“Ben? I thought this was ladies night.”
“Believe me, he has no intention of staying. But the dear man knew I’d never hear the end of it if we didn’t get our favorite table, so he offered.”
“Wow, he’s a keeper.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Ruby.
Ten minutes later, we exited the bus and made our grand entrance into Applebob’s. Ben stood to greet the seven of us and made a big show of helping the flirty ladies get seated.
“And now, dear ladies,” he said with a swashbuckler bow. “I bid you adieu.”
“Oh, Ben, darling,” said Betty, twiddling her jeweled acrylics at him. “You don’t have to leave on our account.” She patted the empty seat next to her. “Come. Sit. Stay.”
He cast fretful eyes at Ruby, that screamed, Save me!
“Ben’s playing pool with the boys,” she said flatly.
“You mean this lovely man came here just to save a table for little old us?” said Betty, fluttering her false lashes at him. “You shouldn’t have.”
“He did it for me.” Ruby gave Ben a passionate peck on the lips. “Arrivederci, mi amore.”
Betty looked like she wanted to whip off her turban and beat my granny to death with it. Ben snatched his leather bomber jacket from the back of Ruby’s chair and hightailed it to the exit.
I could see why our table was their favorite. It was the closest one to the happy hour buffet—a tempting array of nachos, buffalo wings, meatball sliders, greasy french fries, greasy onion rings, and greasy jalapeño poppers. Being a pescatarian since high school, I couldn’t eat the meaty items, so I overindulged on the greasy stuff to get my four bucks worth. And you had to move fast because the place was already jumping. I piled my tiny plate high, because who knew if there would be anything left by five?
The “four-by-four” happy hour special included a Long Island iced tea. You’re going to find this hard to believe, but I’d never had one before. One taste and I slurped that tasty drink down like I’d been crawling through the Sahara Desert for days.
Ruby anted up for the next round. As the server set our cocktails on the table, a tall, lanky woman in a black velvet palazzo jumpsuit swooshed her big-boned body over to our table. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Shady Acres gals,” she said, in a low, whiskey and cigs voice.
“Who’s she?” I whispered to Ruby.
“That’s Frankie.” Granny wink-winked. “If you get my drift. She’s (wink-wink) from the Whispering Pines Senior resort.”
“Why’re you winking?” I whispered. “Something in your eye?”
“Shush,” muttered Ruby.
Frankie held out a large veiny, hand to me, “Hello, darlin’. I don’t believe we’ve met. When did you move to Shady Acres? And who’s your plastic surgeon, sweetheart? You look at least twenty years younger than everyone else at this table.”
Twenty years younger? She thinks I look like I’m in my.... I glanced around the table at my dinner companions, remembering that Iris is ninety-two.
“You really need to have that cataract surgery, Frankie,” said Ruby. “Or at least wear your damned bifocals. Katy’s my granddaughter.”
Frankie slipped on rhinestone studded specs and peered down her long beak at me. “Oh, yes. You’re a very pretty girl. Lovely neck.” She unconsciously ran a hand over her bulbous adam’s apple. “But I really don’t see the family resemblance.”
“Looks like your posse is signaling at you to come back, Frankie,” said Ruby. “Don’t let us keep you.”
She turned and waved at her table. “Are you gals entering the poker fundraiser at the senior center?”
“We’ll all be there. Right, ladies?” said Iris.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said perky Judy, talking through a full mouth of jalapeño popper. “Been practicing online.”
“Bring it on,” said Susan, furrowing her perfect tattooed eyebrows.
“What’s the fundraiser for?” I asked.
“Homeless Chihuahuas,” said Janet. “I volunteer at the humane society, and it breaks my heart to see so many abandoned because their owners didn’t realize that they’re real dogs, not purse bling.” She waved her hands as she spoke, and her bracelet lined wrists clinked with every move. “The shelters are full of them, and we’re raising money to help seniors adopt them.”
