Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “They didn’t know what to do. If they forced her to return the clothes, she would’ve wound up going to a juvenile detention center. They couldn’t bear the thought of their girl imprisoned with gang members and the like.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “So, they made her donate all her stolen clothes to Goodwill. And they pulled her out of the prep school and put her back into public school.”

  “I’m guessing that didn’t go well.”

  “No, it did not,” she said. “Erin went completely out of control. Wouldn’t go to school, got into drinking and drugs. They tried to get her into counseling, but she refused to cooperate. And then one day, when she was seventeen-and-a-half, she disappeared.”

  “So, what did they do?”

  “They reported it to the police. Hired a private investigator. But never found her.”

  “And now this.”

  “Yes, now this. Their daughter is a cold-blooded murderer and a thief.” Angela’s eyes strayed to the doorway. “Murphy. Isn’t this your day off?

  The detective leaned her slim body against the door frame. “I have too many irons in the fire to take a whole day off. At least my laundry’s done. May I join you? I have some information that I think you’ll both find interesting.”

  “Care for a coffee?” asked the Chief.

  “No, I’m good.” She sat in a chair facing the sofa. “I had another conversation with Erin’s mother, Molly Cranston. Turns out there’s more to the story than we were initially told.”

  “You mean they withheld information?” I said.

  “No. It’s more of a tragic family saga. Mrs. Cranston said she’d been thinking about it, and thought it might help the investigation. I could hear in her voice how hard it was for her to tell me.”

  Angela checked her watch. “Hold on a sec.” She stepped to the phone on her desk and pressed a button. “Would you call the city manager and tell him I’m running behind. Tell him I’ll be there in thirty–forty minutes, and if that doesn’t work, we need to reschedule. Thanks.” She returned to the sofa. “All right, continue.”

  “Sorry, Chief,” said Murphy.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Murphy looked at me. “Katy, you know how Erin told you she grew up in a mansion in Atherton?”

  “Yes. But it was all a lie to impress me.”

  “Well, the truth is her father, William Cranston, actually did grow up in an Atherton mansion. The Cranston Mansion on Cranston Lane. William was all set to go to his father’s alma mater—Harvard—when he announced to the family he was in love with the housekeeper’s daughter.”

  “I bet they weren’t thrilled about that,” I said.

  “You got that right. Especially when William told them the girl was pregnant, and he was going to marry her.”

  “I assume this is unborn Erin we’re talking about?” said Angela.

  Murphy nodded. “It is.”

  “So what’d the parents do?” I asked.

  “Gave him two options. Abortion or adoption. William refused both. He begged them to accept his decision and welcome Molly into the family, but they would have none of it. Told him he would be cut out of the family if he married her.”

  Murphy snatched a pencil off the coffee table and twisted her dark hair into a bun. “That feels better. I owe you a pencil, Chief.”

  “Duly noted,” said Angela. “I feel like I’m listening to a soap opera.”

  The detective continued. “The parents stayed true to their word and cut him off without a penny. William and Molly got married, and while raising little Erin, they both worked and got their educations at local colleges.”

  “What about William’s parents?” I said. “Did they ever forgive their son?”

  She shook her head. “No. In fact, shortly after Erin was born they sold the family mansion and moved to Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  “About as far away as you can get and still be in the U.S.,” said Angela.

  Murphy shook her head with a rueful smile. “They never even met their granddaughter.”

  “Perhaps if they had, maybe none of this would have happened,” I said.

  My cell chirped in my purse when I parked in front of my parents’ house. By the time I fished it out, it had gone to voicemail. It was Josh. He was in a cooking mood and wanted me to come over for dinner.

  I texted, Watt tome? I sent it, then read it, and sent a follow-up: What time? Everyone’s been on my case to read my texts before I send them, and evidently for good reason.

  He answered as I was letting myself in the front door: 7. Nicole thinks she’ll feel like eating by then.

  I have to admit, that deflated me a bit. Then I instantly felt guilty for being petty.

