A Lie in Every Truth

by Jamie Lee Scott

  A Lie in Every Truth

  A Gotcha Detective Agency Mystery, Book 11

  Jamie Lee Scott

  Novels & Coffee

  Copyright ©2018 by Jamie Lee Scott

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Contents

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  Also by Jamie Lee Scott:

  1. Mimi

  2. Mimi

  3. Mimi

  4. Charles

  5. Charles

  6. Mimi

  7. Mimi

  8. Mimi

  9. Mimi

  10. Mimi

  11. Charles

  12. Mimi

  13. Mimi

  14. Charles

  15. Mimi

  16. Mimi

  17. Charles

  18. Mimi

  19. Mimi

  20. Charles

  21. Charles

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  About the Author

  Other books by Jamie Lee Scott

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  Also by Jamie Lee Scott:

  See and buy all of Jamie’s books at www.jamieleescott.com/books

  Gotcha Detective Agency Series

  Let Us Prey

  Textual Relations

  Death of a Sales Rep

  What a Meth

  Bad Vice

  Electile Dysfunction

  Who Gives A Split

  Mary Had a Little Scam

  Trespassers Will Be Prostituted

  The Knife Before Christmas

  A Lie In Every Truth

  Willa Friday Culinary Cozy Mysteries

  Pasta, Pinot & Murder

  Sushi, Sauvignon & Murder

  Mousse, Moscato & Murder

  More coming in late 2018

  One

  Mimi

  How does the saying go? We make plans and God laughs? I think that’s the one. Not one to make New Year’s resolutions (because that would be a plan), I did make a promise to myself that I’d be more organized and less frantic in my life this year. Yeah, that lasted less than two weeks. Truth was, disorganized and frenetic defined me. I couldn’t leave it behind, or I’d be leaving a part of myself in a gutter somewhere. Nor could I put it in a tidy little box on a shelf or I’d forget where I put it. That was my excuse for not changing anything in my life. Who needs organizing?

  In the months since I made that promise to myself, my life had become more disorganized. Nick Christianson, my fiancé, put his house up for sale, my car had been in the shop more than it had been out, Charles Parks, my business partner, had more secret meetings, and Cortnie Garcia, one of my investigators, dropped the “I’ll be giving my notice” bomb on us. I used the chaos as my excuse to back out of the promise.

  Cortnie didn’t feel comfortable working in the field during the last months of her pregnancy, which was fine; we had plenty for her to do in the office. She’d been doing a lot more computer forensics for Charles. Then her doctor put her on bed rest. She didn’t want to leave, but her health and the health of her baby were much more important than continuing to work. We missed her already, and prayed she wanted to come back in the future, no matter when that was.

  Thank goodness I was able to send Lydia Graves, my other agent (also my mom), to some extensive private investigator training courses. By the time Cortnie cleaned out her office, Lydia was headed back from her third training session in four months. Continuing education was important in so many lines of work, even private investigations.

  Lydia just finished a course called Untying the Knot, which taught her how to deal with domestic situations. If anyone watches TV or the news, domestic violence can be dangerous for more than just the family members involved. Knowing how to handle a possibly violent or deadly situation is paramount.

  Before that, I had her take a forensic photography course, and forensic diagraming to go with it. She seemed to enjoy the education. For a treat, I sent her to a private investigator conference to learn tools, resources and techniques for better investigating. Pretty soon, she’d be teaching me how to do my job.

  Lydia had been gone four days, and I smiled to myself as I drove to Monterey Peninsula Airport to pick her up. Normally, her husband, Luke, picked her up, but he had to work, so I volunteered. She didn’t need to call for an Uber driver when I could drive the twenty minutes to get her. Besides, I wanted to take my mom to lunch. I sent her a text before her plane took off, letting her know not to eat too much on her flight.

  With MPA being a small airport, I could sit in the parking lot and see when her plane arrived. So, I found myself a spot, moved my seat back and opened my laptop to get some work done while I waited. When I opened my email, I saw my inbox held close to 500 emails. That didn’t even include the promotions and social media folders Gmail so nicely provided. I didn’t even bother with the junk mail anymore, and I had upwards of 3000 in that folder.

  According to the app on my phone, the plane was on time for arrival. This still meant a wait of at least twenty minutes to half an hour, between landing and my mom getting her luggage. In the time I had, I dwindled down my emails and unsubscribed to the myriad of marketing newsletters cluttering my inbox. There were plenty of other newsletters I wanted to get; I certainly didn’t need the ones I’d never signed up for getting in my way.

