Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

“You want a glass of water?” she asked.

  “Yes, and bring me a wet, cold face towel.”

  She did, and after I wiped my face and sipped the cool water, I felt revived. “Can you get my laptop? I think it’s in the living room. I’m sure we can find a video on how to pick a lock.”

  First, we watched the one for how to pick a padlock with a paperclip. We followed the geeky prepubescent boy’s methodical directions, but no luck. Then we tried how to pick a padlock with a screwdriver, and finally, “how to pick a padlock with a steak knife.”

  I tapped the lock. “Clearly, we’ll never make it as burglars. So now what?”

  “You got a hacksaw?” she asked.

  “No. But I’m sure Pop does. He’s probably at his shop now, but I have a key to the house. He won’t mind if we borrow it.”

  A few years ago, Pop took early retirement from the police force after getting shot in the knee. Now he owns a quaint old-school fix-it shop near the downtown area of Santa Lucia. It’s next door to Mom’s hair salon, Cut ’n Caboodles.

  “Or I can go to the hardware store and buy one,” said Emily. “Then you’d have one of your very own. And the hardware store’s closer.”

  After she left, I watched one more video, “How to pick a padlock with a paper clip for beginners” and voila! It popped open.

  Now for the big reveal. I unhitched the lock and set it on the table.

  Would it be riches? Or was I opening Pandora’s box?

  Chapter Three

  COINS AND CADAVERS

  FRIDAY • JANUARY 16

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  I tried to ignore my phone vibrating on the nightstand at 6:49 this morning, but curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked to see who had the nerve to call so early. Ruby Armstrong.

  Oh, crap. Who died? Grandma Ruby checks the obits every morning, and if anyone she was even slightly acquainted with has kicked the bucket, she calls to share with lucky me.

  “Hi, Ruby. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s up, little missy.”

  She only calls me that when I’m in big trouble. I scanned my groggy brain and came up blank. “What’d I do?”

  “I always read your blog during The Tonight Show, and last night you ended your post on a cliffhanger. What the hell is in the damned box? I was up all damned night, wondering and worrying.”

  “Why don’t you come over and see for yourself?”

  “You know I have to go to work, Katy. Just tell me so I can get on with my life.”

  “Nope. You gotta see it. You’re not going to believe it.”

  She heaved a testy sigh. “Fine. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  “Can you stop at Starbucks and get me a grande double shot latte, three sugars? And a cheese danish. Pleeease? You know you’re my favorite grandma.” For good measure, I added, “My legs really hurt, Grammy.”

  Ruby could be Attila the Hun and she’d still be my favorite grandma. Pop married Mom when I was a toddler. His parents had lived in Palm Desert but recently had moved to Prescott, Arizona because of lower taxes. Pop’s folks are nice, but I rarely see them.

  My bio-father, Bert McKenna, aka “plastic surgeon to the stars,” never paid much attention to me while I was growing up. He was too busy running through trophy wives while making wads of money yanking up the faces of movie stars. His father had died when he was a kid, and his mother is hands-down the nastiest woman in the universe. Think Cruella de Vil times ten.

  “Holy moly. Should you be walking?” Ruby eyed my legs clad in cut-off sweats when I opened the front door. She handed me a steamy latte and a little brown bag. “I brought a latte for Emily, too. Where is she?”

  “Sleeping it off. We wound up drinking a little too much wine last night. It was a pretty crazy night. Let’s sit in the living room so I can put my feet up and I’ll fill you in.”

  Yesterday

  After I’d taken the lock off the box, I looked at Daisy looking at me. I knew she thought I should wait for Emily, so to make my girl happy, I waited about ten minutes.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Daisy, let me take one teeny-tiny little peek to make sure there isn’t something horrible inside. Like a nest of icky spiders.”

  Daisy wagged in agreement, then waited for my next move, eyes locked on the box, panting with anticipation.