  The house was quiet. Mom was at the beauty salon, and Pop had declared it “take your grand-dog” to work day. Tabitha was unresponsive in a sunny puddle on the kitchen floor. I tip-toed past her and grabbed my laptop from the kitchen table and headed outside to the chaise lounge.

  I signed into Facebook and went to Erin’s profile. Checking her friends list, I was surprised she had fewer than me. Seventeen to be exact. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? Most Millennials have hundreds.

  I clicked on the first person in Erin’s friend list. Crystal Adams. 1,778 friends. Crystal was a partier. Lots of group selfies with her pierced tongue hanging out.

  I moved on to the next friend: Brent Haskins. 3,122 friends. He was into rock climbing and body building.

  Then boring me: Katy McKenna. 36 friends.

  Bambi Randall. Pole dance teacher at a fitness club. 5,312 friends.

  Saul Ramirez. Shirtless with a flowing ebony mane. He could have been on the cover of one of those bodice-ripper romance novels that Sam reads. 2,347 friends.

  Amelia Wright looked like a nice, normal person in my age range. Lots of photos of cute kids. 142 friends.

  Everyone in the Friends list, except Amelia and me, were connected to each other. But what I didn’t see was exactly how any of these people were related to Erin.

  I looked at her timeline past posts. There were only eight—the first one dated from when we first connected through PedigreeTree.com. A photo of a generic mansion that could have been anywhere, with a post that said: The Old Homestead. Another of a house on a tropical island—the same one she’d shown me. A group wedding photo with no Erin in it captioned: What a great day!

  I sent a friend request to all of Erin’s friends. Within minutes, Mia Lang accepted. Then I messaged her: Hi Mia. Have you heard from Erin Cranston lately?

  The chat box opened and she responded: Who’s that?

  At seven, I tapped on Josh’s door and waited to get swooped into his strong arms. Instead, Nicole answered. We shared a hug, and I felt her frail body through her thin cotton dress.

  “Josh is in the kitchen begging his asparagus soufflé not to collapse. I think he really wants to impress you,” she said.

  “Plain old steamed asparagus would’ve impressed me.”

  She laughed. “I love how down-to-earth you are, Katy.”

  In the kitchen, Josh whispered, “Tiptoe. This is my first soufflé.”

  I pecked him on the cheek and glanced at the dish resting on the counter. “Uh-oh.”

  He spun around to witness the soufflé’s deflation, then collapsed on a chair looking as deflated as his creation. “It’s also my last soufflé.”

  “I’m sure it’ll still taste delicious.” I patted his shoulder. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “You sit, Katy,” said Nicole. “You’re our guest. I’ll get you both a glass.”

  She was only being cordial, so why had that innocent little line—you’re our guest—rub me the wrong way?

  Nicole squeezed Josh’s bicep as she handed him a glass of wine. “Poor baby. Don’t forget the rolls in the oven.”

  “The rolls!” He dashed to the stove and yanked open the oven door. “Phew! They’re okay.”

  Nicole removed a gree
n salad from the refrigerator and put it on the formally set table in the dining room.

  I gazed at the folded linen napkins and pretty flower arrangement. “Everything looks lovely, but you didn’t have to go to so much trouble. It’s just me.”

  “Nonsense. You’re company,” she said.

  No, I’m not. I’m Josh’s almost-someday-future-fiancée.

  “You two sit,” called Josh from the kitchen. He came out and topped off my wine and set a tumbler of ice water in front of Nicole.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t wait to have a glass of wine. But I have to get through this darn chemo first. My hair is falling out in wads”—she touched the paisley scarf wrapped around her head—“hence, the scarf. Tomorrow, Josh is going to shave my head.”

  “I could do that for you.” To be honest, the idea of Josh shaving her head seemed so personal. Almost intimate.

  “Oh, that’s sweet of you, but there’s no need for you to go to the trouble.”

  Josh ladled the sloppy soufflé on our plates, and we helped ourselves to salad and rolls.

  After my first bite, I said, “This is delectable, Josh. Truly the best asparagus soufflé I’ve ever tasted, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. It’s true.”

