The Unfur-Tunate Valentine's Scam

by Alannah Rogers

  “Oh boy,” was all Beatrice could say.

  “Not bad. I can see why Abigail likes him,” Zoe said. “Well–traveled, well–off, has all his hair. What’s his profile say?”

  The profile was surprisingly scant. It mentioned that he was Brazilian and owned an import–export business and had grown children from a previous marriage—all things Abigail had told her. There were also a few extra details: he had his pilot’s license, loved romantic dinners by candlelight, and adored singing to his partners, taking exotic vacations, and sharing a good bottle of wine.

  “All I have to say is: too good to be true,” Zoe said.

  “Oh c’mon, don’t be so cynical.” Beatrice looked longingly at the profile.

  “Man, this guy is good. He’s even got you all googly–eyed. Oh! Oh. There he is. Look, in the list of matches.”

  Beatrice opened the profile and there, right before her eyes, was Bryan himself. “What do I do?” she whispered urgently. “Would liking his profile be too forward?”

  “Naw, just leave it. The website will tell him you looked at his profile. Now it’s up to him to make a move.”

  Beatrice closed her computer and put it aside, glad to get away from the sudden pressures of online dating. She sank back into the couch. “Phew, this dating stuff is high stakes. I don’t know who has the energy for it.”

  Zoe tucked her feet up onto the couch. “Bee, the time has come to talk about Matthew.”

  Beatrice’s stomach seized. She got up off the couch, went straight over to the fire, and picked up Hamish for comfort. He stretched sleepily in her arms, his joints creaking as he did so. She stroked his neck and buried her face in his thick ruff.

  “You gotta explain to me what happened on Christmas. You’ve been avoiding the topic for weeks but I think you’d feel a heck of a lot better if you just talked about it.”

  Beatrice sighed heavily and sat back down on the couch, holding Hamish close. “Okay fine, you win. Zoe, you know things between Matthew and I have been, ahem, strange for the past few months.”

  “Yeah I know. I remember spying on him when he was on his date. Also how crazy you were when you thought Gerald liked you—I knew it was all about showing Matt you had someone too.”

  “Yeah well, acting my age has never been my strong suit.” She nuzzled the top of Hamish’s head and the big cat began to purr like a lawnmower. “Listen, this isn’t about wanting to marry Matt again. Or even wanting to be with him, really. It’s just … on Christmas, after we exchanged presents, I had the feeling again—the one I remember having before I married him. The one where you don’t just want to be friends with someone, you want to be close to them, and you love them in a different way. I mean, I’ve always loved Matt but this … feels different.”

  Zoe considered her boss. The fire crackled in the background. “So what next?”

  Beatrice sighed. “I’m past big declarations of love. This isn’t some movie. I’m sixty two and no matter what I feel, I’m not about to upend my life for some romantic notion. If love’s going to enter my life again, it better do so quietly and slowly because I’m not about to hire a band and parade through the streets and shout about it. I have too much else to do. You young people think love is the only thing, the best thing, but I know that’s not true. It’s just as important to have work you care for, to have close friends, to have interests and hobbies you’re passionate about. Love doesn’t make a life, Zoe. The whole package does.”

  Zoe eyed her. “Well, my relationship with Hunter is bad enough right know I’d be apt to agree with you. So what are you going to do?”

  Beatrice patted Hamish absently, staring into the distance. “What I always do: muddle through best I can and hope it all works out.”

  4

  Beatrice got the first message the next morning, right after she fired a staffer for bullying another girl.

  It was about ten a.m., which in Beatrice’s humble opinion was too early in the day to have to fire anyone. She sat slumped at her desk, wondering why Liza would feel the need to pick on poor Dasha so much as to make the girl cry every day. The world was cruel sometimes, and senseless in its cruelty. It baffled Beatrice. Lucky sat crouched on her desk, head low, eyes squinty, back haunches pointy with fur. He looked mighty ticked off, as if the whole incident bothered him too.