  I’d already sustained multiple injuries from the damned wooden box, so I wasn’t taking any chances during the unveiling. I hobbled to the stove and grabbed an oven mitt, and then ever-so-slowly lifted the lid a few inches with a long metal spatula. A musty odor wafted out reminding me of old books and stale cigarettes.

  “I’m ba-ack,” sang Emily, slamming through the front door. “Let’s do this!” She stopped at the kitchen entrance. “Hey. What’re ya doin’?”

  I let the lid drop. “I decided to keep working on the lock, and suddenly it snapped open.” I shrugged my wide-eyed innocence. “I was just making sure there isn’t anything dangerous that might hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right. Couldn’t wait for your little sister.” She set a shiny new hacksaw on the kitchen table. “So, what’s in it?”

  “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it smells moldy and ancient.”

  She leaned over the box. “What are you waiting for? Open it.”

  “I think you should step back in case there’s something unsafe in there,” I said.

  “Like what—a hand grenade from World War II? Ricin?”

  Those things had not occurred to me. “Will you put Daisy out? I don’t want her exposed to something hazardous.”

  “Oh sure, you care more about your dog than your baby sister.”

  “You can go outside with her, if you want, you know.”

  “As if.” Emily opened the kitchen door. “Come on, Daisy. Your mean mother is banishing you to the yard.”

  Daisy shot me one of her well-practiced hurt looks, then slinked through the door.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s think about how we’re going to do this.”

  “Katy. It’s just an old wood box. Geez.” Before I could stop her, she flipped the lid. “See? No bomb. No Ricin. No scary monsters.” She waved at the contents. “Oooo. So scary.”

  A faded, pink satin-covered baby book lay on top. I lifted it out and opened it, taking care not to crack the old spine. “Ahhh. Baby Mabel. Born June fourteenth, 1903. Mabel Anne Sinclair. She weighed seven pounds, six ounces.” I turned the yellow-tinged pages, savoring the precious keepsake.

  Emily removed a bundle of papers tied with pink ribbon. “Oh, look.” She held a paper under my nose. “It’s Mable’s marriage certificate. She married Harold Allan Petersen in 1921.”

  I set the baby book on the table and rummaged through the documents. “Oh no. Poor Mabel and Harold lost a baby in 1923 and 1925.” I held up the death certificates. “Both died at birth. That’s so sad.”

  Emily handed me a worn maroon velvet necklace box. “Maybe it’s full of diamonds.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Inside were three rings: a modest single-diamond wedding ring set, a light purple stone ring (probably a birthstone), and a man’s gold signet ring with the initials H.A.P. inscribed on it. Also, there was a pearl necklace and a ladies watch: pink gold, two tiny rubies on both sides of the watch face, with an inscription on the underside.

  “This is so romantic,” I said sighing. “I will love you ’til the end of time –H.” Will anyone ever love me until the end of time?

  “Look at these.” Emily held up a small bundle of yellowing newspapers.

  “I love old newspapers. Especially the ads.”

  “No. Not the papers. Look in the box.” Lined up side-by-side were neat rows of small, colorful art deco tin containers. “Those are definitely very collectible. They’re in perfect condition.”

  “They’re so cute,” I said. “They’re probably worth a lot. I bet I could sell them on eBay.” I thought a moment. “No. I’d rather kee
p them and display them on the shelves in the living room.”

  Emily lifted one out. “It’s awfully heavy. I wonder what’s inside?”

  “Probably those diamonds you were talking about.”

  “You wish,” she said with a smirk. “I sure hope it’s not something disgusting, like nasty old teeth with gold fillings. I’ve heard that people used to keep things like that.” She placed the box on the kitchen table and then went to the utensil drawer for a butter knife to pry off the lid.

  “Careful. Don’t scratch it,” I said.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “What? What?” I craned my neck, trying to see.

  Emily tipped the open box toward me, revealing a neat stack of shiny gold coins.

  “Holy crickets.” I took one out. “This is a twenty-dollar coin. 1876. In perfect condition. I bet it’s worth at least a hundred bucks.” I glanced at Emily. “Why the funny look?”

