A Hopeless Discovery

by Daniel Carson

  “How significant?” I asked.

  “In the neighborhood of two grand. A little under a month later, Wanda gave me the money in cash. And, as had become my custom, I started examining the money right there.”

  “And you found this fake twenty-dollar bill,” I said.

  Flo shook her head. “No. I found many fake twenty-dollar bills.”

  “How many?”

  “All of them. The entire two thousand dollars was counterfeit.”

  Katie gasped. “What did you do?”

  “I got angry. I gave her one week to give me real money, and I told her never to come back to our poker game. It seems our Wanda was more than a pumpkin patch worker who was hard to get along with.” Flo folded her arms. “Wanda Wegman was a counterfeiter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thirty minutes later, Mary Riley unlocked the door to Wanda Wegman’s cottage so I could have another look around.

  “Anything in particular you’re looking for this time?” Mary asked.

  “No, nothing in particular. Just hoping to get lucky.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to work, so I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if there’s anything more Bubba and I can do. We all want to find whoever did this to poor Wanda.”

  Of course, nothing in particular wasn’t the truth. If Wanda Wegman was a counterfeiter, I was hoping to find something that would prove it.

  I searched the cottage once again—but far more thoroughly this time. I looked under beds, inside dresser drawers, and inside every cabinet I could find. I even poked my head up into the attic, using my phone as a flashlight. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to suggest that Wanda Wegman was printing fake money.

  Then I stopped and looked at the computer on her desk in her room, and I wondered. How exactly does one learn how to make counterfeit money?

  How does one learn to do anything these days?

  The internet.

  I made sure the cord was plugged in, then turned on the computer. As it started going through its bootup procedure, I decided this would be easier with a little help.

  I placed a call.

  “Hey, big sexy!” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  “Big sexy?” said Darwin in his usual boring drawl.

  “Would you prefer ‘little sexy’?”

  “What do you want, Hope?”

  “I take it you don’t have any results for me on the package I sent you?”

  “I told you I’d never done that before.”

  “Which is not the same as you not being able to do it. So—were you able to do it?”

  “Well, yes. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point, darling?”

  “That you just expect me to move heaven and earth for you at the drop of a hat. I feel underappreciated.”

  “I called you big sexy and darling, and you feel underappreciated?”

  “I feel like you’re teasing me.”

  “Darwin, I’m going to make you a deal. You drive to Hopeless, Idaho, and I will take you out to dinner at this great place I know that serves free peanuts. And if you play your cards right, at the end of our date, I’ll even kiss you goodnight.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. A long, uncomfortable silence.

  “Darwin, are you okay?”

  “You’re not still teasing, are you?”

  “Nope. You show up in Hopeless, and it’s a date. I’ll wear clean underwear, put on deodorant, the works.”

  “Okay,” he finally said. “It’s a date.”

  “Great. Now, what exactly is your update on the package?”

  “Well, I was actually going to call you later with my update. I wanted to check my results again.”

  “You never struck me as a check-your-results kind of guy.”

  “I’m not, usually… but this time I feel like something must be wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “The fingerprints you found have no match… but the DNA does. The DNA belongs to a woman named Samantha Jones.”

  “So Ms. Jones really was her real name.”

  “Well, just wait. The only thing I could find about Samantha Jones was she’s the owner of an independent real estate consultant business called Happy Farms Real Estate. It’s owned by another business, an LLC called Portland Sunrise, LLC. And Hope, I don’t think these are real companies. They’re clearly shells.”

  “And what’s behind these shells?”

  “This is the part you’re not going to believe.”

  “Try me.”

  “According to the records I found, these companies are owned entirely by another company. And its name is… Hope Walker Enterprises.”

  My jaw dropped. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Not by me. But Hope, somebody went to a lot of trouble to do this.”

  “Which means?”

  “Someone is messing with you.”

  That much was clear. Somebody knew I would look into Ms. Jones… and this was their message. A message meant for me. The message was simple.

  I’m smarter than you.

  And at least for the moment, they were right.

  Wanda’s computer brought up the desktop, and I was reminded why I called Darwin in the first place.

  “Okay, Darwin, I have another request for you. A much easier one. I need help accessing some information on a computer.”

  “That seems like the kind of thing you could handle yourself, Hope.”

  “But you can handle it so much better. I just turned this computer on for the first time in three years. It belonged to a woman named Wanda Wegman, and I’m investigating her death. I want her search histories, especially the last couple months of her life. I want access to her emails. Anything.”

  “You have access to the computer?”

  “It’s right in front of me.”

  “Can you get on the internet?”

  “Let me see.” I searched for Wi-Fi networks, found one called Bubba’s Patch Public, and logged on. “Okay, I’m on.”

  “I need you to type ‘remotedarwin.com’ into the search bar.”

