Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “I shouldn’t have pried. I didn’t mean to dredge up pain.”

  “Not your fault. Your question was a normal one to ask. And to prove that point, do you have kids?”

  “Just the furry kind.”

  His wife stepped out onto the front porch, and he said, “Hey, hon, this young lady...I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Samantha.” The lies just kept rolling off my tongue.

  He extended his hand. “Bill Cranston and that’s my wife, Molly.”

  “Hi.” We waved at each other.

  “Samantha likes our house colors and wants to do the same on hers,” said Bill.

  Molly moved to the edge of the porch. “Thanks for the compliment. Do you want to take some pictures?”

  “I already did. But maybe one more.” I snapped one of the porch and Molly. “I love the red door. And don’t worry. I don’t live around here so you won’t have a copycat house in the neighborhood.”

  “Then I won’t tell you that we already do. Ours.” A timer jingled through the kitchen window. “The cake is calling me. Nice meeting you, Samantha.”

  It was time for me to move on before I blew my cover.

  Our hotel room was on the ground floor facing a grassy fenced courtyard. I fed Daisy, then went to the hotel restaurant to get some takeout. After ordering the salad and grilled cheese combo to go, I sat at the bar, sipping a glass of draft house white. A tubby, balding fellow with a droopy mustache was sitting a few seats down nursing a beer. He caught my eye and smiled, looking lonely. I returned a polite half-smile, looking unavailable. Next thing I knew, he was settling his tush on the stool next to me.

  Oh, crud. Why didn’t I call room service?

  “You alone?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “So, has anyone ever told you....”

  That I look like Anne Hathaway?

  “That you have soulful eyes?”

  Oh, good grief. “That’s probably the crow’s feet you’re seeing.”

  “No. You have beautiful hazel-green eyes like my wife.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Did.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I unconsciously placed my hand on his. “When did she....”

  “A year ago.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “Today would have been...our...anniversary.”

  I patted his hand. “This must be such a hard day for you.”

  He placed his hand over mine. “It....” His voice broke and he pulled a quivery breath. “...Is.”

  The melancholy man’s glass was empty, and mine was getting close, so I gently withdrew my hand from his and said to the bartender, “May I have another glass of wine and a beer for the gentleman?” I wanted to get out of there, but I had to wait for my food, so I figured it didn’t hurt to be compassionate.

  “You’re so kind,” he whispered.

  “It’s nothing. I only wish I could do more.”

  His sad eyes brightened. “Maybe you can.” He hung his head. “No, it’s too much.”

  “What?” I asked.

  Our drinks were set on the bar, and my seatmate chugged a few gulps of his beer, then hunched over it, and blew out a dejected sigh. “It’s been so long since....”

  “Since what?” I foolishly asked.

  He took my hand again, giving me puppy dog eyes. “Since I’ve had…sex. You, beautiful lady, could ease some of my grief on my…anniversary.”

  The bartender plunked my plastic bagged food order on the counter and jovially said, “Happy anniversary, Steve.” He grinned at my shocked expression. “Steve’s wife dumped him a year ago. Can’t imagine why.”

  I yanked my hand free from Steve’s clammy claw, slipped off my chair, and snatched my order off the bar while trying to think of something blistering to say. I picked up my wine and considered tossing the contents in his face but didn’t want to waste eight bucks. I’d have a million brilliant zingers later, but at that moment I came up with zip, so I gathered my dignity and turned to stomp out.

  Instead, Steve had the last line. “So I take it a blow job’s out of the question?”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  COINS AND CADAVERS

  FRIDAY • MARCH 6

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  After Daisy’s morning tinkle-tour, I poured water into the coffeemaker and inspected my coffee choices. Decaf crud or caffeinated crud and not enough powdered creamer crud or real sugar. “Daisy, I’ve a feeling we’re not at the Mantra Motel anymore.”

  I sat on the mini-patio and thought about what I should do today. Go home was probably the right answer, but I was still curious about which house on Cranston Lane had been the family mansion. With that decided, I booked the room for another night and then called room service and ordered my usual coffee shop breakfast: scrambled eggs, crispy hash browns, rye toast.

  While I waited, I group texted Mom, Pop, Sam, and Ruby: All good. Daisy is an awesome road warrior. Not sure what I’m doing today, but staying in Palo Alto another night. Maybe two. XOX. I typed slow and carefully, then reread the message before sending and was proud to see no spelling errors.

  After that, I went online to find the Cranston address but had no luck. Not a surprise considering how many years ago the grandparents left the area.

  I recalled that when I was tracking down info about my bigamist great-great-grandfather on PedigreeTree.com, I had access to all sorts of public records: marriage and divorce certificates, death certificates and census records. The census records had addresses listed.

  I logged into my account and clicked on census and voter lists. The search filters were: town, state, year—1790 through the 1900’s. I clicked on the 1960’s when Erin’s father would have been a kid living in the house. Then edited my search to:

  William Cranston

  Location: Atherton, San Mateo County, CA.

  Gender: Male.

  Collection focus: United States.

  Then I hit Search, and a little pop-up told me there is a rule that keeps census data private for seventy-two years.

