Suddenly, she had the sinking feeling she was the one being entrapped.
If this was another one of Molly’s schemes . . .
Kate dug around her purse for other cash, her credit card, something. She couldn’t let her sweet old neighbor take the fall for trying to pass off counterfeit bills. How had she even ended up with a wad of counterfeit cash?
Kate zipped closed her purse. She must’ve left her wallet on the bed when she’d switched purses this morning. Chewing on her bottom lip, she hesitantly eyed the guard. “Are you sure the bills are counterfeit? I mean, that cashier didn’t look old enough to know the difference.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t know for sure.” The guard positioned himself in front of the door, his expression impassive. “That’s why we’re waiting for the police to sort this out.”
“The police?” She swiped slick palms down the sides of her slacks. “Is that really necessary?” The police chief would relish the chance to haul her in again and vindicate his idiotic attempt to pin Daisy’s murder on her. “I mean, I can pay for the groceries . . . some other way. My neighbor will be worried.”
A loud rap sounded on the door.
The guard pushed open the door, and Detective Tom Parker strode into the room.
Her knees went weak with relief. She slumped into a chair.
He wore his usual suit and tie instead of a police uniform, which with any luck might stave off rumors of her being arrested. He gave her a warm smile, then glanced around the room. “Where’s your counterfeiter?” he asked the security guard.
The guard hitched his thumb in Kate’s direction.
“Miss Adams?” Tom sounded as flabbergasted as he looked. He returned his attention to her, and his face broke into a wickedly amused grin. “If you wanted to see me, you could have just called.”
“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “Next time I’ll keep that in mind.” She hoped she wasn’t going to regret putting off that second dinner date he’d been vying for. She’d been too afraid that he simply felt beholden because she’d been right about Daisy being murdered.
“You know this woman?” the security guard asked.
Tom chuckled. “Yes, she’s known to the police.”
The guard nodded, his expression smug.
“I was the victim of an attempted murder,” Kate blurted. “Not a criminal.” She knew Tom was just trying to make light of the situation to put her at ease. But he wasn’t helping.
The guard’s jaw dropped, and a smidgen of recognition lit his eyes.
Tom cleared his throat. “What do you have? I’m sure we can clear this up.”
The guard handed Tom the wad of bills. “I believe you’ll find these are counterfeit bills, sir. They failed our light test. She used them to pay for her groceries. When confronted for the fraud, she claimed she received them from her neighbor—a shut-in.”
Tom swung his attention back to her, one eyebrow raised.
“What kind of moron counterfeits five-dollar bills?” she demanded irritably. “If I wanted to defraud someone, I’d at least go for twenties. More likely fifties or hundreds!”
Amusement lit Tom’s eyes, but he held his mouth in a firm line. “You’re not helping your case,” he murmured.
She rolled her eyes.
He studied the currency in his hands. “These are counterfeit. Who gave them to you?”
“Verna Nagy, but she couldn’t have known either. Someone must have palmed them off on her.” Kate snatched the newspaper from the grocery bag and slapped it into Tom’s hand, Molly’s picture faceup. “Maybe she’s behind this.”
Tom scanned the headline, and the tick of his jaw muscle betrayed his self-reproach at failing to nail the case shut.
The guard shook his head. “I haven’t seen her in here.”
“You warned me that her lawyers might try to discredit my reputation,” Kate said to Tom, ignoring the guard’s commentary. “I don’t know how they got to Verna, but they must have.” Kate paused to catch her breath and glanced out the office window toward the cash registers. “Or maybe they got to that teenage clerk.” She turned to the guard. “He’s new here, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
She clasped Tom’s arm. “I was reading the paper as I handed him the money. For all I know he replaced the bills I gave him with counterfeit ones.”
“Right.” The guard snorted. “He just happened to have the exact denominations in counterfeit as you handed him.”
“No . . .” Hope surged in her heart. “He wouldn’t! If you search him or the register, maybe you’ll find more.”
Tom cast a skeptical look toward the cashier. “Wait here.” He returned the newspaper to the desk, then let himself out of the room. For a moment he hung back and watched the cashier check out a customer. After the customer headed to the exit, Tom showed the cashier his badge.
The teen nodded and opened the cash drawer.
Tom dug through the drawer, lifting removable parts. Now and again, he held a bill under the ultraviolet light. He said something to the teen, but the teen shook his head and turned out his empty pockets. Tom jotted something in his notepad, then stalked back to the office, grim-faced.
Kate’s chest tightened. Tom couldn’t possibly believe she’d counterfeit, but if the evidence condemned her, he couldn’t exactly ignore it. No matter how he felt about her.
Or didn’t feel, as the case may be.
“Thank you for your alertness,” he said to the guard. “I’ll take Miss Adams into my custody.”
Custody. She tried to swallow but couldn’t choke down the disbelief balled in her throat.
“What should we do with these?” The guard motioned toward the groceries.
Tom reached for a bag. “We’ll deliver them to her neighbor. I want to talk to the woman.”
“They’re not paid for, sir.”
Tom pulled out his wallet and handed the guard a twenty and a ten. “Will this cover it?”
“Yes, I’ll get your change.”