  “Give me a second.” I opened up Chrome, typed in the domain name, and clicked. A site popped up with a square in the middle.

  “Now type the following password into the box.” Darwin gave me a series of nine letters and numbers, which I dutifully entered.

  “Okay,” Darwin said, “I’m in.”

  “You mean you’re in this computer?”

  “Yep, I’ve got total control.”

  “Sweet. How long will it take you to get what I need?”

  “I already have it. You should see an archived history of her internet search on your screen. Told you you could do this, Hope. There’s nothing tricky about pulling up a search history.”

  “Yes, but I like it better when you do it.”

  Darwin sighed. “Do you need anything else?”

  “I might… but this is good for now. Thanks, Darwin.”

  I got off the phone and checked Wanda’s history. Her last search was just over three years ago, once again confirming the time of her disappearance. I wrote down the date on a pad of paper, then I started perusing the types of things Wanda had been looking at.

  Most of it was ordinary stuff. Or at least, ordinary stuff for someone like Wanda. Baking websites. Recipes. Mechanical sites. Something about welding. Websites for a couple of other pumpkin patches. But—sprinkled throughout all of this was something else.

  Searches about counterfeiting.

  Bingo.

  I opened all of the searches into different tabs and started skimming to find out what Wanda was learning about. Taken together, the dozen or so pages I read through were like a crash course on how to make fake money. The type of paper to use. The type of ink and where to get it. The types of color laser printers that worked best. And on and on and on. After reading all of it, I was actually thinking about counterfeiting money myself. It truly was
extraordinary what you could learn on the internet.

  But though the knowledge-gathering was easy, the actual doing of it did not seem easy at all. You had to find and buy just the right paper, the right ink, the right machines, and you had to develop the artistry to actually do it. Learnable, yes. Easy? Not a chance.

  And that’s when something struck me. The searches about counterfeiting were all in the last two weeks of her search history. I double-checked—went back further in time and worked my back up to her most recent internet usage. There was no doubt about it: there was not a single search on any counterfeiting topics until the final two weeks of her search history. Presumably the last two weeks of her life.

  Hard to believe that Wanda learned how to print fake money, and then successfully printed a huge batch of it, all in the course of two weeks.

  Which meant…

  Flo was wrong. Wanda wasn’t a counterfeiter.

  But somebody else was.

  And Wanda had been trying to figure it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  One of the searches in Wanda’s history was for the Secret Service. I always thought of the Secret Service as being the people who protect the president and other dignitaries, but it turns out they also have a huge role in combating fraud—including the counterfeiting of money.

  So I found the contact info for the Boise branch of the Secret Service and called it. I thought they might be able to help me figure out who was behind the fake money. The secretary forwarded me on to one of the agents in charge.

  “Special Agent Rebecca Vargas. How can I help you?”

  I told Special Agent Vargas that I was an investigative reporter with confidential sources who was working on a story about counterfeiting.

  “Right there in Hopeless?” she said.

  “You know Hopeless?”

  “I’m familiar with it. So—exactly how can I help you with your story?”

  “Well, basically, I was handed a twenty-dollar bill that I’m told is a counterfeit. My source said this particular twenty was part of two thousand dollars in counterfeit bills that was handed to her a few years back as payment for a debt.”

  “And I suppose you’re not going to tell me where it came from.”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you my source. But if I can figure out where the counterfeit bills came from, I will tell you that.”

  She paused, then finally let out a breath. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What more can you share?”

  I started at the beginning. From finding Wanda’s body to looking at Wanda’s search history, I told Agent Vargas everything I could… except for the part about the illegal high-stakes poker game and a certain hairdresser and bar owner who played in it. When I was done, I asked for her opinion.

  “First, I think you’re right about Wanda. She’s not your girl. The internet can teach you about counterfeiting, but doing it is a whole ’nother thing. Sounds to me like she discovered some counterfeit money and decided to investigate it herself.”

  “Okay, then help me out. She comes into two thousand dollars that she uses to pay off a debt—and then she’s surprised to learn that the money is fake. My question is, where would two thousand dollars in cash come from? Could it be from a bank withdrawal?”

  “Doubtful. Most banks, even small-town banks, have electronic cash counters for bigger stacks of money. These counters also have scanners that scan for bad bills. Counterfeit money rarely shows up in banks because they catch it on either the deposit or the withdrawal.”

  “What are the other options?” I asked.

  “She could have been given a gift. Or… there’s one other possibility that comes to mind. I don’t see it that often, but it would explain the large amount of money.” Special Agent Vargas explained to me what she was thinking.

  “Any thoughts on how I might confirm that?” I asked.

  “I think you need to ask those employees one more question.”

