The Unfur-Tunate Valentine's Scam

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The Unfur-Tunate Valentine's Scam Page 7

by Alannah Rogers


  The sheriff burst in as soon as she unlocked the door. He strode right into her living room. “Get dressed! We’ve got a huge break in the case,” he announced.

  Beatrice shut the door while trying to figure out what he meant—her brain was still foggy from sleep.

  “What? Already? Well, who is it?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  The sheriff sat down on the sofa. “George Pierce.”

  Beatrice paused mid–rub. “What? Abigail’s George? Her ex–husband? The one I talked to just a couple of days ago? No, you have to have it wrong.”

  “Nope,” the sheriff said, his hat in his hands. “It can’t be more clear. Bob’s contact at the FBI put a trace on the bank account right away. At first, it looked like it was coming from West Africa—there was some kind of shoddy decoy set up to make it look like this guy was a typical scammer. But the FBI’s software quickly got around that and pinpointed the real source: one George Pierce of Ashbrook, New Hampshire.”

  Beatrice felt her knees get weak. This was too much of a shock for so early in the morning. She sat on the sofa next to the sheriff. “But … why? Why would George do such a thing? I mean, he has a successful business and can’t be wanting for money. I suppose it could be about screwing over Abigail, but they’re good enough friends. And why would he try to scam me?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Whatever the case, he had to have a very good reason. It’s a federal offense to run a scam like this and there are serious consequences.”

  Beatrice sighed. “I’d like to think George was smart enough to appreciate them, but we both know he’s a headstrong guy who tends to think he can do what he wants. So what now? We go break down his door?”

  “Well, he’s not at the restaurant yet. He’s not answering his phone and his neighbors say his car’s not in the driveway. So we’ve just got to track him down. Oh, and tell Abigail. She might know where he is.”

  Beatrice buried her head in her hands. “I really don’t look forward to that.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Ah well, despite what you say about them being friends, I wouldn’t say they’re that close. Let’s just say I don’t think there’s a lot of love lost between them.”

  Beatrice collapsed back on the couch. “Okay, so if I was George where would I be early on a weekday morning?”

  “Restaurant doesn’t open until lunch. His kitchen manager said George doesn’t get in until about ten or eleven in the morning. As far as he knows, George is at home before that. We’d better go to his house just in case.”

  Beatrice fed the cats, then hurried upstairs and pulled on fleece–lined jeans and a sweater since the day looked frigid. Then the entire crew packed into the sheriff’s truck and they set off.

  George also lived outside of town, not far from Beatrice. His house was a little concrete fortress hidden at the end of a long driveway lined with pines. The house sat amid a dense thicket of trees, looking more like a bunker than a home. It had a domed roof and a spiral staircase that went from the ground floor to a terrace.

  George was always trying to lure people there to go to dinner parties. Beatrice had actually attended one once, simply because she was curious to see the house. It had been a tedious affair. George had explained at length the inspiration behind the architecture. Then there had been a tour of his jazz vinyl collection. Then there was a weird dinner consisting of flavored foams and other fancy but inedible cuisine. Beatrice had ended up drinking too much wine, getting tipsy, and tripping over a carpet. She hadn’t been invited to a party there since.

  As George’s neighbor had reported, there was no car on the property. The sheriff walked around its perimeter, trying the doors, peering in the window. The cats followed him—sniffing around carefully as they did so. But they didn’t look particularly excited by anything they smelled, leaving Beatrice to believe that George truly wasn’t there.

  As the sheriff scouted the area, a SUV pulled into the driveway. Abigail got out, all swirling grey cape and red boots. She slammed her car door closed a little harder than necessary.

  “What do you mean George is the prime suspect?” she asked in her shrill voice. “This can’t be right.”

  The sheriff gave Beatrice an uneasy look. She shoved her mittened hands deep into the pockets in her parka. “Abby, I got Bryan’s banking information. The FBI managed to trace it to George. Unless someone stole his information, it looks like he’s involved in this scam.”

