The cats looked back at her seriously through the rearview window with matching wide–eyed expressions. She didn’t need to explain what was about to happen. They already knew.
Number 2143 turned out to be down a long driveway that headed to the lake. Sure enough, the house at the end of it was a big, modern place with great views. Beatrice could only imagine that the guest cottage would be just as cushy. She parked, shutting the car door quietly after ushering the cats out.
Strangely enough, Petunia took the lead on this one. Without a shred of hesitation she trotted off south of the cottage towards the shoreline. Beatrice followed her. She realized she really could have used her trusted baseball bat. Instead, she picked up a heavy stick and swung it over her shoulder.
As it turned out, there was a little trail that led in that direction through the snow–dusted pines. Within seconds, a snug cottage appeared in her sightline. It was close to the lake and even had its own dock. It was paneled in white wood and looked fully winterized.
What’s more, there was wood smoke coming from the brick chimney. Bingo.
Petunia ran right up to the door and then immediately shrank back. The ruff on the back of her neck stood straight up and she started to yowl like Beatrice had never heard before. Hamish sprinted forward to join her, took one look at the door, and then hopped up on a nearby window. He put his paws against it and scratched frantically.
Now Beatrice really didn’t know what was going on. She rushed to the window and peered in. George was in there all right—but lying on the floor, looking way too dead for Beatrice’s taste.
“Curses!” she yelled. She tried the door. Locked. The windows. Locked. Whatever was going on, she needed to get in, and fast. The sheriff wasn’t going to arrive in time. She placed a call to 911.
“Hi, 2143 Route 113. I’ve got a man unconscious inside the guest cabin just south of the main house. He’s not moving. I can’t get in,” she said as she tried to force the door. But as fit as Beatrice was, she was never going to break down that door.
Wracking her brain, she tried to think of any other move she might have seen on TV.
“How do I break into a house, by the way?” she asked the dispatcher.
“What? Ma’am, help is on its way. Don’t endanger yourself, you hear me?”
But Beatrice had never been very good at following orders. She eyed a window right next to the door, put her cell in her pocket (which was still talking at her), picked up the stick and slammed it into the window pane.
It didn’t break.
“That always works on TV!” Beatrice yelled. “C’mon!”
Determined, she swung the stick and rammed it at the window with all her strength. A crack appeared, there was a moment of silence, and then the glass splintered down. Beatrice would have done a happy dance but there wasn’t time. She reached in, unlocked the door, and pushed it open…
…And then went reeling away.
As soon as the door’d opened, something overpowered her. She felt dizzy and faint. There was no smell and the cabin itself didn’t appear to be on fire. Taking her scarf, Beatrice wound it around her mouth and nose tightly, yelled at the cats to get back, and then charged in.
Thankfully, it was a small space and George was a small guy. She grabbed both his hands and dragged him out just before she thought she would pass out herself. She continued to drag him across the snow, away from the cabin.
Then Beatrice sat on a rock beside him, lowered her scarf, coughed like both her lungs would explode, and waited for help to arrive.
13
Needle claws dug into Beatrice’s back. She stirred and immediately regretted doing so. She felt like she used to after a night of drinking in her twenties. Except Beatrice hadn’t even had one glass of alcohol the day before.
She was confused until memories started flooding back—the cottage on Squam Lake, George’s unconscious body, breaking into his house ninja–style and dragging him out.
Is this what being a private investigator felt like? If so, Beatrice wasn’t so sure she was cut out for the job. The needle claws continued to sink into her back. She swung her head around to see Petunia intently sinking her paws into her back, her china–blue eyes round and innocent.
“Sweetie, that hurts! Leave Beatrice alone now,” she said, trying to shoo off the fluffy Himalayan. It felt like a two–ton truck was on her back.
Then Beatrice spotted a face hovering over her, and a pair of hands descending down to pick up Petunia. Beatrice screamed and scrambled back.
“What the heck!” she yelled when her brain finally registered that she was looking at Matthew. “What are you doing here?”
He stood next to her bed, holding Petunia in both hands like he was extracting a dangerous substance.
“Well, you gave me a set of keys, didn’t you?” he said, putting Petunia on the foot of the bed. She shook herself off, looking disgruntled. “I thought the best use of them might be to make sure you didn’t die in the middle of the night. How are you feeling?”
“Like death,” Beatrice grumbled. She made a half–hearted effort to straighten her messy long gray hair. She realized that she was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. “I’m a mess!” she cried. “A total mess! What the heck happened yesterday? The last thing I remember is sitting by the lake with George, my head pounding.”
Matthew folded his arms. “The sheriff found you first. The medic team arrived not long after. George was taken to Plymouth General Hospital. They tried to take you too but you insisted that you were fine. Sheriff called me and I came and got you, brought you back here. You passed out in bed almost immediately and I spent the night in that chair there,” he pointed to a blue–upholstered wingback, “to make sure you didn’t stop breathing in the middle of the night.”
