“He can advise you, or refer you to someone who can,” said Mom. “If the money’s yours, you’re going to need expert financial guidance.”
“And I don’t think the coins should be sitting loose in the safes. They might get scratched,” said Pop.
“They were in little tin boxes, but they won’t all fit in the safes.” I got one of the deco tins and showed them.
“Oh, that is so cute.” Mom held it to the lamp light. “Such vibrant colors.”
“I think you should wrap each coin in plastic to protect them,” said Pop.
“You could get little snack bags. They have five-hundred-count boxes at Costco,” said Mom. “In fact, I just bought a box the other day. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”
The more we talked, the more apprehensive I became. Maybe I should take the money to the bank and put it in a safe deposit box. But the mere thought of transporting it freaked me out. What if my car breaks down? What if someone crashes into me? What if I get carjacked? What if...stop it!
There’s an elderly lady down the street who has lived in the hood for eons. We’re only on a “wave and a how-are-ya” basis, but last night, I got to thinking that she might have known my house’s former owners. This morning I strolled down the block and invited her over for coffee this afternoon.
She accepted, and I dashed home to bake some chocolate chip cookies à la frozen Nestle.
After Nina Lowen was comfortably ensconced on the front porch swing, I told her about the mystery box, then handed her the baby book. I didn’t tell her about the gold coins.
She slipped on the reading glasses dangling on a beaded chain around her neck and read the first page. “Oh, my. This is so precious. Mabel Anne Sinclair.” She stopped, scrunching her eyes, gazing off into the past. “You know, there was a woman who lived in your house years ago, and her name was Mabel. Mabel, hmmm...” She snapped her fingers. “Mabel Petersen. Goodness, I haven’t thought about her in years.”
Score! The butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in my belly since finding the box fluttered awake, and I leaned forward in anticipation.
Nina turned a page. “This must be her baby book.”
“Were you close?” I asked, thinking, Say yes, say yes.
“Oh, not really.”
Rats.
“My husband and I moved into the neighborhood in 1981. Mabel was in her late seventies, so there was quite a big age difference between us. I had jet-black hair back then.” She laughed, smoothing back her silver bob. “She was a heavy smoker, so I was always reluctant to invite her into my home because I didn’t want my house to reek of cigarettes. In those days, you never could have said, ‘Please don’t smoke in my house.’ It would have been considered rude.” She paused to sip her coffee. “Mmm. This is good. What type of beans do you use?”
“I’m into Sumatra at the moment. One of these days I’d love to get a fancy espresso maker, but I’m holding out until I can afford a really nice one.”
“Make sure to invite me over when that happens. Anyway, back to Mabel. She was a bit eccentric and didn’t hold much trust in people, but who could blame her after what her husband had done?”
“What’d he do?”
Nina leaned toward me and whispered, “He ran off with another woman.” She arched a brow, nodding a knowing look at me. “It happened ages before I moved in, but the neighbors told me all about it.” Her eyes darted around as if she expected to see someone eavesdropping. “They say he got his secretary pregnant. Mabel and her husband had no children. I heard they’d lost two at birth. Heartbreaking.” She shrugged, shaking her head. “Needless to say, it left her a very bitter woman, but who can blame her?”
Our conversation was interrupted by a cussing explosion across the street. Lately, my neighbors have been repairing motorcycles in their garage, so there’s always a gang of bikers hanging out, and their language gets crude.
“I’d like to go over there and tell those potty-mouthed boys to cut it out,” said Nina. “But it’s a rough crowd, and I’m afraid of retaliation. In all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never felt intimidated by anyone. Until now. I’m considering selling my house and moving into a senior community. I need to feel safe.”
“I honestly don’t think we’re in any real danger, but we shouldn’t have to be hearing that. At least they’ve stopped playing Lynyrd Skynyrd twenty-four-seven.”
“Yes, I suppose I should be thankful for that.”
“Can you tell me anything more about Mabel?”
Nina sat back and thought a moment. “Oh! This might interest you. I remember her talking about a wealthy paternal grandfather who didn’t trust the booming economy of the 1920’s and pulled all his money out of the stock market a couple of years before the big crash of ’29. They lived in New York, and Mabel said everyone thought her grandfather was nuts, including her father, who wound up losing everything. She said the day after the market crashed he jumped off the building where he worked on Wall Street.”
“I’ve read about the Depression. There were a lot of suicides at the time.” I nibbled a chocolate chip cookie. “Was Mabel well off?”
“Heavens no. She was the most frugal person I’ve ever met. And her coffee was atrocious. She’d reuse the grinds over and over until it looked like weak—”
Another long string of vulgarities having to do with women and their lady parts drowned out her last words.
I went to the edge of the porch and hollered, “Hey! Cut it out! There are ladies present.”
One of the guys made a grinding motion with his hips while pumping his hands.
“Yeah, you wish,” I yelled, knowing I should just shut up.
Of course, that got all of the scum-buckets hooting and grinding, and I turned to Nina. “Obviously, I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
Nina stood, brushing cookie crumbs off her slacks, came to my side, and shouted, “You boys should know better. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Shame on you!”