  Abigail kicked at the gravel angrily. “But why would George do something like this? We were divorced ages ago. He has enough money, I mean, look at this house! He spent a fortune having it custom built. He’s not paying alimony or child support, doesn’t have significant debts that I know of. And most of all—why would he want to do this to me?” Her words came out in little puffs of frosty air.

  “You tell me,” Beatrice said. “Was there any bad blood between you two?”

  “I…I didn’t think so. George and I have never had the warmest relationship, even when we were married. When we divorced it was amicable enough. There was some squabbling over who should get what, but nothing out of hand. Since then, we’ve talked a fair bit but George isn’t the type to be really friendly. He’s obsessed with his business and his possessions, including this ridiculous house, and now that we’re divorced I’m convinced he forgets I exist unless I’m right in front of him.”

  “Was there anything you got out of the divorce he coveted in particular?”

  “Oh, not really. I got a car, he got a car. We sold our house and split the proceeds. There was lots of little stuff, but the lawyers made sure it was divided up fairly, or at least so I thought. I mean, George is awfully possessive about his things, as I said. Maybe he was more ticked than I thought—though why wait this long to get revenge?”

  “We just don’t know yet, Abby. By the way, did you ever talk about Bryan to George? Either that you were talking to him or I was?”

  Abigail shook her head. “No way. George would’ve made fun of me. He thinks a woman dating at my age is pathetic. I didn’t mention that either of us had a profile or anything about this Bryan person.”

  The sheriff approached them, rubbing his hands together. “Doesn’t look like he’s here. Abby, you have any idea where George might have gone?”

  “I don’t know.” Abigail crossed her arms. “You said he’s not at the restaurant, right?” She considered a moment. “Wait, George said the other day that he’d set up a little office for himself. I thought he meant in his house but now that I think of it, he already has a study in there.”

  The sheriff twisted his mustache with one gloved hand. “Would he mean at the restaurant?”

  “Not enough room in there. He may have rented a separate space. We should pay his real estate agent a visit. She may have set something up for him.”

  Everyone got back in their respective cars and drove to downtown Ashbrook. The White Mountain Real Estate office was on the main street, just around the corner from the rotunda with the church and gazebo. Inside, they were not greeted by the familiar face of Lisa Cooke, the long–time real estate agent. Instead, gum–chewing Alisha White, the clerk at the Mountain View Motel, greeted them, slouched in her chair. The pink streaks were gone from her hair and instead, her brown locks were tipped in purple. She looked about as happy to see them as they were to see her.

  “Where’s Lisa?” the sheriff asked.

  She smacked her gum. “Family emergency out of state. I’m filling in for her.”

  “But you don’t have your real estate license,” Beatrice said.

  Alisha looked at her cooly. “I could have it. Who’s gonna say I do or don’t?”

  The sheriff sighed. “Alisha, is George Pierce one of your clients?”

  “Dunno. Can’t tell you. Client–patient confidentiality.”

  “This isn’t a medical office,” Beatrice huffed. She’d run into the unhelpful wall that was Alisha White one too many times. “And it’s the sheriff asking you, not a stranger off t
he street.”

  Alisha sighed dramatically, pushed herself up onto high heel sneakers, and riffled through a nearby filing cabinet. “Yeah George is a client. Looks like we helped him buy that plot of land he built on.”

  “What about an office space?” Abigail asked, crowding closer.

  Alisha raised her eyes slowly to the three people standing over her. “Did George kill someone?” she asked in a deadpan voice. “This is what this is all about, right?”

  “No, George didn’t kill nobody but I might consider doing you in if you don’t hand over that file,” the sheriff said, snatching it from her.

  He scanned the papers. “Look here,” he said, holding up on sheet. “Looks like Lisa had a consultation with George a few months ago. He was looking for an office space but from Lisa’s notes, he didn’t like the options in town. He wanted something more private, asked for office space outside of town.” The sheriff scratched his head under his hat. “Now that’s weird.”