“Thank you,” Kate whispered to Tom as the guard left the room.
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve had a rash of counterfeit complaints over the last few weeks. The Gilmore reach may be long, but I doubt this counterfeit operation was a setup to destroy your reputation.”
“But you believe me? Don’t you? You know I wouldn’t knowingly pass counterfeit bills.”
“Do I?”
She knew he was teasing, but that didn’t stop a swell of tears.
“Hey. None of that.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know you wouldn’t. But the chief heard the call.”
She sucked in a breath. “What will you tell him?”
“We’ve been trying to track leads on this problem for weeks. He’s not going to just let the fact you were caught red-handed go.”
“But if you tell him Verna Nagy gave me the money, he’ll haul her down to the police station. The woman is eighty years old. She’s got to be a victim here too.”
“Criminals come in all shapes and sizes, Kate. People are rarely what they seem. Who knows what your little old neighbor lady is hiding?”
“What do you mean it wasn’t the counterfeiter?” the police chief ranted.
Tom held the cell phone away from his ear. “It’s complicated.” More complicated than he needed. He’d just started to win back Kate’s trust. But whether she liked it or not, she was connected to the counterfeit investigation, however inadvertently, and he had to investigate. He just hoped she understood it wasn’t personal.
He pulled his car into Kate’s driveway. “I’m about to interview a possible suspect now. I’ll be in touch.” Tom disconnected before the chief could press for details.
The man would not be happy to hear that Kate Adams was back on their radar. The mayor had given him an earful after Kate’s theatrics jeopardized GPC Pharmaceuticals’s relocation to their sleepy town. It seemed he was more interested in expanding their tax base than protecting the citizens.
; Tom waited for Kate to climb out of her yellow Volkswagen Beetle before climbing out of his car. Her tousled red hair didn’t look as fiery as usual, and her stooped shoulders betrayed her unhappiness at having to interrogate her elderly neighbor. He lifted the groceries from the trunk. “How do you want to handle this?”
Kate crossed her arms. “I don’t.” She lowered her arms. “Oh, Tom, she’s such a sweet old woman. There’s no way she knowingly duped me into passing counterfeit bills.”
He bit back his you’d-be-surprised-what-sweet-old-women-can-do remark. Cops were about the only people Kate was capable of thinking ill of. Not that he blamed her, after learning how she’d lost her father. “Okay, then we’ll be upfront with her. Tell her what happened and see what she has to say.”
Kate led the way across her yard to Verna Nagy’s. The front door sat open with only a flimsy screen door between a possible intruder and the inside. A black-and-white cat met them on the porch and twined his way between their legs, purring loudly. Kate lifted the cat into her arms. “What are you doing outside, Whiskers?”
Tom rubbed the feline’s neck. “Is this the cat that was cured by Grandma Brewster’s herbal brew?”
“He sure is.” Kate nuzzled her cheek against the cat’s fur. “You can’t chalk up his recovery to mind over matter. Can you, Mr. Skeptic?”
“Hey, I never said the stuff doesn’t work.”
She dropped the cat to the ground and rang the bell. “You didn’t have to.” She winked.
At least she didn’t take his skepticism about her cure-all teas personally. He admired her work as an herbal researcher. He really did. It was the spin-off industries that preyed on people’s quick-fix mentalities that caused him concern. In his FBI days, he’d had one partner who’d overindulged on a diet tea that stripped him not only of a few pounds but also of a few other things that landed him in the hospital.
A sprightly, white-haired woman peered at them through the screen door and pierced Tom with a glare. “I already have a vacuum. The no-good, overpriced one you sold me ten years ago.”
“Excuse me?” Tom glanced at Kate. She should’ve told him the woman was senile.
Kate laughed. “Verna, it’s me, Kate. Your neighbor. I brought your groceries. And this is my friend Tom. Detective Parker. He needs to ask you a couple of questions.”
Verna’s eyes narrowed as she studied his face. “You’re not selling vacuums?”
“No ma’am.”
She swung the door wide. “Come in, then.”
The cat leapt through the open door, leading the way inside the tidy little house. The narrow-planked hardwood gleamed. Sunshine filtered through the lace curtains, playing hide-and-seek with the elaborately gowned china dolls adorning the fancy Victorian furniture.
No sign of counterfeiting equipment, not even a computer printer. With no garage outside, that left the basement and bedrooms.
“You have a lovely house, Mrs. Nagy. May I have a tour?” Brazen, he knew, but it saved him the hassle of a search warrant.
The woman glowed. “Of course, of course.”
“I’ll just put away your groceries while you show him around,” Kate said and fired him a warning scowl before slipping into the kitchen.
Photographs lined the hallway. “These your children?” Tom asked.
She peered at the pictures as if she’d never noticed them before. “My son and grandson. My husband passed on two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Must be lonely for you. Does your son visit often?”
“Once a week. He’s a good boy.”
Tom made a mental note to check into her son’s finances, make sure he was as good as his mother believed.
The bedroom housed nothing more than a bed and dresser. The spare room had a sewing machine and piles of fabric and half-finished articles. Mrs. Nagy squinted into the room and swayed a little. Then, as if she’d forgotten Tom, she strolled back to the living room, sank into her recliner, and clicked on the TV with her remote.
