by Cindy Sample
“Yep.” Jenna looked at me with quizzical cornflower blue eyes that mirrored mine. “Didn’t Mom tell you about my new job?”
I was completely confused by this conversation, and I hadn’t even had a glass of chardonnay yet. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to work at the agency with you.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bodies were multiplying. The bodies working in our agency, that is. How could Tom hire my daughter without asking me first?
The detective in question joined us, an open bottle of chardonnay in hand. I reached for the nearest wineglass.
“Pour,” I ordered. He looked taken aback but obligingly filled my glass. I took a much-needed sip before grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him into the kitchen, where I could begin my interrogation in private.
“Jenna just informed me she’ll be working at our agency this summer.” I elevated my voice as I glared at Tom. “Don’t you think I should have been consulted?”
“Jenna was supposed to ask your permission,” he said. He marched back into the dining room and I followed.
Tom addressed my daughter. “You were supposed to run that idea by your mother first, Jenna. She’s the office manager and will make the final decision.”
“I didn’t think you were serious. Of course, Mom wants me to help out, right?”
Three pairs of eyes zoomed in on me. I chugged half the wine in my glass while I contemplated my reply. I loved my daughter but working together day in and day out for three solid months might be more mother/daughter bonding than either of us wanted.
I chose my words with caution. “I’d love to have you work with us, honey, but there isn’t that big of a caseload right now. I’m not sure we can keep you busy enough.”
Tom rebutted my comment. “Between research and some clerical tasks, Bradford and I can keep Jenna occupied. It should prove a useful experience before she starts her criminal justice classes in the fall.”
Far be it from me to fire my daughter before her first day on the job. I finished my wine, set the glass on the table, and opened my arms to my daughter.
“Welcome to the agency.”
I convinced Jenna to join us and after we all filled our plates and commenced eating, the conversation shifted to school events. Ben and Kristy couldn’t wait to update us on some of their end-of-year third-grade activities.
“We’re gonna go through the Gold Bug Mine up in Placerville,” Kristy said. “I’ve never been.”
“Sounds like a fun way to finish the school year,” I said. “The mine is rated a five-star tour, one of the highlights of El Dorado County as far as I’m concerned.”
“They got a blacksmith shop, too,” Ben announced, then asked, “What do blacksmiths do?”
“They put shoes on horses,” I explained.
He sent me a puzzled look. “Horses wear shoes?”
Jenna nudged him with her elbow. “Horseshoes, dummy.”
I started to reprimand Jenna when Ben interrupted. “They need parents to help chap…chap…um, go with us,” he said. “Can you come, Mom?”
“As long as it’s not tomorrow, I can do it,” I told him. “I have my first case to investigate. Finally.”
“A walk-in?” asked Tom and I nodded.
“Your marketing is finally paying off,” he said. “What kind of case?”
“Um, I’m not sure yet.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Not sure of that either.”
Tom looked perplexed.
“It’s a Gran referral. I’ll know more tomorrow.” I speared a piece of lettuce and turned the conversation in his direction. “So how was your meeting at the insurance company today?”
“It went well. I think Fidelity Insurance will continue to utilize our agency.”
“What kind of case?” Hank asked Tom.
“Insurance fraud,” Tom replied. “Guy claimed he couldn’t walk because of a car accident. He was suing the other driver’s insurance agency for several million dollars.”
“Was he lying?” Ben asked midchew.
“Looks like it, Ben. Last week his wife drove him to the Galleria, helped him into his wheelchair and then entered the mall, apparently to do some shopping. But instead of hitting the stores, she rolled him to the north side of the mall where he was met by an SUV. I didn’t have time to get back into my car to follow him, but Bradford was standing by. I texted him the make of the car and license plate number, and he followed them.”
“Where did they go?” Jenna asked, clearly engrossed with their surveillance operation.
“To a golf course,” Tom replied with a smile. “And Bradford has the photos to prove not only is the guy perfectly capable of walking, he’s an excellent golfer.”
Ben turned to Kristy. “That sounds cool. We should join the agency when we’re older. Do we get to wear disguises?”
“Sometimes,” I replied. “Tomorrow I’m going up to Tahoe disguised as a senior.”
“Try not to get into any trouble, Laurel,” Tom said, his deep brown eyes twinkling with humor.
“How could I possibly get into trouble when I’m hanging out with a busload of seniors?”
Silly me.
CHAPTER FOUR
I followed my grandmother up the steps of the large tour bus. In order to forestall any possible questions regarding my age, Gran introduced me as her caregiver.
The bus driver chuckled. “You got your hands full, miss,” he said.
Didn’t I know it. Hanging out with my grandmother could prove dangerous to a person’s health. Most likely mine.
She claimed her middle initial “T” stood for Theodora, but our family designated it T for TROUBLE.
Groups of seniors clambered on board. The women, and some of the men, wore comfortable leisurewear in every shade of the rainbow. Between the canes, walkers, and mandatory hugs among friends, it took fifteen minutes to load everyone up.