“The winner’s jackpot is $1,500,” said Frankie. “I’ve got a gor-ge-ous gold silk caftan picked out for the trip to Vegas I’m planning with my winnings.”
“You mean, if you win. If I win, I’m donating the money to the cause,” said snarky Ruby.
“If I win,” Judy flicked back her long silver braid, “I’m going on a mad shopping spree.” Her eyes zeroed in on Frankie’s. “For Toys For Tots. Think of the joy I could bring to underprivileged kids next Christmas.” She sighed, fanning threatening tears away. “Well, you know.”
Dammit. Another wonderful thing I could have done with all that money. I could’ve been Santa Claus.
“Too bad that’s not happening.” Frankie looked unfazed by our table of do-gooders. “Ta-ta ladies.”
When she was out of earshot, I whispered to Ruby, “What was up with those winks earlier?”
“Sweetie, Frankie’s a transgender.”
“You mean she’s a man?”
“Not anymore.” She patted my hand. “Honey, the girl’s a bitch, but it’s mostly an act, to cover her insecurities about transitioning so late in life. She had to wait until she retired. Then she waited a few years more so her grandkids would be old enough to understand. Then moved out here from Oklahoma to begin the next phase of her life. Hormones, several surgeries. It had to be miserable.”
I watched Frankie sit down with her group across the room. “Talk about following your dream.”
“Or never giving up on your dreams. We could all learn something from her.”
Saturday, February 21
I woke up with the all-time worst hangover of my entire life, bar none. Worse than any hangover during college, and believe me, I’ve had some doozies. Worse than my college spring break hangover(s) in Palm Springs. Worse than the hangover from my ski trip to Tahoe where I met my “wasband,” Chad-the-Cad. Worse than...okay, you get the point. I’ve had a lot of hangovers, but this was the Guinness-World-Record worst!
I sat up, which annoyed Tabitha, who’d been sleeping wrapped around my noggin. She bopped me on the head to let me know she didn’t appreciate being disturbed.
“Tabitha, have pity on me. I’m sick.”
She wasn’t buying it until I barfed on her. New all-time low.
I had plans to meet Josh at the house at eleven, but that wasn’t happening, so I called to put it off until one. Or two. Or never.
“Katy, you don’t sound so good,” said Josh.
I told him about my wild early-bird wingding. Geez Louise, I’m starting to talk like the Shady Acres gals.
“You say you drank four Long Island iced teas?”
“Oh, God. Don’t even say the word.” I urped a burp, then nibbled a soda cracker.
“Maybe we should forget about today, and you get some rest, party-girl. My friend has offered to help, so let us take care of it.”
“No-no. I can do it.” Huge belch, and then my stomach lurched a tsunami warning. “Nope. Can’t do it.”
Much later in the day, I was snoozing on the chaise lounge under the oak tree when the screen door slammed. A moment later Daisy burrowed her head under my arm for a neck massage. As I gave her a good scratching, it dawned on me that I still had that coin listed on Amazon.
“Sorry, Daisy. Gotta go.” Barefooting to the kitchen, I grabbed my laptop, a granola bar, and a bubbly water. Back under the shady tree, I logged into my account. There was a message from an interested buyer offering $5,800 for my 1888 S Liberty Head ten dollar coin.
Oliver Kershaw, the British numismatics expert, had said it was worth at least seven thousand and not to take less than $6,200. This crook was trying to st
eal it from me! “Ya think I just fell off the turnip truck, buddy?”
Alas, I was no longer in possession of the coin, but “Sixpence” didn’t know it, so I answered, “Sorry. Too low.”
I chomped into the granola bar, then washed it down with a swig of soda water and immediately erupted in hiccups. As I held my breath to squelch them, I recalled telling Erin how easy it had been to set up the Amazon coin account. “Do you think she’d—hic—have the nerve to do that?”
I held my breath and swallowed five times. “Ahhh—hic—rats.”