  Her cell phone blipped, showing she’d received a new message on the InstaLove dating app. Weary, she tapped on it.

  It was from Bryan.

  She sat upright, fully focused. Yes, this was definitely Abigail’s Bryan. And even if he wasn’t a scammer, he was definitely still playing the field.

  “Got you,” she said under her breath.

  Except that her ire drained away as soon as she read the message’s contents:

  Beatrice, I don’t want to interrupt your day, but it’s rare to see a woman on here so interesting (and so interested), so beautiful, and so sure of what she wants. Can we talk?

  Unworthy thoughts flooded Beatrice’s head. Thoughts like: so I’m prettier than Abigail. He likes me better. He finally found who he was looking for…

  She mentally squashed them and flushed them away. She was a PI. She was going to have her own office. She had to act like a professional, darn it.

  “Zoe!” she hissed. “He wrote me back.”

  The pastry chef came running, hair net askew and bangs escaping out the front of it.

  “What do I say?”

  Zoe read the message and then snatched the phone. “I’m certainly interested in you,” she said as she typed. “Who are you, only an hour away, and so perfect?”

  Beatrice’s mouth hung open. “Do people say that kind of stuff? I mean, in my day you blushed from the time the guy took you from the first date to the altar.”

  “What’s going on in here?” The sheriff was at the door. His wide–brimmed hat was dusted with snow. “Nothing criminal, I hope. You two look as thick as thieves.”

  Beatrice struggled to contain her panic. “Oh, just girl stuff. You know. Talking about clothes and boys.”

  The sheriff walked up and put the back of his hand against her forehead. “Well, you’re not running a fever. So there’s got to be another explanation for this mysterious girl talk.”

  “I’m going to get back to the kitchen,” Zoe said, and disappeared.

  The sheriff sat down opposite Beatrice in a chair. “This feels strange,” he commented, patting the arms of the chair. “Usually I’m the one sitting behind the desk and you’re on the other side.”

  “Well, don’t let our sudden power shift unnerve you. You got a case for me?”

  “Nothing. Just routine police business these days: neighbors yelling at each other, cats up trees, mailboxes bashed in.” He took off his hat and sighed. Lucky strolled over and inclined his head to be patted. “No, I’m just on a break and thought I’d pay you a visit. See how things are in this neck of the woods.”

  “Oh ticking on as always.” Beatrice paused. “Jake, you ever heard of romantic scams? You know, the type where men contact women online and romance them in order to get cash?”

  “Yeah. Not exactly my jurisdiction since most of the scammers are overseas. But I’ve got a friend who used to work in D.C. on that sort of stuff. Internet security or whatever they call it. Retired now, lives about an hour away.” He leaned in. “Why?”

  The sheriff’s gaze seemed to bore into Beatrice’s very soul. “Just curious,” she said in a small voice. The sheriff continued to stare at her. “Okay, okay. I’m doing a little PI work on the side.”

  He crossed his arms. “Remember last time you tried to solve a case without me? I was not happy at all.”

  “I remember clearly. But it’s not a police matter. It’s a matter of the heart. Abigail Freedman has an online paramour and she’s paying me to get the dirt on him.” Beatrice clapped a hand over her mouth. “Darn it! Why can’t I ever shut up?”

  The sheriff’s mustache twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. “Abigail? D
ating online? And you want to know if some fella in Nigeria trying to siphon off her cash? This is too good.”

  “Yes well, I know nothing about online dating or Internet scams. Can your friend meet us for dinner, do you think? I’d love to pick his brain.”

  “I’ll pay for it just to hear about Abigail Freedman’s dating life.”

  Beatrice’s cell phone blipped again. Another message! She opened it eagerly. “Perfection is boring,” she read out loud. “And I’m far from it. Tell me, Beatrice, what do you love more than anything?”

  “This is the guy?” the sheriff asked, confused.

  “Yeah. I made a profile to find out more about him. But turns out I’m not gifted at flirting over text. Zoe!” she yelled.