  Beatrice shuffled next to him and peered at the notes. “Doesn’t look like they went ahead with anything. Which means George either gave up or went with another agent.” She looked at Abigail. “You guys ever use someone out of town?”

  Abigail shook her head. “No, we always went through Lisa. But we’ve been divorced a good ten years so who knows who else he may have been talking to.”

  The sheriff checked his watch. “Well, George’s staff should be in at the restaurant by now. How about we pay them a visit?”

  12

  George’s Restaurant (and yes, that’s really what it was called) was right on the main street in an old brick building. It was one of Ashbrook’s most famed restaurants as it constantly popped up in travel guides and ‘best–of’ lists online and was raved about by critics who lived in the big city.

  Ashbrook folk typically didn’t go there. First off, it was crazy–expensive. And second, it was more the kind of food you’d Instagram or brag about to your friends at a cocktail party than actually eat. Beatrice had dined there a couple times and she could take or leave it. While she found the cuisine creative, she was more a comfort food person herself.

  They all shuffled inside the restaurant. The cats ran in, as if they knew they’d never ordinarily be allowed into such a space, and were prepared to enjoy it to the fullest. The dining room had high ceilings, dark wood floors, and dark walls. Long pendant lamps hung over the bistro–style high chairs and tables—also in dark wood. There was clanging and clattering from the kitchen and the sound of Top 40 radio.

  They walked to the back to see George’s kitchen manager, Tom, cracking jokes with the staff while he sorted out a crate full of ingredients. The rest of the staff were busily chopping mountains of onions, seasoning raw meat, or mixing batches of spices.

  Tom’s face fell as soon as he saw the sheriff. “Everything all right?” he asked in a low voice as he approached the three visitors. “I haven’t seen or heard from George yet this morning. That’s not unusual, though. He can be kind of sporadic in his habits. Sometimes he’s really hands on in the kitchen, sometimes he’s barely in at all.”

  “Has George been absent a lot lately?” the sheriff said sternly.

  “Well yes. He’ll just come in in the afternoon to check in on things, that’s about it. I figured he had his own things going on. Has he done something?”

  “That we can’t tell you. But we would be mighty interested to hear if George had some kind of office, apart from his house and here. Another place where he might be spending time.”

  Tom crossed his arms. “Not that I know of. He talked once about getting a cottage. I thought that was pretty strange, since he already has that giant house out in the woods. But he said he wanted somewhere a bit more private. I mean, compared to my living situation—three guys living in a house—he has more privacy than Santa in the North Pole. Anyway, I just figured it to be one of George’s whims. He was always talking about buying some rare breed of African dog, or some restored car from the 1920’s, or something else basically useless and overly expensive.”

  Abigail snorted at this. Apparently, she was very familiar with George’s exotic taste.

  The sheriff thanked Tom and they headed back into the dining room. The humans all stood together in a little circle. The cats, who hadn’t been allowed into the kitchen, looked more than a bit crestfallen. A restaurant kitchen was their ultimate mecca.

  “So now where do we look?” Abigail asked.

  “Sounds to me like we have to check out cottages in the area,” Beatrice said. “Maybe George bought one directly, without help from an agent. If he was involved in a scam I’m guessing some out–of–the–way place would be the best option to hide evidence.”

  Abigail crossed her arms and tapped her right foot. “If I were George—perish the thought—where would I want my little hidey–hole to be?” She thought for a moment. “George always liked the water. He was always complaining that his house wasn’t on a lake and he had half a mind to lift it up and plant it on a new lot. I’m guessing George would pick a place close to water—a lake, or a river even.”

  The sheriff looked about ready to eat his hat. “Well this is New Hampshire, not the bloody desert. We got lakes and rivers up the wazoo. There’s the Pemigewasset River just outside of town. Squam Lake’s just to the southeast and it’s big enough it’d take years to investigate, and I haven’t even mentioned Lake Winnipesaukee…”

  “Yes, well I think we can eliminate a few things based on George’s personality,” Beatrice interrupted. “He’s not the sort to rough it, or hide out anywhere that would be too inconvenient to get to. I doubt he knows how to man a boat or would hike any great distance. George wanted his privacy but I don’t think he’d bother hiding anywhere too remote.”