Gran seemed to know most of the passengers, which came as no surprise since she’d lived in Placerville all her life and remained active in a number of local organizations. But I wasn’t prepared to hear one white-haired jug-eared man address her as “hot stuff.” Maybe those Wednesday night bingo games were rowdier than I realized.
Gran introduced me to Iris, a petite woman with wispy white hair and kind hazel eyes who sat across the aisle from us. I grabbed the window seat and looked forward to enjoying the beautiful scenery the bus passed on its route to the Stateline casinos straddling the Nevada-California border.
Late spring snow frosted the mountaintops, providing breathtaking views. As the bus wound its way up the serpentine two-lane highway, I could see the American River roaring through the canyons with the pent-up energy of a third-grade class released for summer break.
The rolling motion of the bus as it maneuvered its way up, down, and around Highway 50 lulled me into a brief nap. The screech of aged brakes woke me with a start.
“Wake up, kiddo. We’re here,” Gran’s voice blared in my ear. “No sleeping on the job now.”
I glanced out the window at the eighteen-story hotel and casino. Even on a weekday, people bustled in and out of the revolving doors. The seniors, sensing riches ahead, exited the bus far quicker than they’d climbed on board. The bus driver assisted each of them as they stepped down onto the sidewalk. When I reached the bottom of the bus steps he handed me a blue coupon. Everyone else seemed to be holding onto a similar item.
“What’s this?” I asked Gran and Iris, who joined us.
“That coupon entitles you to ten dollars’ worth of chips and one dollar off the buffet,” she said. “Heck of a deal.”
It certainly was, and a heck of an incentive for the seniors to spend more than they should. But who was I to disparage whatever form of entertainment kept Gran and her friends excited. If you’re going to lose a pile full of money, you might as well enjoy a great view of beautiful Lake Tahoe while you’re at it.
As we entered the casino
, I whispered to Gran, “When am I going to interview Iris? That’s the reason I came on this trip, you know.”
“All in good time. You youngsters are so impatient.” She stopped and stared across the enormous casino, the lights from dozens of crystal chandeliers gleaming above the blackjack and craps tables in the middle of the room. Line after line of colorful slot machines beckoned us. Gran’s nose twitched, as if she were on the scent of a winning machine. “C’mon,” she said, pulling me along with her. Iris followed behind, evidently more than willing to let Gran determine which slots would pay off the best.
Not being much of a gambler, I was happy to discover the bank of machines Gran led us to were nickel slots.
An hour later, I rolled my shoulders, stiff from sitting on the stool, punching buttons nonstop. Years ago, when you hit a jackpot, the slot machine would light up and clamor while a pile of coins fell into your bucket. These days, an electronic tinkle heralded your winnings and the money remained in the machine until you wisely stopped playing and left with a piece of paper in your hands.
I chose not to do that and my twenty-dollar bill now belonged to the casino. Gran and Iris were each playing three machines, way too much work for me. I stood, stretched, and then joined Gran.
“How are you doing?” I asked her.
She squinted. “Not sure. I can’t tell how many nickels I got left. But I haven’t run out of money yet.”
“How about you cash in and we grab something to eat?”
Gran looked over at her friend. “Iris can probably use a break, too. You’re on.”
Twenty minutes later we were finally seated at a booth in the buffet. The joint was hopping. I guess when you’re a senior on a fixed income, you can’t beat “all you can eat” for $3.99, especially when you have a buck-off coupon.
After platefuls of overcooked vegetables and batter-fried strips of something or other, we finally got down to business. Detective business.
With a few nudges and encouraging words from Gran, Iris hesitantly shared her story with me.
“Ten years ago, my husband, Jim, and I were on vacation up here,” Iris said. “At one of the casinos, there was a guy offering discounts on activities like rides on the Tahoe Queen or free dinners. All you had to do was sit through a timeshare presentation.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me,” said my grandmother, who loved nothing better than a freebie.
“It would have been except we got talked into purchasing ‘points’ equivalent to two weeks of vacation time anywhere in the world,” Iris said wryly. “I didn’t think we could afford it, but Jim got all caught up in the presentation. He thought it was a great idea, especially since he planned on retiring in a few years.”
“Did you get to use them much?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We were supposed to be able to use the points at resorts all over the world, places like Australia and the Caribbean. But every time we tried to use our points someplace, the resorts we were interested in were already booked.” She looked down at her hands. “Then Jim got cancer and it was all chemo and radiation and recovery after that. Until the day he didn’t recover.”
Gran patted her friend’s hand and we both made sympathetic noises. No matter how long it’s been since a spouse has died, it’s never easy for the one left behind. Gran and my mother had both suffered when their husbands passed many years ago.
The three of us remained silent for a minute, which was probably thirty seconds too long for my chatty grandmother because she jumped in. “So Iris here got stuck with this timeshare ownership. Every year she pays these huge fees that just keep going up and up.”
“Can you sell it?” I asked her, having seen numerous advertisements online and in magazines from companies that specialized in timeshare sales. That seemed like a viable option to me.
“I tried,” Iris explained. “One company called me multiple times and said for a set fee of three thousand dollars they could sell my timeshare for me. They explained the cost was much lower than paying a commission. That made sense so I signed up with them. But after a year, there was nary a sale. Then a different company contacted me called Timeshare Cancellation. They assured me they could get the money back that I paid for the timeshare points because the original company made promises they couldn’t keep. They charged me forty-five hundred dollars.”
