“I’m an old fool, Dix,” she said. “Noel Almond is out to get me. And I know that he will.”
“But you’re innocent.”
She huffed. “I know this. You know this. Jane Presley … Mona Roberts. That’s a tally of four in my corner.”
“Pretty good number.”
She tried to smile. “Dix, I didn’t steal any jewels. No matter how bad things got, I’d never steal from anyone, let alone my friends. Times have been hard lately and I’ve had to sell off the rights to some of Peter’s old songs.” She looked at me sheepishly.
“You did?” Of course, I already knew this, courtesy of Dylan’s digging, but I feigned surprise. “Mother, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t tell your sister either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“It wasn’t.”
Of course it was.
“Dix, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve enough on your mind with your growing business. I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re my mother, you’re never a bother. We’re—”
“We’re family,” she finished for me. “And I’ve done my best by both you girls. But I never wanted to burden you with any of it. Not when your father was sick. And certainly not now.”
It was true. She’d been the one. It was only when I was grown up that I realized the sacrifices she must have made. The tears she’d hidden. The times when there was barely anything to hold on to — Katt Dodd had held on. For us. For my father. For herself.
She didn’t deserve this shit now. She didn’t deserve to be framed for these crimes. And she didn’t deserve a daughter complaining about her wildness. About her going out and whooping it up in her latter years after all she’d done for us. Now some asshole was quite willing to let my mother spend her golden years behind bars for crimes she hadn’t committed.
Damn that Eddie Baskin. I’d find the truth of this matter if it was the last thing I did.
“I’ll figure this out, Mom,” I said.
I got up and marched off to the kitchen.
“There’s more cupcakes on the counter, Dix.”
God, did the woman know me or what?
But I wasn’t after more cupcakes. I got two tall glasses and ice from the freezer. And lastly I grabbed two cans of Mountain Dew from beneath the cupboard.
Mother’s eyes widened then misted when she saw me carrying them back.
I sat down on the sofa again — beside her, yes, but closer somehow.
“I’m … I’m scared, Dix.”
“I know.” The pop cans clicked as I pulled back the tabs and fizzed the contents into the tall glasses. “Remember when you promised me you’d never tell anyone what my real name was?”
She nodded emphatically. “And I never did.”
“I never doubted. Because you promised me you wouldn’t.”
She smiled. “If I recall correctly, it was more than a promise. It was a pinkie swear.”
“It was a pinkie swear over Mountain Dew and cupcakes,” I said. “That makes it iron clad.”
We linked our pinkie fingers together.
“Mom, I promise you, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
She blinked rapidly. “Thank you, Dix. I have faith in you.”
~*~
I spent the rest of that day like a woman possessed. It was one of those hot-as-hell, muggy Florida days. Sweat rolled off me, refusing to evaporate in the hideous humidity, and I kept the water bottle filled. I talked to all the Wildoh residents who would talk to me. None of them yet knew that I was a private investigator. They still thought I was the not-too-bright, erotica-writing daughter of Katt Dodd. So although they talked to me with hostility, it wasn’t guarded hostility.
Except Big Eddie. He wasn’t the least bit hostile. The fucker was still just a grinning. I knew he was the culprit. He didn’t seem to care. Smug son of a bitch.
I snooped around every complex, watched the comings and goings of everyone that I could. One of those people coming and going was Dylan, going about his security/maintenance duties. He nodded at me politely each time we passed, me on my overt fact-finding mission and he on his covert one.
I charted. I plotted. I drew little stick figures and great big question marks, as I tried to tie each and every individual into Big Eddie Baskin.
I thought about motive.
I considered money.
I pondered access.
And I had no doubt Dylan was doing the same.
And why was I looking for connections to Big Eddie? Because he had to have had an accomplice, that’s why. Someone had to be working with him to get the jewels off the property.
And I didn’t like how these lines of thought looped and led.
That evening Mother was almost her old self again. Apparently the pinkie swear promise was all she needed to buoy her spirits. She insisted we all ‘doll up’ and head out for a night on the town.
I did the DD (designated driver, not Dix Dodd) while out with Mom and Mrs. P But I enjoyed a nice, cold glass of wine when I got home. And only as I relaxed and sipped, did I realize how tired I was. Pooped. Beat.
And I slept like the dead. I didn’t stir until the next day, when I awakened to my mother screaming and pointing a shaking finger to the empty wall safe.
Chapter 13
I couldn’t believe it.
Yet there it was….
That safe was not twenty feet from where I’d slept all night! How could someone have broken in and gotten by me? It just wasn’t possible. And it was also highly risky. Whoever broke in here had to be pretty damn sure I’d not wake up. But how?
Then I stood up from the sofa bed and reeled sideways. What the hell? I sat down again. The dizziness passed quickly, but when it did, I realized my brain was shrouded in a fog that was just beginning to dissipate. And not a sleep fog. I blinked.
Jesus, someone had slipped me something! But who? When? Oh, where should the ass-kicking begin?
My own, perhaps. Instantly the answer came to me.
I’d been careless yesterday. The damn heat, I’d carried a water bottle around with me all day. Of course, I’d set it down everywhere I’d gone. To take notes, to run to the bathroom at Mona’s. I’d set the water down to shake hands with Roger (whose other hand was covered with chocolate … geez, I hope it was chocolate).
Damn damn damn! Anyone could have slipped something into my water. I’m never that sloppy. But if I had in fact been slipped a mickey, why the delayed reaction? Why hadn’t it hit me until hours later? How could it not hit me until….
Oh, shit, until I’d had that drink of wine after dinner. It must have been something fairly innocuous until it was intensified by alcohol. That perfectly predictable glass of wine.
Or, shit, shit, shit, maybe someone slipped something into the wine itself? Slipped into Mother’s condo in order to slip it into the wine. Not that I could prove it. I’d polished off the last of it, a partial bottle of Shiraz. The same one Dylan and I had drunk from the other night. There’d been just enough left for a single glass.
Whatever the method of delivery, in the water or in the wine, it had worked. It had been lights-out drowsiness when my head hit the pillow, which I attributed to stress. I’d crashed early, thinking my subconscious might solve the mystery my conscious mind seemed unable to crack.