  “Holy crickets?”

  “I’ve been trying to clean up my language.”

  “Whatever.” She opened another box. “This one’s filled with ten-dollar coins. This is insane.”

  She passed the tin to me, and I plucked out a coin. “Whoa. 1847. Before the Civil War. And yet it looks so new.” Butterflies were skydiving in my stomach.

  Emily now had several tins open on the table. “This is officially crazy. You have a friggin’ fortune here.”

  “They can’t be real.” I shook my head. “No way. They’re all too perfect. Too new looking. Like in mint condition. It’s got to be counterfeit.”

  She removed another coin from a box. “Why would counterfeit coins be packed up with all this other old stuff?” She set the coin back in its container, shaking her head. “I think these are the real deal, and you, dear sister, are a very wealthy woman.”

  I placed my feet on the floor, achy legs forgotten. “No. No. It’s not my money.”

  “You own the house, right?”

  “Free and clear. Chad got the bookstore, and I got that mid-century modern monstrosity he had to have.”

  “Yeah, but when you sold it you were able to pay cash for your house,” she said. “So, I think that anything in the house is yours.”

  “No, this money belongs to whoever hid it in the attic.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of the finders-keepers law?” Emily stood. “Do you think there might be more coins in the attic? You know, behind the plywood where you found this box?”

  “Who knows? But now that you mention it, we should tear down that wood and take a look. But there’s no way I’m getting up those stairs today.”

  “I can do it. Gotta hammer?”

  “Yeah. Out in the garage there’s a tool kit on the floor by the door out to the yard.”

  A few minutes later, Emily was upstairs prying the planks off the studs.

  I waited at the foot of the stairs. “How’re you doing up there?”

  “Just about got the first one off. Just have to pull out one more nail. And… Nothing. Darn it.”

  I heard her grunting with exertion. “Do you want some help? I can call Pop.”

  “No. A lot of the nails were pounded in crooked, that’s all. I’ve almost got it.” The board thudded on the floor, followed by a shriek. “Oh shit!”

  “What’s wrong? Do you need me?”

  “No. I’m okay.” She came to the top of the steps. “There’s a mummified cat behind the plywood, and it totally freaked me out. Unfortunately, there’s no more hidden treasure.”

  On her way down, she said, “Why would somebody do that? That poor cat’s been dead for years. Probably put there at the same time as the box. In the next day or so, I’ll give him a proper burial.”

  “Wait a few days and I’ll be able to help. But right now I need to sit down.”

  Emily helped me back to the kitchen table. “How about a glass of wine? I could use one.”

  “It’s a little early, but sure. I don’t have anywhere to be today. There’s an open bottle of chardonnay in the fridge.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m the one who opened it.” She removed it from the refrigerator door and read the label. “Seriously, Katy. Now you can afford the good stuff instead of this cheap swill.”

  “Hey! I’ll have you know I paid nine bucks for that at Costco.”

  She handed me a glass and sat down. “Salud, dear sister.” We sipped in silence for a moment. “So. What’s the first thing you’re going to buy? A new car?”

  “Are you kidding? Get rid of dear old Veronica?” Veronica is my 1976 orange Volvo DL wagon. Mom bought her before I was born and on my seventeenth birthday, she gifted the trusty car to me. “She’s a classic.” I nibbled a nail, gazing ruefully at the coins, then sighed. “Besides there’s no way I can keep this money. Who knows? Maybe it was stolen.”

  The doorbell rang, and we froze, staring wide-eyed at each other like we were a couple of crooks caught red-handed.

  “Who do you think it is?” whispered Emily.

  “How would I know?” I whispered back, heart racing. “Just keep quiet, and they’ll go away.”

  The bell ding-donged again. “KATY? Are you in there?” yelled my next-door neighbor, Josh Draper, also known (only to me) as Josh-the-Viking because he looks like a Nordic god.

  “You going to answer it, Katy?”

  “No way. I look like hell. I don’t even have any makeup on.”

  “KATY?” Josh hollered from the porch. “I’ve got Daisy! Your gate was open.”