“Still nothing, I presume,” I said.
“Nope. In the meantime, the fees, which weren’t so bad to begin with, were now up to two thousand dollars a year. I’ve been living on my social security and a wee bit of interest from our savings, which rapidly declined after I paid off Jim’s medical bills. The fees are getting too expensive for me to pay every year.”
“It’s tough for us old folks,” Gran chimed in.
“We also financed part of the cost of the timeshare.” Iris grimaced. “At eighteen percent interest. Thought we could pay it off once Jim got his bonus. But then he got sick. One day six months ago, I got a call from another company that promised to take over the loan and absolve me of everything. They sent me testimonials to prove how great they were.”
“Hah!” I said in detective-speak. “Never trust a timeshare testimonial.”
“This company, Timeshare Help, promised to assume the loan and the ownership for a small fee.”
“Define small.”
“Six thousand dollars. For each week.”
“Not so small,” I mused.
“No, but the loan payments and the increasing fees were killing me on my limited income.” The lines surrounding her thin lips deepened as she frowned. “I was relieved to finally find a way to get rid of it.”
“That sounds like a good solution, although an expensive one.”
“It would have been,” said Iris, “except my loan was never paid off, and I’m still getting billed for the annual fees and loan payments. When I called Timeshare Help, they claimed they knew nothing about the transaction and never heard of the person I’d spoken with. I keep trying to talk to a manager, but I just get the runaround going from one automated extension to another before eventually I get cut off.”
I pondered her situation for a few minutes. “Have you discussed this with a lawyer?” I asked her.
She nodded. “I met with a Placerville firm, but they wanted a retainer of five thousand dollars. They indicated their fees would probably run much higher, and they couldn’t even guarantee they could recover any of my money.”
Iris grabbed my hand in hers and squeezed it tight. “Can you help me?”
CHAPTER FIVE
I slid my palm out of Iris’s surprisingly strong grasp and patted her hand. “Of course, I can help,” I reassured her. “My specialty is investigating financial fraud.”
And I now had my first case to prove it.
“When we return home, can you get me copies of your initial purchase agreements and any paperwork you have from Timeshare Help?”
“I sure can. I found the address in the yellow pages for their local office in South Lake Tahoe. I thought maybe Ginny”—she pointed to my grandmother—“and I could visit them today. I don’t drive anymore, so this bus trip was the only way to get up here to talk to them in person.” She hesitated before going on. “But since you’re a fraud expert, it might help if you came along.” She grabbed my left hand again and squeezed so hard my diamond ring probably left an imprint on her palm. “Would you go over there with us?”
Since the alternative to visiting Timeshare Help would be spending the next three hours losing more nickels than I could afford, my answer was an easy affirmative.
Gran completed one last trek to the dessert buffet before we left. The woman had the metabolism of a professional cheerleader. One genetic trait I did not inherit. I settled for two bites of her apple cobbler and half of a chocolate chip cookie. Enough of an energy boost to get me through an afternoon of detecting.
I needed to be sharp for an encounter with a team of timeshare experts. Those folks are slicker than an Exxon o
il spill. Hank and I had almost succumbed to their sales chicanery when Jenna was little. Fortunately for us, my young daughter tipped her cup of hot chocolate onto the salesman’s lap. His yelps of pain combined with her shrieks provided us a quick and painless exit.
Painless for us.
Our trio stepped out of the casino. We grabbed one of the cabs lined up at the entrance and gave the driver the address. He frowned at us and I wondered if he was having a bad day. Then we discovered the Tahoe office of Timeshare Help turned out to be located in an L-shaped strip mall less than a mile from the casinos.
I gave the cab driver a large tip, which must have made up for the brief ride because he offered a nicotine-tinged smile as well as his business card for our return trip. I shoved the card in the side pocket of my purse and joined the two women. Timeshare Help’s office was wedged between an art gallery and Palomino’s Pizza. Despite eating a short while earlier, the scent of garlic floating from the restaurant made my stomach growl.
I turned to the women. “Are you ready?” I asked in a hearty voice, wondering why I sounded like I was about to lead a platoon into warfare.
Gran squared her shoulders, fearless as ever. Iris’s hands shook. Did she suffer from Parkinson’s or was the thought of confronting the timeshare scoundrels enough to make her quiver?
I latched an arm through each of theirs as we approached the office. The Three Musketeers, ready for action. One for all, and all for one. Our grand entry was halted for a few seconds when an older couple burst through the doorway. The man’s pudgy face glowed magenta under a shock of white hair. The scowl creasing his face was not the expression of a happy timeshare owner. His wife patted his arm, murmuring what sounded like calming words. She sent us an apologetic look as they barreled past our threesome.
Interesting. But none of our business. I held the door open and we entered an office decorated in standard Lake Tahoe décor—beige walls, forest green carpet, a couple of tweed visitor chairs in the foyer. Large framed photos of popular vacation destinations hung on the walls.