  My meal arrived, and one look told me I should have said, “Extra-extra crispy hash browns. Please don’t dry up the eggs. And let the toast actually get toasty.”

  After breakfast, I called the library and asked if they had phone books from the 1960’s and 1970’s.

  “Excuse me?” said the fellow on the other end. “I didn’t quite catch all that.”

  I asked again, speaking slowly and concisely.

  “I thought that’s what you said but wanted to be sure. I’m sorry, but the answer is no. We don’t have room to store old phone books. Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

  “Oh, wait!” said Library Man. “Check the Library of Congress online. They might have a database of old phone books. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

  It turned out to be a good idea—if you live in Washington D.C. and can walk into the building and ask to see the records.

  I checked the time and was surprised I’d frittered away the entire morning. After a shower and makeup, I thought of another way to find the address.

  My killer cousin and I had connected through our family trees. Maybe I would find something in hers that would give me the answer. I logged onto the site, then found her tree. Above her photo were her parents. I clicked on her father’s photo and lo and behold, it expanded into a box with his address at birth. I did a seated happy-dance, congratulating myself on my super sleuthing skills.

  I Google-mapped the address, then went to street view. I remembered the ornate wrought iron gates from my cruise down the street the day before. In street view, I couldn’t see much, but in satellite view, I could see everything.

  The Cranston lot was the largest on the block. The huge house had a back lawn large enough to host a soccer tournament. Beyond that, an Olympic-sized pool and cabaña, a tennis court, and a building that looked like a small home. The patio area off the main house was resort size. The ultimate staycation home.

&nb
sp; On Cranston Lane, I drove by number 322 and continued to the end of the block and parked around the corner. The sun was tilting to the west, and a gentle breeze made it feel like the low sixties, so I slipped on my navy cardigan.

  “Watson? Let’s get snoopy.”

  We sauntered along the side of the road until we reached the address. As I stepped onto the wide driveway of 322, I slowed my pace and peered through the gates at the property, but could see only a sliver of the stately gray stone house. I didn’t dawdle because there was a video camera watching me.

  Back at the car, I gave Daisy a drink of water, then searched 322 Cranston Lane’s current status on my cellphone.

  Off-market.

  Built in 1888.

  22,000 square feet. Whoa!

  2.4 acres. You can bet it was a lot more land when it was originally built.

  Twelve bedrooms

  Nine bathrooms

  Pool

  Pool house

  Putting green

  Tennis court

  1,200 square foot guest house

  Last sold: March 2002.

  I turned on Cranston Lane for one final drive-by. Next door to the Cranston home, a large empty lot had a temporary-looking chain link fence across the front, as if someone was getting ready for construction. The property was choked with tall weeds and shrubs, and the fence leaned flat to the ground in a couple of places. I thought about walking through the lot to see if I could get a look at the Cranston estate’s backyard. But would I get in trouble for trespassing?

  I parked down the street and Google-mapped the area. I found 322 Cranston and the empty lot next door, 320. Then I looked up the address on Twillow. 1.98 acres. Built in 1921. Six bedrooms, four baths. Last sold in February 2007.

  There was no house there now, so whoever bought it must have torn it down and then had to walk away from the project. Probably when the economy slumped.

  I turned to Daisy in the backseat. “Change of plans, kid.”

  We hustled back to the empty lot and edged the fence line to a spot where a panel was flat on the ground, and stepped across.

  If anyone asks what I’m doing, I’ll say I’m interested in the property. I caught sight of my ratty cross trainers and wrinkled jeans. I’ll say I’m looking at some properties for my...my aunt, uh, Aunt Martha Stewart. Yeah, that’s it. She’s sick of the snow and thinking about building a home out here.

  We tramped through the tall weeds to the back of the lot. On the Cranston side, I saw the peak of a building beyond the high stone wall and figured it must be the guest house. A sprawling oak with low slung branches grew close to the wall. I climbed aboard to take a peek while Daisy did sentry duty.

  Yup. It was the guest house. A flagstone path from the front door led to a sitting area with a white pillared pergola draped in purple wisteria.

  “HGTV should do a series on guest houses,” I whispered down to Daisy. “Guest House Hunters.” I snapped a few photos to send to Sam.

  A twig snapped, and I froze. Daisy growled, low and menacing.

  Scrambling off the tree limb, I grabbed her leash and tried to pull her behind the oak tree, but she was rooted to the spot, her back hair puffed like a porcupine.

  “Seth? Is that you?” called a male voice. “Come on, dude. Quit screwin’ around. Did you score anything?

  Oh crud. Have I stumbled into a den of drug dealers or burglars? Daisy’s rumbling growl intensified and I crouched, holding her close. Footsteps crunched on dead leaves as the thug moved closer.

  “Shhh,” I whispered in her ear. She struggled against my arms and wrenched free, toppling me over on my rear-end.

  “What’re you doing?” asked a gruff voice. He was holding Daisy’s leash and petting her.

  I scrambled to my feet and snatched the leash from his hand, trying to look bold—and not feeling it. “I’m walking my dog, and she wanted to explore back here. That’s all.”