  The pastry chef appeared at the door again, this time covered in flour with her hairnet even more askew. She took Beatrice’s phone without a word and began typing on it. “Zoe’s my copywriter,” she explained.

  The sheriff got up, shaking his head. “Well, I expected wacky things here but nothing this out of the blue. I’ll text you as soon as I have dinner confirmed.”

  The rest of the day passed in a flurry of messages. Each one was grammatically correct, beautifully worded, and asked just the right questions. Beatrice was quickly realizing why Abigail had fallen for him so quickly.

  There was also a message from the sheriff confirming dinner at a diner on the I–93 that ran south from Ashbrook down to Concord. At five p.m. on the dot, Beatrice left her desk and wished Zoe good night. The cats got into the car with her and after she’d put them in their carriers and buckled them in tight, she drove down the snowy Interstate as carefully as she could. It wasn’t a great night to be out driving but Beatrice was a woman with a mission.

  Both the sheriff and his friend were already at the diner when she walked in. It was a homey trucker’s kind of place with the menu written on white boards, fake wood panelling on the wall, chipped pressed wood tables, and long mirrors on the wall beside the booths.

  The two men stood up. “I’m Bob Tucker,” said the sheriff's friend, extending his hand. He was a tall, round guy with a wry smile. “The sheriff here offered to buy me dinner. I’m a widower so I never turn down the opportunity for a meal.”

  “My condolences,” Beatrice said. “But if you stop by the Cozy Cat Café in Ashbrook I’ll always make sure you’re fed.”

  Bob laughed. “And we’ve got company I see.” He peered down at the cats. They sat in a semi–circle at her feet, as they did sometimes in new places. Beatrice realized that between the blaring radio and the crashing of dishes in the kitchen perhaps they found it a tad loud.

  “Yep, this is Hamish, Lucky, and Petunia. They’re crime–fighting cats.”

  “Don’t ask,” the sheriff said.

  “I won’t,” Bob returned.

  They all sat down at the cramped table. Beatrice ordered liver and onions and a Coke from the stout, unsmiling waitress. Oddly enough, it had been a favorite dish since she was young.

  “So how can I help you, Ms. Young?” Bob asked. “The sheriff here told me you’re working as a PI.”

  “Yes I am,” Beatrice said, flashing a dark look at the sheriff who was trying to stifle a smile behind his hand. “I have a very serious case, possibly involving an Internet scammer. The problem is that I have little experience in that area. I was hoping you could give me a bit of background.”

  Bob nodded. “That was my specialty, especially the romantic type of scams. More of a problem than people think—thousands in the U.S. alone are targeted every year. Mostly women, over fifty years of age. And wouldn’t you know, many lose thousands of dollars before they realize they’ve been had. One woman I know lost a half million dollars or so.”

  “And where are these scammers from?” Beatrice asked.

  “They’re usually in West Africa, or former Soviet Republics. These guys have a real system going. On Monday they’ll search on dating websites and filter ladies based on certain categories: marital status, age, if they’re a widow, and income. They’ll send plenty of messages and see who’s still talking to them on Friday—most people stop by Wednesday. Those Friday folk are now the client and the job is to romance them until they’re head over heels for you.”

  “I didn’t imagine it was such an operation,” Beatrice said, accepting her Coke gratefully from the waitress. “Do the scammers work alone?”

  “Sometimes. I’ve seen a bunch of them working out of the same Internet café, but for different ‘clients.’ Others work in teams. One person may be the guy texting and emailing. Another might handle the phone calls—he’ll know how to fake accents and pretend to be German, English, and the like. He’s likely the guy who’ll ask for money.”

  “Well, my client hasn’t experienced that. But there’ve been other red flags. His emails can seem random, for one. Not related to what they were talking about, or vague.”

  “Yeah that’s a common rookie mistake,” Bob said. His eyes grew wide when the waitress plunked down a hamburger platter with lots of fries in front of him. “Gee, this would feed two.” He patted his stomach. “Luckily, that’s not a problem for me.”