  “Oops. My bad,” said Emily. “I may have forgotten to close it when I took the garbage out.”

  “Then you get to answer the door. If he sees these banged-up legs of mine, he’ll ask questions, and the next thing you know, we’re busted. Remember, he’s a P.I. and a former cop.”

  She muffled a giggle. “It’s not like we robbed a bank, ya know.”

  Emily shut the swinging kitchen door on her way to the front door. A moment later, I heard her say, “Hi, Josh. Sorry it took so long. I was in the bathroom, doing, uh, you know, bathroom stuff.”

  Wish I could have seen Josh’s face when she said that.

  “So where’d you find Daisy?” She sounded hyper-guilty.

  “I saw her sitting on your porch, and I know she’s not supposed to be loose.”

  “Thanks, Josh. I must’ve left the gate open. Katy would kill me if I lost her baby.”

  Daisy’s nails clattered on the wood floor as she beelined to the kitchen. She barreled through the swinging door, wagging her tail and flashing me a guilty grin.

  “You know you’re a naughty girl, don’t you?” I whispered, nuzzling her face.

  Then Josh asked, “Is Katy home?”

  “She’s… taking a nap. ”

  “Well, tell her I said hi.”

  “Will do. And thanks again.”

  The door shut, then Emily returned to the kitchen and collapsed on a chair. “Well, that was certainly awkward.”

  I pointed at the money. “We gotta get this cash stashed before I have a heart attack.”

  “No way can I get that box back up in the attic. So where’s a good place to hide the loot?”

  “I have a fire safe in my closet, although I don’t think it’s big enough for all these tins.”

  “We could put the coins in plastic bags,” she said.

  “Still don’t think it’ll all fit. It’s just for important documents.”

  “Then I guess we’re going shopping.” Emily pushed back her chair and stood.

  I winced. “These legs aren’t going anywhere. Besides, I think I’ve just about maxed out my credit cards with Christmas presents and all.”

  “Do you realize how funny that is? Considering what’s sitting on the table?”

  “I don’t think we can walk into Office Mart and buy a safe with a gold coin that’s a hundred and fifty years old. Could raise some eyebrows.”

  She laughed. “It’s ironic. You’re broke and probably crazy rich. Tell you what. You stay here and guard the boo
ty while I go shopping. You can pay me back later.”

  “You better get two safes because I still need one for my birth certificate and other important papers.”

  Back to Ruby’s visit today

  “Well, my dear, that’s a hell of a story.” Ruby stood, smoothing her black pencil skirt.

  I drained my latte and Ruby took our empties to the kitchen trash.

  “I take it this is the treasure box sitting on your table in here?” she called from the kitchen.

  I limped to the kitchen. “Good deduction, Sherlock.”

  She ran her fingers over the corroded metal edges of the chest. “I can see how this would have cut your hand. Are you up to date on your tetanus shot?”

  “Yes.” I think. Not really sure. Maybe. Crap.

  “That’s good. Now show me the money.”

  Chapter Four

  COINS AND CADAVERS

  SATURDAY • JANUARY 17

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  Last night, Mom and Pop brought over a pizza for dinner. Before we ate, I gave them the money tour, and then we settled in the living room.

  “According to all the online legal experts,” I mumbled through a full mouth of veggie pizza, “the money is mine, minus the mega chunk the IRS will claim is theirs.”

  “I think you should talk to Angela Yaeger.” Pop headed to the kitchen for another beer.

  Angela is the Santa Lucia police chief. We’ve been friends ever since I did a petition to stop the parole of a murderer last year.

  The refrigerator door slammed, and Pop yelled, “You’re driving home, right, Marybeth?”

  “I am now.” She shook her head at me with a smirk.

  Pop returned. “Katy, I think you should also talk to Ben.”

  Ben is a retired attorney and Grandma’s boyfriend. A while back I met him at the dog park. After several lengthy conversations, I decided he would be perfect for my grammy, so I did a little matchmaking.