  His face brightened adorably. “You mean it?”

  “I really mean it.” It was also the first asparagus soufflé I’d ever tasted, so what did I know?

  “Josh, I need to pick your private investigator brain,” I said, as I buttered a warm French roll.

  “Is this about...you know?”

  Nicole set down her fork. “Would you rather discuss it in private?”

  “No, it’s okay. But it must stay just between us.”

  Her eyes grew wide as I narrated the incredible tale of the Santa Lucia Hoard.

  “That’s an amazing story,” she said. “Remember that old HGTV show, If These Walls Could Talk?”

  “I used to watch it all the time,” I said.

  “Boy, what stories your walls could tell,” she said.

  “Every old house in this neighborhood has a history,” I said. “I just hope mine won’t be haunted by the ghost of Tyler.” I watched their reaction as I said that last line, but neither one gave me a “you’re crazy” look.

  “Don’t get Nicole going on ghosts,” said Josh.

  “Do you believe in them?” I said.

  “I’ve had several close encounters. Josh knows this from personal experience.”

  “More like, bitter experience,” he said with a chuckle. “She used to wake me up whenever one was visiting our bedroom.”

  So do not want to hear about their bedroom experiences.

  “And you always told me I was dreaming.” She playfully socked his arm. “But I knew I wasn’t.”

  Josh rubbed his arm with a mock-pained expression while I battled my inner green-eyed monster. Then he turned his attention to needy me. “So what did you want to ask me about?”

  It took me a moment to refocus. “I learned some new facts about Erin’s background today and was wondering if you might have any ideas about how to find her. The police don’t seem to be making much headway, and I’ve heard that P.I.’s can do things that cops can’t.”

  I relayed Detective Murphy’s story about Erin’s family. “So, what do you think?”

  “Katy, I want to help, but I honestly don’t know what I can do that the police haven’t already done. Believe me, I want to catch that woman and see her spend the rest of her life behind bars. Or better yet, six feet under.”

  Nicole jumped up and excused herself from the table. Moments later she vomited in the downstairs guest bathroom.

  “Should we help her, Josh?”

  “No. This happens a lot. We need to leave her alone.”

  After several minutes of Nicole’s violent retching echoing through the house, I shoved back my chair and stood. “I can’t stand this. I’m going to check on her.”

  “Katy, there’s nothing we can do. I’ve been through this several times with her.” He followed me to the bathroom. “And she always gets mad when I try to help.”

  “Nicole?” I opened the bathroom door and found her sprawled on the floor clinging to the toilet bowl. “Can I get you anything? A cold cloth for your head?”

  I moved closer and saw blood in the toilet. “Oh, my God, Nicole!”

  She looked up at me with hollow, woebegone eyes. “It’s nothing. My throat gets raw, that’s all.”

  I turned to Josh who was hanging back in the doorway. “That doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

  Nicole lurched and a flume of crimson blood splashed the back of the toilet seat and splattered the floor.

  “There’s no way that’s normal.” I crouched beside her holding her trembling shoulders.

  Josh looked grim. “It’s not. We need to get her to the hospital. I’ll call them and tell them we’re coming.”

  Josh’s BMW is a two-seater, so we went in my car. Nicole sat in the passenger seat, clutching a bucket in her lap. Josh sat behind her, holding her erect. I turned on the hazard lights and honked at everyone in our path. A few people honked and flipped me off, but everyone gave me plenty of leeway. Nobody wanted their plastic cars crunched by Veronica’s bad-ass chrome bumpers.

  I squealed into the ER entrance and beeped the horn several times. Two attendants dashed out with a wheelchair and rushed her to a bed in a curtained cubicle. Within minutes they had her hooked up to a saline drip. Ten minutes later, her oncologist arrived.

  Feeling like an intruder, I stepped out while Josh spoke with the doctor. In the waiting area, I poured a styrofoam cup of vile coffee and sat staring at the silent TV on the wall. I’d had no idea it was this bad for her, and remorse was eating me up for feeling envious of her history with Josh.

