And of everything Dylan told me, this latter fact surprised me the most. While Tish McQueen enjoyed the big double bed in Mona’s master bedroom, Mona slept on a sleeping bag on the floor in the one unfurnished spare rooms. Mona’s cupboards were all but empty, her cookie-jar money stash (all old folks have one — it’s the law or something) consisted of three bucks in Canadian change.
But despite all these interesting discoveries, there was no sign of any of the jewels gone missing. Nothing. Nada. I’d figured that the items stolen earlier would be long gone by now, but I’d have thought Roger Cassidy’s recently stolen broach would turn up. It hadn’t even been 24 hours! According to the notes taken by Officer North, with all the commotion, no one had been off the complex in that time frame. No one except for … FUCK!
Katt Dodd, of course.
Me, Mrs. Jane Presley and Katt Dodd.
This trip just kept getting lovelier by the minute.
Actually Mrs. P just laughed off Deputy Almond’s suggestion that she was in cahoots with my mother. We’re talking knee-slapping laughter. She laughed all the harder when he later tried to turn on the charm. Mrs. Presley was driving Almond nuts (no pun intended). But I have yet to see something or someone that Mrs. P is afraid of. Or someone who could sweet talk her. Not after all those years of running a no-tell motel like the Underhill.
And though I wasn’t worried about Almond’s accusations about me (and the prick wouldn’t dare try to sweet talk me after the other night), well, I was getting more pissed off by the minute.
“Happy now, Dix Dodd?” the king of polyester pants asked me when the search of the premises had been completed.
I didn’t answer Big Eddie. If he was looking for an apologetic mumble, a sheepish hanging of the head, he was barking up the wrong goddamn tree.
Fact was, I was not happy. But nor was I convinced of Eddie’s innocence. In fact, more and more my intuition tingled. I just knew somehow Big Eddie Baskin was connected to all this. But how? If he’d not left the complex in weeks (and why the hell not?), and the jewels truly weren’t to be found on the premises, then where were they?
“Maybe you should stick to writing those dirty books and let the men-folk handle the investigations?” Noel Almond suggested helpfully.
The suggestion stung all the more because Deputy No Nuts knew I was no writer of books, dirty or otherwise. I was a PI, dammit, and at least as good at my job as the ‘men-folk’. But to protest would be to blow my cover, and I wasn’t ready to do that yet. So I bit my tongue and said nothing. And bit it. And bit it some more. God, the man infuriated me!
I was also genuinely worried that no evidence had turned up in connection with the missing jewelry. But too, on this Wildoh search, I thought some sign of Frankie Morrell might show up.
A snapshot.
A piece of clothing.
Another blue-haired hooker, lounging on a sofa.
A lily pad with identifying evidence.
Of course, Mom had her little green heart-shaped evidence still in the freezer. Yes, she was still sure that had been Frankie’s way of trying to win her back.
But as far as hard (okay, remotely believable) evidence as to the whereabouts of Frankie Morell … that would come later.
Oh boy, did it ever.
~*~
That afternoon, Mrs. Presley thought she’d get some Florida sunshine. There was no golf this afternoon (guess Big Eddie exhausted his balls the day before and it wasn’t Lance-a-Lot’s day), so she pretty much had her pick of the lounge chairs outside the rec center, and that was where she was headed. No, Mrs. P wasn’t the most welcome guest at the Wildoh. Everyone associated her with Katt Dodd. Hell, half of the Wildoh residents thought she was the head of some Ontario granny jewelry fencing ring, and the other half thought she was the mistress of a mafia kingpin, ready to make one call and they’d all have horse heads in their beds by morning if they pissed her off any more. Mrs. P really shouldn’t have told them that.
So in her oversized Hawaiian top, below the knee shorts and sombrero that shaded every square inch of her small body, Mrs. P set off. Despite all the goings on, I think she was having a good time in Florida. She’d never complain, of course. And I was damned determined to get her to at least one of those monster bingo games she so wanted to attend. She certainly knew the severity of the situation. But it didn’t worry her. “Ah, you’ll get it figured out Dix,” she said as she headed for the door.
“I don’t get it,” I told her. “It feels like it should be Big Eddie. My intuition … Mrs. P, it’s jumping all over Big Eddie.”
“Maybe it’s hormones,” she suggested. “Maybe they’re causing you to not see straight. Woman your age … wouldn’t be the first time hormones sent things out of whack.”
Anyone else I would have whacked.
I thanked her from my seated position on the couch. Tossed out a two-thumbs up.
But truthfully, I was getting worried about this case. And as she set out the door, I tucked my arms around myself and let my smile fade. I was missing something. But what? Big Eddie was too damned cocky to not be guilty. Too damned smug about the whole thing. But without evidence….
“Cupcake, Dix?”
I only realized how very deep in thought I was when Mom’s words jolted me back to the present. I scooted my feet off the couch and she sat down beside me, sighing as she did. Mother had been in the kitchen baking, and before me now sat a tray of chocolate cupcakes, with inch high frosting.
Well, they wouldn’t be sitting there for long.
Oh God, they were good. Rich. Sweet. Decadent.
But in the time it took me to scarf down two of the chocolate delights, she’d barely picked the paper off hers. (This is a reflection on her mood and lack of appetite rather than my gluttony and love of all things chocolate. Yeah, we’ll go with that.)
“I got an email from Peaches Marie,” Mother said.
“Is she having a good time?”
“Yes,” she said, brightening a bit. “She and Rosemary were just heading up to the Shetland Islands. I like Rosemary. She’s good for Peaches Marie. Gets her to lighten up a bit, you know.”
Lighten up? My barefoot, vegan, sister with a penchant for yoga positions that make my bones creak just thinking about them, needed to lighten up? If Peaches Marie got any lighter, she’d float away.
And if Mom thought my sister was tightly wound, I’d hate to think what she thought of me.
“Did you tell her about everything going on here?” Though I tried to make it sound casual, I had to ask.
“No.” Mother sighed. “Why worry her yet? Let her enjoy the trip. Let her have a good time while she still can. Before….” It wasn’t quite a sob that ended her sentence, but as close to sob as I’d heard from my mother in a long, long time.
I did not like that all-hope-abandoned resignation in my mother’s voice. She was giving up. Mother reached over beside her on the couch, and pulled a rose-colored, knitted afghan over her knees.
She wrapped it around her legs and ran her hand over the rough pattern. “I wonder if I could make one of these,” she mused. “I wonder … I wonder if they let a person knit in jail. You know … they might not with the long-pointy needles and all.”
I set my cupcake down. “Mom,” I said. “There is no way in hell—”