  “Bee’s right,” Abigail said. “We went camping once and he spent the entire time spraying himself with bug repellant and hiding in the tent.

  “Well, Squam Lake’s the most convenient cottage country to here. I say we start in Holderness and see if we can find any sign of him.”

  Holderness was a tiny community on the lake with a country general store, a post office, and a gas station—everything cottagers might need. But since it was February, there were no cars or even people in sight. The general store had a lit–up open sign though, so they parked in front of it.

  A woman in a New Hampshire sweatshirt with tightly permed gray hair manned the ancient wood counter. She looked up as soon as they came in, her eyes squinting through her narrow glasses.

  “Sheriff Roy,” she said in the hoarse voice of a smoker. “I never like to see you ‘round these parts. Usually something bad going on when I do.”

  “Nothing’s certain, Shirley,” the sheriff said, taking off his hat. “We’re just trying to locate George Pierce. You seen him around here? Or better yet, know if he has a house in these parts?”

  Shirley crossed her arms over her considerable bosom. “Oh the fella with the fancy restaurant? Yeah I seen him. He was driving people crazy looking for a place. You know the cottagers around here. They’ve had their places in the family for ages, and now some guy wants to buy from out under them? I think eventually he backed down and asked to rent someone’s guest cabin. I don’t know if he was successful, though. You might want to ask around.”

  “Thanks ma’am, we’ll do just that,” the sheriff said.

  The three of them went outside, hands shoved in their pockets. Hamish was bounding through the snow, leaping through the deeper parts like a little deer. Lucky was trying to follow him but due to his smaller stature, he kept getting swallowed by rogue tufts of snow and having to tunnel through to shallower areas. Petunia sat on the stoop, her nose raised as if she would never deign to play such silly games.

  “So now comes the hard part,” the sheriff said. “We gotta start combing the shore. I suggest we spread out. Abigail, why don’t you take Perkins Lake around the perimeter of Little Squam Lake? I’ll take Route 3 east along the main lake and Bee, why don’t y
ou take Route 113 the other way?”

  Abigail glared at him. “And what am I supposed to do if I find him? Tie him to a chair and wait until you get there?”

  “If you can, that’d be great,” the sheriff said, putting his hat back on. “It’s not like I’d classify George as a dangerous felon, exactly. You managed to be married to him for thirty years. I think you can manage him for half an hour until I can get to you.”

  And so Beatrice and the cats took her truck up lonely Route 113 along the Squam Lake coast. The white lake spread out before her, frozen over and coated with snow. Mountains loomed in the distance. Thickets of pine crowded close to the shoreline and the sky arched above it all—a brilliant azure blue with threads of wispy cloud floating through it. Mailboxes on the side of the road announced the occasional cottage. It was a charming place in summer, but it had its appeal in winter too.

  Eventually Beatrice spotted someone at a mailbox, taking out mail. She stopped right by them and rolled down the window. An older gentleman peered back at her through fogged glasses.

  “How may I help you, dear?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for someone by the name of George Pierce. Wiry fellow, owns a restaurant in Ashbrook. He was apparently looking to buy a cottage in these parts.”

  “So he was,” the man replied. “I know exactly who you’re talking about. Couldn’t find a place willing to sell so I think he settled for the Lindens’ guest cottage. They weren’t using it during the winter so I believe he took it. Can’t tell you for sure, though. You’d have to check it out: 2143 Route 113 is the place.”

  Beatrice thanked him, texted the sheriff the information, plugged the address into her GPS, and let it guide her further down the road. Her heart started pounding as she drove.

  “You all are charged with protecting me,” she said to the cats in the back seat. “No funny business. Momma Beatrice doesn’t want to be shot at again. My luck might be starting to run thin.”

 

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