  Two hours later, Nicole was allowed to go home.

  “Her doctor put her on a new anti-nausea medication.” Josh shrugged his sagging shoulders. “Hopefully, this one will work.”

  After Nicole had been tucked in bed, she apologized for ruining our evening.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “This was out of your control. Try and rest now.”

  “You too.” She closed her eyes, and for a frightening moment, I thought she’d passed. I watched her chest until it rose and fell several times.

  We left the room, and in the hall, I said to Josh, “I should leave. You need your rest, too.”

  “Katy, I need you. Please stay.”

  It felt good to be needed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  COINS AND CADAVERS

  THURSDAY • FEBRUARY 26

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  Tuesday, February 24

  I returned to my folks’ house in the early a.m. After I showered and dressed, I brewed a cup of my favorite Murchie’s #10 tea and settled on the comfy old sofa in the family room. Daisy planted a paw on the couch, ready to get cozy with me.

  “Sorry, girl. Your mean old grandparents don’t want dog hair on the furniture.”

  She gave me a dumbfounded look.

  “I know. Crazy, huh? But you know the rules. If you don’t like it, then talk to them.”

  Moving slower than a sloth, she withdrew her paw, then slinked into a corner, spun around a few times, and collapsed. Every few seconds, she’d sigh like it was the end of the world, no doubt waiting for me to break down.

  “Give it up, Drama Queen. I’m not breaking the rules. Not even for you.”

  We had a “stare-down” until she dozed off. I opened my laptop and checked Facebook for replies from Erin’s so-called friends. Everyone except Amelia had responded, and no one had a clue who Erin was.

  Next, I searched her name, Erin Beth Cranston. Top of the list was Erin Beth in Cranston, Rhode Island. Then Bryon Cranston, the actor—loved him in Breaking Bad.

  “Okay, I’ll try refining my search.”

  I typed Erin Beth Cranston, age 34. And I got the Moosetooth Run results in 2011—ErinBingham, 27, 1:0
1.33. Bethany Cranston, 37, 53:26.23

  “If at first, you don’t succeed.”

  I searched: Erin Beth Cranston, born in Redwood City, CA, age 34. And I got IMDb: Most famous people born in Redwood City/California...

  You may be wondering why I was doing this, since I already knew where she’s from, her age, her parents’ names, etc. But I thought something current might pop up. Addresses, jobs, arrests. After scrolling through ten pages of nothing that had anything to do with her, I gave up and shut down the computer, muttering, “Maybe I’m not cut out to be a private investigator.”

  I checked in with Josh at noon. He said Nicole was worn out but doing all right. He didn’t suggest getting together, and neither did I. The night before had terrified me, and I wasn’t ready for a repeat.

  I’d been neglecting Sam, so I gave her a call. “Hey. It’s me. Watcha doing?”

  “I just got back from a mommy meet-up at the animal shelter. Big, fat, friggin mistake.”

  “Uh-oh. Did you bring home a new furry family member?”

  “No. But Casey had a meltdown when it was time to leave. Seems he’d bonded with an elderly mini-dachshund.”

  “Why on earth, would an old dachshund be at the shelter?”

  “Her owner died, and no one in the family wanted Francine. So the sweet girl will probably live out her golden years in that noisy, stressful place. It was hard leaving her there, let me tell you.”

  “That’s heartbreaking,” I said.

  “Tell me about it. Someday soon, we’ll get a dog, but it’s going to be a young Daisy-clone. That old girl is too fragile for a crazy four-and-a-half-year-old.”

  “So what else is going on?”

  “Spencer’s out of town, as usual.”

  “When’s he going to quit flying?” I nibbled an annoying emerging pinky fingernail.

  “Are you biting your nails?” she asked.

  I jammed my hand into my jean pocket. “Nope.”

  “Yeah, right. Stop it! Okay, back to your question. There aren’t a lot of good paying jobs around here that fit his education and training. We may have to move to a state where more jobs are available, and the cost of living is reasonable. Luckily for me, nurses are in demand everywhere.”