  Then, to my surprise, Special Agent Vargas offered to come to Hopeless and take a look into this if I wanted. “Murder, counterfeit money, an old lady, and a crazy pumpkin patch? Ms. Walker, this sounds way more interesting than most of the things I usually get to deal with. So if you need me, just call. I can be there within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Agent Vargas. I will definitely keep that offer in mind.”

  I visited Johnny’s Corner first. Johnny was just finishing up a dazzling display with his robot, and it was clear that the kids absolutely loved it. Even I had to admit that, though there were no flying chunks of pumpkin to avoid, it was still extremely cool.

  Next I talked to Kip Granger down at the corn maze. He had just finished sending a group of kids screaming into the maze—better them than me—and was happy to give me a moment of his time.

  I found Lucinda Meadows working the counter at Lucinda’s Famous Apple Donuts. I bought three more warm donuts while I was there.

  And at each stop, I asked the same two questions.

  Do you think Wanda might be printing fake money?

  And…

  Did Bubba’s ever pay you in cash?

  For the first question, they all had the same answer: No way. When it came to Wanda Wegman, the one thing everyone agreed on—besides that she was difficult—was that she was honest. In fact, those two personality traits were closely intertwined. Wanda was no cheat. She was not our counterfeiter.

  The second question caught them off guard, but again, their answers were largely the same: Yes. Johnny said he’d been paid in cash several times, but not for a while. Kip agreed. Said it had been maybe three years.

  Lucinda didn’t need to guess when it happened last. She said she’d look at her records.

  “You kept records of how you were paid?”

  She sat down at her computer in a cramped office at the back of her kitchen. “Not as such, but I have a record of all my bank deposits. And… any time I was paid cash… I didn’t deposit it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If I don’t deposit it, I don’t have to claim it as income, and I don’t have to pay taxes on it. I hate taxes.”

  She looked through her records. “Okay, looks like the last time we were paid cash was a little over…”

  “Three years ago?” I said.

  She smiled. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  On my way out, I grabbed another warm apple donut. I took a big bite as I called Special Agent Vargas.

  “You were right,” I said.

  “Then Bubba’s Pumpkin Patch, here I come. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  There was one more call I needed to make. A call I’d been avoiding since Monday. But he was the sheriff, and I couldn’t do what I was about to do without him.

  He answered after the first ring.

  “Hello, Hope.”

  “Hi, Alex.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “I got angry.”

  “I know. And I understand why.”

  “Do you?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Were we having dinner that night just so we could compare notes on the case?”

  “I hope not,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean… I was hoping it was more than that.”

  My heart fluttered. But I also got angry. Again.

  “Then why did you kiss her?”

  “I didn’t kiss her, Hope. She kissed me.”

  “Then why did you let her kiss you? She’s Gemima Clark. She’s a walking cliché of a homewrecker. She has spent my entire life trying to make my life miserable. Why did you have to let her kiss you?”

  He said nothing.

  “And Alex, when you arrested me… you embarrassed me… in front of everyone.”

  “But you punched her.”

  “And she kissed you without you ever asking for it. You could have told her that, in front of everyone. You could have refused to arrest me like I was some common criminal. So why did you?”


  “I… I don’t know, Hope. I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do. All I can say is… I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Think we can we start over?”

  “You want to go out to dinner and compare notes on our investigation again?”

  “Something like that. But the comparing of notes is going to have to wait. That’s why I was calling you. I need you to come out to Bubba’s. I just solved the case and I need you to make the arrest.”

  “You what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the killer, Alex. I know who killed Wanda Wegman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As I waited for the cavalry outside the big barn at the front entrance to Bubba’s, I made a late-afternoon call to Stephen Dinsdale at the Hopeless Bank and Trust. In high school, everyone called him “Booger”; the main thing I remembered about him was that he always had the hots for Katie. Nowadays, everybody called him “Mr. Vice President,” and he had a brand-new house outside of town. Thankfully, he was happy to answer a few of my questions. They only confirmed my conclusion.

  When Sheriff Kramer arrived, he looked uneasy. “Is this going to be another example of you throwing around crazy murder allegations with absolutely no proof?”

  “Why of course. I do have a reputation to uphold, Sheriff. But there will be one distinct difference this time.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to have leverage.”

  “How so?”

  I nodded to a woman who was just walking toward us. She wore a light-gray suit jacket and pants over a black blouse. She had long black hair, olive skin, and dark but beautiful eyes. A badge was attached to her waist.

  “That’s my leverage,” I said.

  Alex turned to look at her—and as soon as he did, his body language instantly changed. So did the special agent’s. She stopped suddenly and her eyes widened.

  “Rebecca?” said Sheriff Kramer. “What are you doing here?”

  Agent Vargas smiled. “I wondered if you’d be here.”

  “The two of you know each other?” I said.