With great pride, I speed-dialed the accounting office at one of the poshest department stores in Dallas’ Northpark Mall. “Hi Ashley, this is Maxine. Got a minute?”
It took only the tiniest bit of persuading to
convince my ex-husband's former secretary to come through for me. I told her my boss had lost her credit card receipts and thought some of her purchases might be tax deductible. Within ten minutes, my inbox held a tidy stack of emails detailing these purchases. After a quick review, I knew Blue was right about Bret Ivey and his love of at least one big bottomed woman.
The receipts were detailed enough to show sizes. I was seeing everything from a woman's trouser size ten to a sixteen. Brassiere sizes ranged from 32C to a 38DD. Curious. The receipts also showed the purchase of some very nice men's boots, jeans, and a leather vest.
On to the other retailers. It took a bit longer and a little pleading, wheedling, and the occasional outright lie, but I got copies of receipts, or at least a description of the goods purchased, from every accounting office I called. After half an hour of phoning and making notes from the comfy sofa, I realized my wine glass was empty and Bret Ivey's shopping activities deserved more respect. I headed for the more practical environs of my office, set up a spreadsheet to capture all the details, and settled in for some real retail warfare. I started with the winery’s credit card and bank account.
It didn’t take long to figure out the normal shopping activities for the winery versus Bret’s personal spending. Although the receipts my digging had uncovered varied in the level of detail they provided, a consistent pattern emerged. With seven exceptions, a charge appeared on the winery’s card statement from a breakfast bar in Northpark Mall every Saturday morning for the last six months. Also on every Saturday, charges from a variety of shops located in the same mall appeared, as did lunch and dinner charges from restaurants around town and live venues. On most Saturday nights, Bret charged tickets to the theater, a concert, or a sporting event. From the amount of the purchases, it looked like two people were attending. On Sundays, charges for breakfast and shopping were the norm. During the week, the only charges related to the business. The winery’s bank account showed withdrawals of five hundred to two thousand dollars in cash each week. Sometimes from ATMs in and around Forney County. At other times, from ATMs in the Dallas area. There were also good-sized charges for shipping via FedEx or UPS, but those were recent.
A Case of Sour Grapes: A Cass Elliot Companion Novel (Cass Elliot Crime Series Book 3) Page 6