The Unfur-Tunate Valentine's Scam

by Alannah Rogers

  Beatrice cracked up. “Sheriff, I had no idea you were such a romantic. So you’ve got something for Melinda, right?” The sheriff eyed her. “You want me to pick out something again? First the Christmas present, and now this? Alright, alright. But it’s gonna cost you to get something good.”

  The sheriff shrugged as he put the evidence in his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “As long as I didn’t get in trouble like I did last year.”

  “What’d you get her?”

  “Carnations.”

  Beatrice breathed through her teeth. “Oof. That’s a hard one to come back from.” She patted the sheriff’s shoulder. “No worries. Ol’ Bee will keep you from sleeping on the couch for the next month.”

  15

  It was the day before Valentine’s Day and everything was as it should’ve been: George wasn’t scamming any more women and the sheriff had a box of long–stemmed roses on order for his wife. The Cozy Cat Café was doing a brisk business in Valentine’s Day–themed treats and the Ashbrook streets were lit up by pink and red lights in heart shapes.

  Aside from the fact that Beatrice and Matthew still hadn’t had ‘the talk,’ everything was fine, that is. Petunia and Hamish had even established a truce—well, Petunia was her usual oblivious self and Hamish was courteous to her, but kept his distance.

  There wasn’t time to think about that, though, because Beatrice was tasked with something even less romantic: visiting George in the hospital with the sheriff and his ex–wife.

  The sheriff pulled into the Plymouth hospital and parked. It was a dark, wintery day. The sky was a heavy gray blanket spitting fat, drifting flakes. The sheriff turned off the ignition and then turned to face his two passengers.

  “Alright folks, I need to get a confession out of George so please, no one start yelling at him or kicking up a fuss. You can do that after the confession, if you want. Not before.”

  “I’m not some hysterical old lady,” Abigail sniffed. “I’m happy enough George’s going to face charges for what he did.”

  “You have to give us more credit,” Beatrice said. “We’re calm and composed.”

  Yet as soon as she saw George lying in his hospital bed, looking irritable and flicking through the channels on his TV, Beatrice felt conflicting desires to ask him if he was okay and start beating him with the nearest blunt object. Abigail looked like she was leaning more towards the blunt object. Her usual slightly bored expression had sharpened into a laser–like anger. Yet, true to her word, she sat down in a chair by the bed, and merely said: “Hello George.”

  “Is this the inquisition?” he said, flicking off the television. “The doctor said I’m not well enough yet for visitors.”

  “You look plenty fine to me,” the sheriff said mildly. He turned on his recording device. “Alright, don’t make this hard for me because Melinda’s making me dinner and I promised I’d be home by five. We already have all the evidence pointing to you: the bank account, your Internet browsing history, notes you made…”

  “Yeah yeah yeah, spare me the bad cop routine. Listen, I was just trying to have a little fun with Abigail. No harm, no foul okay?”

  “Fun? You call trying to rob me fun?” Abigail said, the fury barely repressed in her words.

  “Ah, you have enough of it anyway,” George said, fluffing up the pillows behind his head. “You know I got screwed in the divorce settlement, Abby. Marriage means joint ownership, but you fooled me into signing that prenup so you’d get to keep whatever you earned or bought. Well, after thirty years of marriage nothing was ‘just yours’ anymore. You took way more than your share. It took me years to get back to the way I was used to living.”

  Abigail shook her head. “You know what, George? You are a sad man. You wait ten years to get your revenge, and you do it by scamming me on a dating website? That’s pretty pathetic.”

  The veins at George’s temples bulged. “Pathetic? I was just trying to humiliate you the way you humiliated me, Abby. Not like I’d have actually taken your money. And you have no proof that I stole from anyone, so why am I even under suspicion? All I can be accused of is lying, and people lie on dating websites all the time.”

  “Yeah but you think I can’t charge you on attempted fraud?” the sheriff shot back. “You’re way more confident than you should be, George.”

  He snorted. “I can afford a great lawyer. I’m not worried.”

  Abigail stood up then, looked as if she was going to say something, and instead wisely marched out of the room. Beatrice went to join her, but first she leaned towards George. “I do not dislike romantic relationships,” she said. “So you know. I just find them inconvenient.”

  Beatrice found Abigail in the hall by the coffee machine, putting quarters into it. She bought a coffee too and they sat side by side in old, fraying chairs. The hall was painted a sickly lavender color. Abigail tapped the side of her cup with red nails.

  “I never told you that I really like your style,” Beatrice said.

  Abigail laughed abruptly, as if this was the last thing she expected Beatrice to say.

  “No, but seriously, I like your whole red, gray, and black look. I mean, I have sweatshirts with cats on them, so what do I know, but I appreciate a woman with style.”

  Abigail shook her head. “Well thanks, Bee. That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Maybe the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

  She was quiet for a moment as she looked into her coffee.