The lowlifes immediately stopped, and a few called out, “Sorry, ma’am.”
“You should be. Now behave,” said Nina. “My goodness, Katy. That felt good. Why didn’t I do that sooner?”
“I could learn a thing or two from you, Nina.” I patted her shoulder. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“No. This has been lovely, but I must get home and feed my cantankerous old cat, or there’ll be hell to pay. Guess I don’t have to tell you who’s the boss in my house.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “I just thought of something that might interest you. When Mabel died, the house went on the auction block. I remember thinking how sad it was that there was no one to claim her estate.”
Chapter Five
COINS AND CADAVERS
SUNDAY • JANUARY 18
Posted by Katy McKenna
My sister called her ex-girlfriend last night. I eavesdropped at her bedroom door long enough to see if the call was going well. When I heard her giggling, I tiptoed away. The reason they broke up was because Emily wouldn’t tell her family about their relationship, and that hurt Dana. Who knows? Maybe they’ll get back together.
Private
I have to make this private because Ruby reads my blog and the last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings.
I was on my second cup of coffee while checking email on my laptop, half-watching Good Morning America and trying not to think about Mabel’s money. Who was I kidding? That was all I could think about.
I checked in on my Facebook friends—something I rarely do. Bio-dad Bert, now the proud father of a bouncing baby boy, had posted some cute photos that made me feel melancholy. I’ll never really know this little half-brother of mine. When Aiden is my age, I’ll be sixty-four. Wow.
A commercial came on about finding long-lost relatives on PedigreeTree.com, and it got me thinking. Maybe I could find someone deserving in Mabel’s family and give them the money. I’d be like a fairy godmother.
I typed in the we
bsite, and darn! You had to pay a $19.95 monthly subscription fee to join. So now I was not only going to give away a zillion dollars, but I had to pay to do it. So not fair.
I filled out the registration form, crossed my fingers my credit card wouldn’t be declined, and soon I began my search. A few minutes into my noble quest, Ruby called, and I told her what I was doing.
“Sweetie. The woman died how many years ago?”
“I looked up her obituary, and she died in April 1988.”
“Probably any names you dig up now will either be already long dead or have never heard of her. So, why upset the apple cart? You bought the house, and anything left in it is yours. Enough, already.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts about it, sweetie. If anyone were interested in what might have been hidden in your house, they would’ve come and gone long ago. End of story.” She paused, and then, “Say, did I ever tell you the story about my bigamist grandfather?”
“No.”
“My grandmother came to the U.S. from a little fishing village in Norway in the early 1900’s. Sevrine Sandanger was her name. Isn’t Sevrine a pretty name? You know, I thought about naming your mother Sevrine. But your grandfather was set on naming her Marybeth after his favorite aunt, and since she was still alive, it made more sense to honor the living.”
Why am I hearing about this now?
“Anyhoo, she wound up working as a housekeeper in Boston where she met a man, got married, or so she thought, and gave birth to my father. Then her ne’er-do-well husband told her that he already had another family and left her high and dry.
Back in those days, that meant my father was illegitimate. A bastard. Quite a stigma for both of them. Never mind the poor thing had been hoodwinked by the scummy scoundrel. Anyway, she moved to Minneapolis and became a housekeeper for a Norwegian widower with several children. Eventually, they got married and had a few more kids, and he adopted my dad.”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” My dear granny was driving me nuts. I wanted to get back to searching for Mabel’s relatives.
Ruby continued, “But what I started out to say is, we have relatives that we’ll never know about because of that rotten bigamist. And they don’t know about us, either. So, when I die, are you going to track them all down and share your inheritance with them?”
Is that it? All that back history, just to ask that? “No. Why would I? Besides, you always tell me you’re going to outlive your money. And besides that, you’re never going to die.”
“Exactly.”
We finally said goodbye. Ruby was probably right about the money, but I felt like I should make sure there was no one out there that might be able to claim the money before I started spending it. Besides, I’d already paid for the service.
I entered Mabel Petersen’s info and within minutes found her parents, one sibling—no kids, all long deceased. Then I followed the family tree roots to her grandparents on both sides. From there the branches spread wider and deeper, but further and further from Mabel’s side of the family. She’d had no children, nor had her sister, so no direct cousins.
My cell rang, and I was surprised to see that three hours had passed. It was Ruby again.
“Hi, sweetie. Say, I got thinkin’.”
Oh, great.
“Since you signed up for that ancestor search site, why don’t you see if you can find your great-great-grandfather, the S.O.B. Who knows? Maybe he was an oil baron, or the founder of some big company like Walmart or Coca-Cola. Ya never know.”
“And then we lay claim to his estate?” I asked.
“No, I’m just curious. After all, that louse’s blood runs in our veins. Tell you what. I’ll scan some documents I have and email them to you. My grandmother’s death certificate, my father’s, too. Their birthdates will be on them and should be enough for a start. What do you say?”
“Why not? Could be interesting.”
Good news! Emily is going down to Santa Monica to visit Dana next Saturday. Fingers crossed that all goes well. If it’s meant to be, it will be.