  I looked at my watch just as travelers started coming out the doors of the airport. I didn’t want to lose our lunch reservation at The Ranch. My mouth watered just thinking about it. I hadn’t had a chef cooked meal in ages, unless you counted Nick as a chef. Not only could he catch the bad guys (he’s a homicide detective), he could work a kitchen like he’d been to culinary school.

  I closed my laptop and turned around to place it on the back seat. I hoped my mom had gotten a lot of information and confidence from attending the conference. She seemed to enjoy the courses, so this was the next step to becoming fully licensed.

  I pulled up in front of the baggage area of the airport and saw her walk out, pulling a single carry-on bag behind her. She may have been dressed in all black, wearing tailored slacks, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and Doc Martin boots, but her bag would not have gotten lost in the sea of other black bags. She pulled a melon orange hard-sided carry on, with Gotcha Detective Agency plastered all over the front and sides in chartreuse. I’m sure she handed out business cards to anyone who asked about it. Between Lydia and Uta,
we didn’t need to pay for advertising.

  I taught her how to pack light for travel: she had her backpack, purse, and a carry-on (rolling her clothes before packing and limiting shoes was the secret). Her clothing looked professional, yet comfortable, which was something I’d learned from her. “Look like you can afford to be there,” she always said. And she was right: if you dressed the part, you were treated with more respect.

  I lowered the passenger window of my new (to me) ruby red Cadillac SRX. Lydia looked around, frustration on her face. Ah, she was looking for my Land Rover. I put the car in park, pressed the button on my driver’s door to open the back hatch, then got out and walked around the car.

  I looked pretty snazzy, too, in my fitted black skirt and short-sleeve black fitted tee. Even though it was spring, there was a chill in the air, and I wore a hip covering long(ish) black sweater over my outfit. Tights might have been a good idea, but I liked being able to have bare legs once in a while.

  “Lydia,” I called.

  My mom grinned wide and walked to the car. “Skirt short enough?” were her first words, but before I could retort, she added, “A rental?”

  I shook my head. “My mechanic told me to trade my car in before it nickeled and dimed me to death. It had a lot of miles.” I patted my new car on the roof. “This is Ruby.”

  Mom laughed. “You always did name your cars. This is pretty.” She pushed her luggage in front of her and shrugged her backpack off.

  “How was the conference?” I asked.

  She blew out a breath. “Exhausting.”

  I cocked my head and looked closely at her. She didn’t look that tired. “You didn’t have a good time?”

  She waved her hand at me. “I probably had too much fun, which was why it was exhausting. I barely saw my hotel room, except to sleep and shower. So much to do. So many people to meet. And that didn’t even include the all-day sessions.”

  “They can be overwhelming. I’m glad you didn’t spend all your time in the room. It’s good to network at these things.”

  “And network I did: at dinner, at the bar, in the lounge, during karaoke, you name it. I must have thirty business cards from other companies.” She nudged me. “They tried to steal me away from you. How cool is that?”

  I nudged her back. “Not cool at all, Mom.”

  “Oh, hun, you know you’re stuck with me for life, like it or not. If I didn’t work for you, I wouldn’t want to do this. I’d feel stupid. Everyone else my age either owns an agency or teaches. I’m just starting to learn.”

  “I think you’re learning fast.”

  “I’m trying anyway.”

  “Thanks for the free advertising.” I picked up the suitcase and heaved it into the back. “You got my message about lunch?”

  Throwing her purse and backpack on top of the suitcase, she said, “I did. But there’s been a change of plans.”

  My stomach growled at the idea of lunch, then churned at her words. “Change of plans?”

  “I need to meet with an old friend. Is that okay?” She didn’t say it as if looking for approval, more like, “It better be okay.”

  “Whatever. I’m starving.” I pressed the button to close the hatch and walked back to the driver’s side and got in the car.

  “Don’t be pissy. This might be a client. I might be bringing the agency my first client.” Mom settled into the passenger seat and pulled on her seatbelt. Turning around to look in the back seat, she said, “Nice car. Leveled up with this one.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t want a car payment, but everything else I looked at sucked. And I wanted to trade my car in, not go through the hassle of selling it.”

  She settled in. “I think you did good. But a Cadillac is for old people, Mimi.”

  I frowned at her. “Maybe the old Coupe or Sedan de Ville was for old people, but this SRX is a sweet ride.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  As if I wasn’t having a hard enough time dealing with the big 4-0 getting closer, she had to make such a comment about my car. I didn’t care, I still loved my Ruby. And so did Lola, who was the only one who ever rode with me on a regular basis.