  “You know what really bugs me? It’s not that George tried to scam me. It’s that he spent all this time and energy complimenting me, listening to me, and going out of his ways to do special things like sing to me or send flowers—and yet when we were married he never bothered to do any of those things. He never remembered my birthday or our wedding anniversary. He used to buy me socks for Christmas or some gift pack from Bath & Body Works I’d never use. He wouldn’t bother to tell me if he was going away for the weekend—he’d just leave. Nor did he ever praise me for opening my own business and being successful.”

  Abigail put her coffee aside and looked at her weathered hands. They were snaked with veins but she had long elegant fingers with diamond rings sparkling on them. “I’ve never told anyone this,” she said after a moment. “George went to the hospital not long before we got divorced. He had chest pains. He was sleeping when I came to visit him. I’d forgotten my phone so I grabbed his. I started snooping—I had this strange feeling. And sure enough, he’d been sending texts to this woman I didn’t know. And it wasn’t like he was sexting or whatever they call it. The problem was that the messages were loving, Beatrice. He complimented her. He asked about her day. He asked how she was feeling, this woman he probably barely knew. And there I was, almost thirty years beside him, and he couldn’t even bother to say goodbye before he left for the day.”

  Abigail sighed deeply and played with her rings.

  “I’m sorry,” Beatrice said. “I had no idea. I knew George was a pain in the behind but I didn’t know he was cheating on you.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Well, I guess it helped in the end. After that I knew I had to get out. And I’ve been a lot happier since I did. Bee, tell me if I’m crazy but I’m actually disappointed that the scammer was George. Now I know he didn’t mean all those things he said. If it had been a random person who knows, even if they just wanted my money, maybe they could have liked me a bit too. This way, it’s all just a big fraud.”

  “I’d say there’s more fish in the sea but honestly, that’s not true,” Beatrice said. “If you stop copying my desserts you can hang out with me and drink wine instead. I’m not as cuddly as a boyfriend but I’ll always compliment you on your new haircut or shoes.”

  A sly smile twisted over Abigail’s face. “I have been copying your desserts, I confess.”

  Beatrice immediately reached for her phone. “Can I record that confession?”

  “No! Listen, my café was starting to flounder when yours became more
successful. I became desperate and I started taking shortcuts—namely copying whatever desserts of yours were bestsellers. I know it was wrong but I had this idea like, well, we didn’t like each other anyway so what was the harm in getting a leg up?”

  “You suck,” Beatrice said.

  “I guess I do. If I give you a bonus for solving the case, will you forgive me?”

  Beatrice eyed her. “I don’t want a bonus, I want a glowing testimonial for my forthcoming website.”

  “Website?”

  “To advertise Beatrice Young & Cats, Private Investigators, of course.”

  16

  With the case all but settled, Beatrice only had one more hurdle: Valentine’s Day itself. She knew she had to talk to Matthew so she texted him, asking when he wanted to meet. He suggested she take February 14th off and spend it with him.

  No pressure. No pressure at all.

  Honestly, Beatrice would have rather spent all day composing love letters to George than be cooped up in her house with Matthew all day. Not because she didn’t like him, but she knew she was going to have to be honest about her feelings and the idea made her very, very squirmy.

  Still, Beatrice knew that it was time to be forthright. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to say, but at least she could make the day as pleasant as she could for both of them. She bought expensive French wine, baked heart–shaped pastry twists with dulce de leche in the center, and stocked her fridge with nibblies she knew he liked.

  The day itself was cold, clear, and still. The sky was a perfect bright blue, with not a cloud in sight. Beatrice put logs on the hearth when she got up in the morning and started a blazing fire. She brewed coffee and got ready. She was so nervous that everything annoyed her—specifically Lucky batting at the shower curtain as she bathed and Petunia getting under her feet as she made coffee.

  At least Hamish looked cool and collected. He seemed to have taken Beatrice’s advice to heart. He was polite to Petunia but he didn’t seem overly concerned about her. It probably helped that the tomcat hadn’t made another appearance.

  Matthew arrived at ten wearing a parka and pajama pants. Beatrice stood there in a short black dress, tights, and heels, her knees knocking together as the frigid air hit her.

  “Um…” Matthew looked her up and down. “I thought we were going to have a pajama party.”

  “I thought we were going to have a serious discussion and a serious Valentine’s Day with lots of serious feelings,” Beatrice said hotly. “You want me to wear pajamas for that?”

  “You can dress up if you ever agree to go on a date with me. Until then, let’s just keep things casual okay? I’m not here for an inquisition. I’m here for pancakes.”

  “Pancakes I can handle,” Beatrice said, tottering in her heels.

  So she changed into red plaid flannel pajamas and shoved her feet into slippers. Matthew was already downstairs making chocolate pancakes in the shape of hearts. He flipped a couple onto a plate, added sliced strawberries and chocolate sauce, and slid it towards Beatrice at the breakfast bar.

  “Be careful,” she said after taking a bite and groaning with happiness. “I’d do anything you asked right now. These are way too good.”