I held my breath again and clicked on the “collectible coins” department, then narrowed my search to something that reflected several of the coins in my hoard: the San Francisco Mint, dollar denomination, 1860 to 1880.
Hiccups gone, I refined my coin search. Price: $1,500 to $8,000. Most of the coins hovered in the $3,500 to $4,000 range. None of them matched the condition of mine until the third page, where I found a shiny 1871 Liberty Head in “like new” condition. The asking price was $7,300. Under seller information, it said, Unique Coins—recently launched. Could this be her? My pulse amped as I clicked on “Seller Profile.”
Unique Coins is located in Boise, Idaho, and specializes in United States Rare Coins. We have bought and sold over a billion dollars in rare and unique coins, and have engaged in the purchase or sale of 43 of the “100 Greatest U.S. Coins.” Our team of educated numismatists is devoted to providing our patrons with the highest quality coins.
Erin could have made all that up. Although it sure sounded legit. I clicked on the Unique Coins storefront, and thirty-six pages of rare coins came up. Obviously not Erin’s shop, but so interesting. There was a 1797 “Draped Bust” dollar for $420,000 and another from 1802 going for $1.5 million.
I resumed scrolling through pages of gold coins, looking for something that might lead me to Erin, and then it dawned on me. This was exactly what a private investigator would be doing. Perhaps this is my career calling, and this is my first official case—not counting the cold cases I’ve accidentally solved.
“Erin Cranston. I’m going to hunt you down and make you pay for what you did. And then I’ll get my private investigators license and rid the world of scum like you.”
Feeling righteous, I went into my Facebook friends list and clicked on Erin’s profile. There she was, smiling coyly at me. Her last post, dated January 22, was about how excited she was to meet me. I had commented, looking forward to it!
I slammed the laptop closed, feeling a flood of hot resolve course through my body. The stupor I’d been drowning in for days had washed away, and I felt energized and in control of my life again.
Note to self: Never, ever drink another Long Island iced tea. I looked up the recipe and it’s a deadly concoction of vodka, rum, gin, triple sec, sweet and sour mix, and a splash of cola for color. Some recipes even call for tequila. Just typing this is making me sick again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
COINS AND CADAVERS
THURSDAY • FEBRUARY 26
Posted by Katy McKenna
Monday, February 23
After a stop at the Verizon store for a new phone, since Erin stole mine, I headed to the police station to begin my search for my cousin. I checked in at the front desk and asked for Detective Kailyn Murphy. The ruddy-cheeked woman shook her head. “Sorry, she’s not on duty today.”
“I don’t suppose I could see the chief?”
“Hold on and I’ll check.”
While I waited, I thumbed through a pamphlet about volunteer programs in Santa Lucia County. The clerk hung up the phone. “She has a few minutes. You know the way?”
“I do.”
She buzzed me through the door, and I marched down the hall to the chief’s office and found Angela waiting in her doorway. We shared a hug, and she waved me to the seat opposite her tidy desk.
“I love that color on you,” I said. “Usually you wear dark colors.”
The peach blouse flattered Angela’s warm brown complexion and close-cropped silver hair.
“My sister gave me this blouse for Christmas, and this is the first time I’ve worn it. She says I dress too somber.”
“I’ve never thought that, but I do think you look younger wearing a pretty pastel color.”
“You just said the magic words. Guess I’m going shopping.” She closed a folder and set it aside. “I imagine you’re here to see if there’s any news on Erin Cranston.”
“I am. I’ve got my energy back, and I’m anxious to track her down and see justice done.”
“I wish I had something to tell you, Katy.” She folded her hands on the desk, shaking her head. “But so far we don’t have any leads other than what you told us.”
“How could she just vanish?”
“It’s easier than you think. Remember, Erin had plenty of time to get out of the country before we started looking for her.”
“What about her phone? Can’t they track that?”
Angela shook her head. “She hasn’t used it since she texted your friend that she was going home. Probably was the first thing she got rid of.”