Chapter Six
COINS AND CADAVERS
TUESDAY • JANUARY 20
Posted by Katy McKenna
Late Sunday Night
PedigreeTree.com is extremely addictive. My family tree is leafing out nicely. One name leads to another and another. And you get little hints that point you to documents on other family trees that have opted to share.
I found out I had a great-great-great-grandfather on my father’s side who was a coal miner in Kentucky. That makes me a coal miner’s daughter, several times removed. Pretty cool.
I finally turned off the bedside lamp after midnight. As soon as I settled into my favorite go-to-sleep position, I became aware of the attic creatures skittering across the floor. Probably getting high on the minty cotton balls. Really have to do something about them before they bring down the house.
Monday, January 19
Yesterday morning, Ruby called at 8:15. “You dressed yet?”
“Yes,” I lied. I’d been sound asleep when the phone rang. “Why?”
“Because I have a job for you.”
Ruby works at Nothing Lasts Forever Temp Agency, a job that originally was mine until I bestowed it upon her after one day of employment.
“It’s just a one or two-day gig, but I think you’ll find it very interesting. And, sweetie? Wear something sexy and be at the office at ten for your assignment.”
“Geez, Louise. Is that your idea of sexy?” Ruby gave me a snarky once-over.
“No. It’s my idea of business casual.” I wore dark-wash jeggings, a flowy white embroidered Bo-Ho top, ballerina flats, and a knee-length cardigan.
“Maybe you could ditch the ponytail and fluff it up a bit,” she said. “I sure wish you’d kept the bangs.”
“You know I hate bangs. I’ve spent months growing out the layers so I can wear a ponytail again and I finally made it. Besides, if I remove the elastic band, my hair will have a dent.” I sat down on a gray, tweed loveseat. “So what’s the mystery job?”
Ruby leaned her elbows on her desk looking like a teenager about to share some juicy gossip. “You, my dear, are going on a stakeout.”
“A stakeout? Shouldn’t a private investigator be doing this?”
“He is.” Ruby arched an eyebrow like Dr. Evil. “But he needs some feminine backup, and you, my dear, fit the bill.” There was a tap-tap on the office door. “That must be him now.” She fluffed the crown of her short blond weave, then stood, smoothing her lavender cashmere sweater. “Door’s open. Come on in.”
Josh-the-Viking entered the office. Even though I recently had sworn off all men for the unforeseeable future, my heart still did a happy dance. He leaned over Ruby’s desk and pecked her cheek.
He smiled at me but no peck. “Hey, Cookie.”
FYI: The first time we met, I had been in my front yard dressed in Oreo print flannel pajamas. Cookie has been his nickname for me ever since, although sometimes he calls me Cupcake. I’m good with both.
“Hi,” I said. Oh my God. He has the most adorable dimples when he smiles.
“Katy?” said Ruby. “You okay?”
I caught her salacious little smirk. She knows this guy pushes all my buttons and a few more I didn’t even know I had.
“Sorry. I must’ve zoned out for a sec,” I said. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”
“You sure you’re up for this?” Josh sat next to me looking concerned. “I can do it without you.”
“Or I could take Katy’s place.” Ruby pointed at her employer’s frosted glass office door. “He can do without me for a few hours. Probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”
“No, no. I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Yup. Let’s do it.”
Ruby stifled a snicker. She has such a smutty mind.
“Soooo. A stakeout. Sounds interesting,” I said.
Josh angled toward me. His denim-clad knee bonked into mine, and he jerked it away. “I have a clien
t who wants to get some dirt on her husband.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s so cute when he’s serious. I cupped my chin, resting my elbow on my other arm, trying to look all-business.
Josh continued. “She knows he’s had affairs in the past, and he swore it would never happen again, but all the telltale signs are there.”
“Like what?” I gazed at his tantalizing lips.
“He’s working out at the gym, stylish new clothes, new hairstyle. She’s pretty sure history is repeating itself, but she wants proof before she goes to a divorce attorney.”
“So you need me to do what?” I leaned back on the loveseat and crossed my legs. “Schmooze him at the gym? Get a job where he works?” I stopped, scanning my TV cop show memories. “Try to pick him up at a bar?”
Josh chuckled, no doubt thinking how adorable I am. “We’re just going to tail him and see where he goes. I may need you to follow him on foot, as a back-up to me. This guy’s a divorce attorney and his wife is going to get hosed if she doesn’t have some hard evidence of his infidelity.”
Josh pulled his silver BMW sports coupe to the curb, killed the engine, and pointed at the single-story, dirty-white stucco building across the street. “That’s his office.”
The faded wood sign on the front said: “Above the Law Firm.” Underneath were two names: Randall Goddard—Personal Injury and Timothy Nelson—Divorce.
“So what’s our guy look like?” I said.
Josh leaned toward me to pull a file folder out from behind my seat, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. Spicy, musky, mind-bending.
He straightened, unaware of my mental drooling, and showed me a photo of Timothy Nelson. Pasty white, late forties–early fifties. Receding dark hair, lumpy nose, droopy mustache, aviator-style glasses—ordinary.
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 55