  Matthew made himself a plate and then filled two mugs with coffee. They sat across from each other, munching happily.

  “Okay, I can’t be cool,” Beatrice finally exploded after a couple of quiet minutes. “I’m sorry, Matt. For ditching you the other day and treating you to weeks of silence. But mostly for not reacting like an adult—with the sensitivity and kindness you deserved. You went out on a limb and I couldn’t even be bothered to listen to you or talk things through.”

  Matthew put down his fork and leveled his sincere blue gaze at her. “Yeah. That hurt.”

  Beatrice toyed with a strawberry on her plate. “Well, you must have guessed I was avoiding you not because I didn’t care but because, uh…” Out with it, Young! her brain screamed at her. “Uh, because I had these feelings for you. That I didn’t know what to do with. And it made me kind of crazy.”

  “Why did it make you crazy?” Matthew asked abruptly. “I don’t get it.”

  “Because Matt, you’re my best friend. My rock. Things get complicated and that could all disappear. We fight and I lose you. I’d rather just be your friend than take that chance.”

  Matthew shook his head. “If we fight, so what? Bee, I was married to Marjorie for decades. Do you know how many times we fought? How close we came to leaving each other? But fighting is part of the process. If you’re with the right person there’s an underlying bond that carries you through all the conflict. You can’t be afraid of it because it’s inevitable.”

  Beatrice looked out the window. The thick snow was being warmed by the buttery sunshine. Chickadees swooped down to peck at fallen crumbs from the bird feeder.

  She knew he was right. Beatrice had never been in a long relationship like Matthew had, she had no knowledge of the ups and down of such a thing. All she remembered was that she and Matthew had loved each other, and then they started fighting, and then they had gotten divorced. That was her experience with conflict.

  “Bee, we don’t need to do anything about you and me. But we do need to talk about it,” Matthew continued. She slowly looked back at him. “So you like me? When did that happen?” A crooked smile appeared on his lips.

  “Ugh. When you started dating Joan. I surprised myself—I wasn’t happy for you, I was jealous. I thought maybe it was because I didn’t want to share you, just in terms of your time. But then Christmas rolled around, and we spent this amazing day together, and I realized that we just … fit. And you know, you’re pretty good looking too…”

  Matthew burst out laughing. “Am I now? You’re not bad looking yourself.”

  “Especially in flannel pajamas.” She pretended to fluff her hair.

  “Definitely. You never look better than when we’re here together on a lazy Sunday, eating brunch and watching Netlifx, you in your PJs and without a care in the world.”

  Speeches like this made Beatrice feel like she was going to fall off her high stool. “Um, oh. That’s er nice. Uh so when did you start liking me?”

  “I’ve always liked you, Bee.”

  This time Beatrice almost did fall. She steadied herself as the stool rocked under her. “Uh, what? How is that possible?”

  “I didn’t like you very much after we got divorced. Then I got married and I didn’t think about you. Then I started to miss you. Then, after my wife died, and we became friends again, I remembered why I liked you so much before. But I never thought it was the right time. Maybe it’s still not the right time.”

  Beatrice took a deep gulp of coffee, wishing she could crawl inside her mug and hide. “So what changed?”

  “I don’t know. I guess lately we’ve been so happy together it seems silly for us not to take the next step. But maybe that’s just crazy talk.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  Matthew reached over and took her hand. “Bee, we don’t need to act on this. I’m not in a rush. You’re so not in a rush you’re practically going backwards. Let’s just enjoy this day together. No pressure, no worries…”

  “…No awkwardness?” Beatrice finished.

  He laughed. “That’s impossible, I think. Should we watch a really unromantic movie now?”

  “You got it. Something with zombies eating people, I think.”

  They ended up putting on When Harry Met Sally, a film they both loved. Beatrice got chilled so she surrendered to her instincts and cuddled up close to Matt, putting her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her even closer.

  “You know, I was the one who wrote that message at the Valentine’s Fair: Do I have the keys to your heart?” he said.

  Beatrice smacked her forehead with the flat of her palm. “Of course! I gave you my house keys…”

  “…And I wondered if that mea
nt something more than just: hey buddy, hang out with me whenever you want.”

  She was silent a moment. “It probably does—mean something more, I mean. But is it okay if I don’t elaborate on that yet?”

  “Sure. But you should still know: I love you,” he whispered in her hair.

  She smiled, confused but happy. “I love you too, Matt.”

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  About the Author

  Alannah Rogers is a retired librarian living in rural New Hampshire. She has three cats, all named after authors: Charlie, Wilkie, and Jane.

  Alannah is an obsessive knitter and Scrabble player who loves a strong cup of English Breakfast tea. She makes a mean strawberry rhubarb pie and enjoys tinkering in her garden when time permits.

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  “Hamish! Lucky! Petunia!” Beatrice called, as the three cats scampered across the snow ahead of her. “Don’t go too far!”