  “My friend lives in Salinas. I told him we’d swing by his house after I landed,” Lydia said.

  “Seriously? I’ve been looking forward to lunch at The Ranch.”

  “Seriously. This is important to me. He needs to talk.”

  “Does Luke know about this?” I joked.

  She laughed. “It’s not like that. Do you remember Edie Pratt? We used to be very close friends.”

  “I do.”

  I remembered Edie from my childhood. When my mom hung out with Edie on a regular basis, she changed. She went back to the woman who didn’t leave the house without her makeup and hair done, worshiped the sun when she could, and suddenly wanted to join a gym or go on a diet. To call Edie vain would be an understatement. Sadly, she was a great influence on my mom back then.

  We’d go to her house when I was a kid, only to find Edie sunbathing nude on her enclosed front deck. She’d stand up and give us a full view of her “bought and paid for” (as she called them) boobs before wrapping a towel around herself. At the time, I didn’t know her boobs were fake, or what bought and paid for meant, and prayed for perky, perfect boobs when I grew up. Oh, the illusions of our childhood.

  “Do you remember where Edie lives?” Lydia asked.

  “They live in the same house?” I could picture the neighborhood, because they lived near my old high school.

  “They do. No matter how many times Edie begged Clive to move, he never gave in.”

  With a long-ago memory in my head, I said, “Edie and Clive Pratt. Blast from the past. What’s going on with Edie?”

  Lydia looked down, then looked at me. “She’s dead.”

  I leaned back in the seat, my ponytail smashing against the headrest. “I’m so sorry. When did she die?”

  “A couple of days ago.” Lydia looked out the passenger window, but I saw her reach up and wipe at her eyes.

  “You didn’t say anything,” I said.

  “It’s not like she was your friend or anything. Heck, we’d even grown apart. There isn’t going to be a funeral, at least I don’t think there is. She always said she didn’t want one. And she’d come back to haunt whoever planned it, especially if they had an open casket. She wouldn’t want people remembering her that way.”

  “You haven’t mentioned Edie in years.”

  “We weren’t as close as we used to be. I do everything with Vivian these days.”

  I smiled. “I love Vivian. I remember when her daughter used to act in community theatre.”

  “Yes. That seems like forever ago.”

  “Was it skin cancer?” Considering the amount of time Edie spent slathered in oil, lying in the sun, I figured it had to be. She wasn’t that old, just a couple of years older than my mom.

  My mom and Edie had become friends because my dad and Clive worked together until my dad up and disappeared. The four of them would go out together and Sheri Pratt would babysit us.

  “Suicide,” Lydia croaked. She looked forward again and I could see tears welling in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry.” What else could I say? I felt bad now for assuming skin cancer.

  “The thing is, Clive thinks the cops are wrong. He swears she would never have killed herself that way.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Clive said it was a single gunshot to the head.”

  Two

  Mimi

  Lydia said she wasn’t hungry, even though they didn’t feed her on the plane. I happened to be starving, so I stopped at the McDonalds on South Main Street and left her in the car while I went inside and ordered. Normally, I preferred the drive-thru, but I had to go to the bathroom, and I didn’t think it could wait until we got to North Salinas.

  I stuffed the small hamburger in my mouth, eating it in three bites, as I walked back to the car. When I got back in, I pulled one of
the two apple pies I bought from my bag. “Want one?”

  For a woman who wasn’t hungry, she snatched that pie out of my hand so fast I barely saw her hand move. I knew she loved the cinnamon sweetness as much as I did and bought two because I knew she’d ask for a bite. I reached in the bag again and grabbed the other pie.

  Turning onto North Davis Road, I drove a few miles and took the Laurel Drive exit. I remembered the house, but I couldn’t place the street name.

  “What’s the address?” I didn’t need to put it in my GPS, I just needed to know where to go.

  She gave me the address on Parsons Drive, and my memory clicked. I wondered if the Pratt house was still painted baby blue.

  A few more turns and I finally made a right turn onto Parsons. The house no longer looked like a little boy’s baby blanket. It now looked like a fruity, peach-colored drink. Besides that, the stucco house hadn’t changed much. The yard was still the size of a postage stamp because Clive had built a fence all the way around the front yard, so Edie could have her privacy. She didn’t think her backyard was private enough since the neighbor behind them had a two-story house.

  I looked around the neighborhood and saw it hadn’t changed much, either. Nicely maintained lawns with minimal landscaping. Several other houses sported the same front fence as the Pratt house, and it made me wonder if Clive had really built the front fence, or if it had been part of the tract home options when the houses were being built.