“What about my phone? She used it to text everyone so they wouldn’t worry about me. Sam told me the message said I was having so much fun that I may never come home.”
“We traced that text. Erin was in the Henderson, Nevada area when she sent it. When Detective Murphy and I spoke to you the day after you were found, you said they had planned to go to Las Vegas.”
“Yes. Erin said she could sell some coins there and then they would charter a private plane, a Lear jet, to fly to Costa Rica.”
“She wasn’t on any of the flights out of Las Vegas. Of course, a sketchy private pilot may not have listed her name on the flight manifest. We have the police in Costa Rica watching for her, although she’s probably changed her appearance. Hair color and style, glasses.”
“We’re not going to find her, are we?” I was feeling defeated already.
Her expression looked doubtful. “I wish we had a complete inventory of the coins. Then we could have put out a bulletin, and if she tried to sell to an honest collector or dealer, then perhaps—” She shook her head.
“If only I had done that. How stupid.”
“Katy, don’t beat yourself up over this. I doubt that anyone she sells to would be the type to question where the coins came from, anyway.”
Angela stood and stretched. “I need a coffee. How about you?”
“I’m dragging, so I could use one.”
We sat on the worn leather sofa passed down through the years from chief to chief. Angela set a file on the coffee table.
I sipped my steamy beverage. “Mmm. Good coffee.” After another swallow, I said, “Erin said her parents died in a car crash. Do you know when that happened?”
Angela wrinkled her brow. “I was about to get to that. According to her parents—”
“Her parents? You mean they’re not dead?”
She shook her head. “They’re both very much alive and well in the Bay Area.”
“Atherton?”
“Close. Redwood City. A few miles north. Detective Murphy spoke to them at length on the phone. Her father teaches high school world history, and her mom is a kindergarten teacher. Erin was an only child, and according to them, a sweet girl until she won a scholarship to a nearby college prep school. Her new friends came from wealthy families who lived in big, fancy mansions. When her folks encouraged her to invite her new friends over, she told them she was ashamed of her home.”
“That had to hurt,” I said.
“Teenaged girls can be cruel,” said Angela. “I raised one, and for a while there, I considered locking her in the basement until she turned thirty-five.” She chuckled. “I can’t tell you how many times I called my parents during that phase and apologized for whatever hell I put them through as a kid.”
“I probably should do that, too.”
“When Erin’s parents suggested inviting her old friends over, you
know, the ones she’d grown up with, she refused that, too. Said she no longer had anything in common with them.”
“What a bitchy little snob,” I said.
“It got worse. When her rich friends turned sixteen, they all got pricey new cars for their birthdays. Beamers, Mercedes, Jags. Erin got a shiny new key to the family car: a Ford Taurus station wagon.”
“I got a key to our Volvo station wagon for my sixteenth birthday.”
“And I bet you were over the moon when they gave it to you.”
“I sure was. For the first few months, I constantly offered to go to the grocery store so I could drive by myself. Mom loved that.”
“My daughter did the same thing. Anyway, Erin’s clothes were another painful issue. Her mother had always made them. They would look at teen magazines together and then her mother replicated the outfits.”
“Oh, how sweet. I would have killed to have cute clothes like that.”
“Me too. But that was no longer good enough. Erin wanted to shop at Nordstrom’s and Neiman Marcus like all her friends did. Her mother offered to take her to Macy’s instead. Not good enough.”
“I’ve been to the Macy’s up at the Stanford Shopping Center, and it’s a nice store.” I drained my cup and set it on the coffee table.
“But Erin’s friends didn’t shop there. And that’s when she started shoplifting. Would you like more coffee?”
“I better not.”
Angela continued talking as she refilled her cup. “Her parents asked her where she was getting the new outfits, and she told them her friends gave them to her. They got suspicious and searched her room. In the back of her closet, they found a pile of clothes with the tags still on.” Angela glanced at the file on the table. “That was in her junior year.”
“Those poor parents.”
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 67