Tom trailed her, wondering how to wrangle his way into the basement without raising any suspicions, because from the looks of Mrs. Nagy, she’d make an easy front for a counterfeiter to exploit.
Kate came in waving a package of frozen fish. “Did you want this in the downstairs freezer?”
“Huh?” Mrs. Nagy looked up from the TV. “Oh, hello dear. When did you get here? Staying for tea?”
Kate paled. “Yes. I’ll make us some.” To Tom, she whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong. I mean, she’s forgetful sometimes, but never like this.”
Tom relieved Kate of the package of fish. “I’ll take this to the freezer. You make her a cup of tea and then we’ll chat.”
Kate nodded, thankfully oblivious to his motive for offering to take care of the fish. He took his time walking across the basement to the freezer, being careful not to move anything so any discovery couldn’t be thrown out of court. The basement was void of furniture. Instead, shelves of home canning, stacked in a thick layer of dust—must be more than a decade old—lined one long cement wall. The boxes stacked along the adjacent wall likewise looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years.
He tossed the fish into the freezer and circled behind the stairs. A dust-free workout gym dominated the space. Her son’s?
A large patch of dust was scraped from the floor beyond the workout area, as if something had recently been moved. Not likely by Verna, as frail as she seemed, but not without her knowledge either. With no outside exit on this level, no one could easily sneak into the basement undetected.
By the time Tom returned to the main floor, Kate was sitting next to Verna in the living room. The teacup in her hand filled the air with a spicy scent. From the TV a theatrical judge lambasted a defendant for his overly trusting nature. Tom turned down the volume, debating how to interrogate Kate’s neighbor. Showing signs of dementia, she wasn’t likely the kingpin of a counterfeiting operation. But if she repeated his questions to the wrong people, he might lose his trail before he found it. Of course, she could be faking. Kate had said she’d never seemed this bad before.
“Do you get out much?” he asked the woman.
“My ladies’ mission sewing circle on Thursday mornings and church on Sundays.”
A religious woman. More reason to doubt her as a viable suspect. Or it could be a front. He’d known plenty of criminals to hide behind a facade of uprightness. “Who takes you?”
She waved her hand in the direction of Kate’s house. “The neighbor.”
Kate looked at him and frowned, shaking her head that it wasn’t her. “What about your groceries?” Kate asked. “Who usually picks them up?”
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to put you out.”
Kate patted the woman’s bony hand. “I don’t mind shopping for you. I was just curious. I want to know you’re being taken care of.”
“My son hired a housekeeper who comes in. She’ll pick up my groceries, or sometimes my son or grandson will.”
“Do they go to the bank for you too?”
Verna’s attention drifted back to the TV as a red sports car veered into the driveway. Verna upped the volume on the remote.
Tom strode to the TV and hit the Off button. He wasn’t buying the doddering routine. It was too convenient. “Mrs. Nagy, I’m Detective Parker. We need to know where you got the money you gave Miss Adams.”
“Detective?” She turned her attention to Kate. “Are you in trouble?”
“Who’s in trouble?” the lanky, fair-skinned sports car driver said through the screen, then pushed his way inside.
Tom recognized him from the photos in the hallway. From the rumpled suit, the man looked as if he’d been on the road for hours. Tom extended a hand. “You must be Verna’s son.”
“Brian Nagy.” The man clasped Tom’s hand in an iron grip. “And you are?”
“Detective Tom Parker.”
Nagy dropped Tom’s hand like a hot potato and knelt at his mom’s side. “What’s
going on? What happened?”
“Your mother came into possession of some counterfeit bills, and we are trying to trace their source.”
“Oh Mom, I told you we need to get you into a nursing home. Things like this wouldn’t happen.” He glanced up at Tom as if Tom might convince her. “She doesn’t want to go. I worry so much about her. But I never imagined anything like this. Where did it happen? What are you going to do?”
“Your mother gave Miss Adams several counterfeit bills with which to purchase her groceries. We’re simply trying to ascertain where they came from.”
Nagy surged to his feet and pointed at Kate. “How do you know she’s not responsible and trying to lay the blame on my mother?”
Kate gasped.
Tom patted the air in a calming gesture. “We’re not blaming anyone, just trying to get some answers.”
Verna’s son gave a stiff nod and knelt next to his mother again. “Mom, do you remember where you got the money?”
Verna shook her head, but the frightened look in her eyes told Tom she was lying. The question was—why?
Sandra Orchard is an award-winning Canadian author of inspirational romantic suspense whose novels include Deep Cover, Shades of Truth, and Critical Condition. She enjoys doing research for her books, such as attending the Writers’ Police Academy for hands-on training and simulations at a police training facility, almost as much as she enjoys writing them. When not playing cops and robbers, she lives with her husband of more than twenty-five years in Niagara, Ontario, Canada, where their favorite pastime is playing with their first grandchild. Learn more and find special bonus features for her books, such as deleted scenes and location pictures, at www.SandraOrchard.com, or connect with Sandra at www.facebook.com/SandraOrchard.
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