  He looked mid-twenties, tall, nice-looking in a scruffy kind of way, dressed in a red plaid flannel and jeans. Not what I would call your typical criminal—as if I’d know. “Did she send you to spy on us?”

  “Who’re you talking about?” I asked.

  “The woman who’s been prowling around here lately. Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you do, my advice is to steer clear.” He tapped his temple. “There’s something not-quite-right about her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She yells at my friend and me to get off her property. Shit, this isn’t her property. This is free land, and we have squatter’s rights. That woman is disturbing the sanctity of our home.”

  “Does she live around here?”

  “She’s staying over there.” He pointed at the estate on the other side of the vacant lot that was not the Cranston property.

  He thrust out a hand. “I should introduce myself. I’m Jessie.”

  “Katy.” We shook hands. “Tell me more about the crazy lady.”

  “Not much to tell, really. She just showed up one day. The family that lives there seems to have vanished. They have little kids who’re usually running around in the yard. Even the dog’s not barking. I kind of miss all the commotion. One of the problems with squatting is you spend most of your time hiding from the neighbors, so I have no idea where they’ve gone.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Like money, you know? Classy, slim. In her twenties, I guess. Short blonde hair. If she wasn’t such a bitch, I’d even say she’s good-looking.”

  Darn it. Definitely not her. Although she could have bleached her hair, and I suppose she could pass for in her twenties. Late twenties.

  “There’s a slight chance I may know who she is. And if it is her, the police are looking for her.”

  Jessie crossed his arms, looking impressed. “Really? You a cop or something?”

  I laughed, stalling to think up an excuse. “No. No. I’m a private investigator.”

  That wasn’t a total lie. I was investigating if asking questions counts, and I’m a private citizen. Plus, I did that stakeout with Josh and got paid for my services. Ergo, I’m a professional private investigator.

  “A P.I. That is so cool. The trail led you here?”

  “Yes. Well, almost. I actually thought she might be at that house over there.” I pointed behind me at the Cranston mansion.

  He rubbed his hands together with a grin. “So what’s your next move?”

  “I need to get a look at her to confirm her identity.” I knew it wasn’t her, but I didn’t want to disappoint my new friend. “Wouldn’t want to call the police on an innocent person.” It was time to change the subject before I told any more fibs. I glanced around. “So where do you live?”

  Jessie nodded at a grove of trees. “We got a sweet setup back there. Nice tent under the trees. Even got Wi-Fi. It’s surprising how many people don’t lock down their internet access.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. We’re totally concealed by all the trees and shrubbery. We’ve been living there for almost a year now, not bothering anyone. Until that bitch, excuse my language, that woman showed up and started prowling around.” Jessie looked beyond me, toward the street. “Ah. Here comes my compadre.”

  A stubby, bushy-bearded man in gray sweats was pushing a rusty ten-speed and toting a bulging grocery bag. His steps slowed as he drew near.

  “It’s all right, Seth. This is Katy. She’s a private investigator, and she’s looking for a woman who may be our new neighbor.”

  “Is she in some kind of trouble?” asked Seth. “Please say yes.”

  “If it’s her, then the answer is yes. But it’s highly unlikely. The person I’m looking for is probably out of the country.”

  Ernie set his bike down and handed the cloth bag to Jessie.

  “What’d you score?” asked Jessie, jiggling it.

  “Homemade tamales.”

  He peeked in the sack. “Did Gra
ndma Rosita make them?”

  “Yeah. I stopped by to give her some money on the way home, and she’d just made a batch.”

  Give his grandma money? But he’s homeless.

  “How was work today?” asked Jessie.

  He works?

  “Scored some good tips,” said Seth, then glanced at me. “Jessie and I work at a carwash.”

  “You have jobs, but you live in a tent?” I said. “Sorry, that was kind of rude.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jessie. “Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we have two or three jobs. The rents are ridiculous around here, and ever since the economy slumped, it’s been impossible to find jobs in our field.”

  “What did you used to do?” I asked.

  “I was an Applications Development Manager for a start-up company that went under.”

  “And you, Seth?”

  “Software development at the same company. That’s where I met Jessie. Wanna see our humble abode?”

  They led me through the bushes to a clearing where the spacious tent was staked. High in a tree, they had rigged up solar panels. Inside the tent were two neatly made inflatable beds, two vintage recliners, and a folding table and chair set.

  “This is great.” I glanced around. “So, uh, what about a….”

  Ernie grinned. “Bathroom? Follow me.”

  Behind the tent were a portable camping toilet and shower.

  “This is our biggest crime, right here.” Jessie pointed at a hose. “It’s connected to a hose bib in the back of the property line. I doubt anyone over there even knows of its existence.”

  “Well, I gotta say, I’m impressed with you guys,” I said. “And now I need to get going.”

  My new pals escorted Daisy and me to the chain link fence. “So what’s your next move?” said Jessie.

  “Since it’s getting close to dark now, I’ll come back in the morning and try to catch a glimpse of her.”

  “We both got an early shift at the carwash,” said Jessie, “but we want to know what happens. Let me put my number in your phone.”