  He took a big bite of the burger and chewed. “The best scammers are always on topic and personalize the conversation. The victim needs to feel like the guy’s in the room with her. In fact, those scammers spend a lot of time and effort on their correspondence. Heck, some of them I spoke to were even proud of their work—like they were being great boyfriends or something.”

  “So how can we find out if Abigail’s guy is a scammer?” the sheriff piped up, eyeing the hamburger hungrily.

  “Well, you can send me his info and I can get a guy to run it against our databases. These scammers reuse names and photos, so we can see if he’s been reported before. But the best tell is always when he asks for cash. It’s hard to be sure until then. May be a small ask, or it may be thousands. An emergency call made to the victim likely saying he’s in a serious crunch, but something legitimate. He’s raised most of the money and she just needs to top it up to save the day.”

  “I’d be much obliged if you could run the info,” Beatrice said. She looked at the sheriff. “See? I’m born to be a PI.”

  Dinner concluded with pie and pleasantries before Beatrice drove back up the highway to get home. She put her jacket on the hook in the hall and unwound her scarf from around her neck. She put out treats for the cats, collapsed onto the sofa, and checked her phone. There were multiple messages from Bryan.

  Beatrice scrolled through. They were all sweet but they really could have been sent to anyone. She frowned and closed the app. Her cell phone blipped.

  “Another message?” she mumbled. But this time it was from Matthew:

  Why are you on InstaLove.com?

  Beatrice flinched. Working on a case, she typed back quickly. Why are you on InstaLove.com?

  Friend made me a profile. Why does working on a case involve dating?

  I’m sworn to secrecy. I signed a confidentiality agreement, she typed back.

  I bet. And how many people have you told anyway?

  Beatrice frowned. He knew her too well. Just two.

  Do I get to be lucky number three?

  Only in person. Can’t leave a paper trail.

  OK then. So stop avoiding me and let’s get coffee, he replied.

  Beatrice left that one unanswered. Drat! Matthew wasn’t supposed to find her profile. The line between this case and her personal life was rapidly disappearing. She’d have to be more careful.

  5

  A rooster cawed next to Beatrice’s ear again and again. She stirred in her sleep, irritated, before realizing it was her cell phone.

  “What the heck?” she muttered, patting on her nightstand for her phone. Her clock said it was just after three in the morning. She answered the call. “What?”

  “I’m so sorry to wake you. This is the only time I could call,” said a smooth voice with a British accent.

  Beatrice struggled
upright, finding her nightgown vexingly tangled around her legs. The cats stirred at her feet. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Bryan.”

  Memory flooded back to Beatrice. She’d given him her cell number. She fired up the recording app on her phone and started to record the call.

  “Oh. Bryan. Hello. Um. You know it’s three a.m. right?”

  “Not in Sydney it isn’t. I couldn’t wait to call you—I’m so sorry. How are you?”

  “Um. Good. Great. Why are you in Sydney?”

  “Oh you know, business. Negotiating a deal to export engine parts to the United States. But I won’t bore you with the details. It’s sunny here. And hot. I’m on a hotel balcony looking out at the harbor. It’s a perfect turquoise blue and I can see the opera house in the distance. What about you?”

  Beatrice was momentarily stunned by what was happening: a city on the other side of the world, a man calling her in the middle of the night.

  “I’m in bed,” she said slowly. “There’s a half moon out the window. But I’m in the country so it’s very dark and it’s so quiet I can hear my heart beating.”

  They talked like this for some minutes: about Beatrice’s house, about his travels, about books they liked, and interests they shared. By the time they’d hung up it had been a good hour. Beatrice couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked on the phone that long.

  The minute she woke up the next morning she called Abigail. The cats were stirring at her feet, their eyes round and hungry. Petunia was off in the right corner, Hamish in the right, and Lucky was, as usual, under the covers and curled up next to her feet. He didn’t have the benefit of a thick, warm coat like the other two cats did.