“Did the cats get fed?” Beatrice said. The three of them sat at the end of the bed, staring at her as if they were similarly worried.
Matthew laughed. “That’s what you’re worried about? Oh believe me, I fed them. I was afraid they weren’t going to let you sleep until they got their dinner. They’ve had their breakfast too, so don’t let those famine–stricken expressions fool you.”
Beatrice grabbed a hair elastic off her bedside table and tied up her hair. “Okay well if that’s taken care of, I think a shower’s in order. Then coffee.” She tried to stand up but wobbled. Matthew caught her around the waist firmly. “Maybe a couple of painkillers too,” she grimaced. She looked up at him. “Thank heavens you’re here.”
“Yeah well, I guess you can’t get rid of me so easily,” he said, his expression unreadable.
Beatrice managed to shower and pull herself into some clean clothes. She let her long hair dry around her shoulders. She shuffled downstairs in her slippers to the kitchen. It was a comforting space with cabinets paneled in honey–colored wood and a substantial center island where Beatrice tested new recipes or let Matthew cook for her, as he loved to do.
It looked like that was the case again as she was greeted by the earthy scent of coffee and the rich aroma of bacon frying. Her stomach rumbled. When was the last time she’d eaten anything? She couldn’t remember.
Matthew slid a steaming cup of coffee towards Beatrice as she sat at the table tucked into an alcove. The snowy forest sat silent outside the tall windows. She buried her face in the mug, groaning as the hot liquid warmed her up.
“You have to eat too,” he said, putting a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her.
Beatrice scarfed down the food. “What the heck happened to me?” she asked, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Minor carbon monoxide poisoning,” he replied, sitting opposite and fixing her with a very serious expression. “George forgot to ventilate the cottage when he started that wood fire stove. Carbon monoxide builds up pretty quickly in that case. Good thing you came along when you did or else he would have been a goner. In fact, you were pretty foolish to go in yourself. Sheriff told me the cottage was completely poi
sonous.”
“Well, I couldn’t let my fictional paramour die on me,” Beatrice mumbled, forking eggs into her mouth as fast as she could. “That wouldn’t be romantic.”
Matthew sighed. “Seriously, Beatrice. You could have been hurt way worse.”
“I am being serious.” She put down her fork. “Whatever George did, he didn’t deserve to die in there.” She grinned. “Did the sheriff tell you about how I broke into the cottage by smashing the window? That was pretty cool, right?”
Matthew just shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Beatrice Young? You’re crazier than a mad hatter.”
“I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going to eat all this breakfast, drink a liter of coffee, and then figure out what George has in that cottage of his.”
“I figured as much.” Matthew raked his hands through his hair. “The sheriff’s even been holding off on the search so you can be there.”
“So it’s been cleared then? The cottage?”
“Sure. Once you ventilate, the carbon monoxide dissipates pretty fast. It’ll be safe to go in today.”
Beatrice looked Matthew right in the eye—the first time she’d been able to do so in weeks. “Thank you, Matt. For taking care of me and watching over me even after I’ve been a total donkey to you. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing.” Matthew took her plate and heaped more toast on it. “What are friends for?”
Beatrice didn’t quite know what to make of that last statement but it didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about anything serious at the moment. She didn’t blame him and didn’t press him—it was enough that he was talking to her.
The sheriff showed up about an hour later, looking neat in his pressed uniform. He accepted a cup of coffee from Matthew and sat beside Beatrice.
“You crazy woman,” he began. “Now you’re busting down doors and rescuing guys?”
“I wish I had busted down the door,” Beatrice replied. “Still have to learn the trick of that one. Did you know that it’s really hard to break a window? In the movies, they touch the glass and the whole thing shatters. Nope, I had to beat on that old window until my arms almost fell off.”
The sheriff grinned in response and took a deep gulp of coffee, his bristly mustache tickling the rim of the cup.
“Anyway, how’s George?” she asked.
“Called the hospital this morning, he’s conscious and he’s going to be just fine. No permanent damage that they can tell. But if you feel sick, just imagine what state he’s in. We’re not going to be able to question him for some days.”
Beatrice perked up at the word “we.” The sheriff was finally taking her seriously after all, it seemed. “Matthew said we could search the cottage instead.”
“Sure thing.” The sheriff raised his eyes to meet Matthew’s rather cold stare. “She’s going to be okay, chief,” he said. “No harm done.”
“Better hope so. You sure you feel up to running around today? Why don’t you just take it easy, stay in bed?”
As tempting as that sounded, Beatrice was itching to solve her case. Heck, she could rest when she was dead.
“I’ll just be out for a couple of hours,” she promised. “Then straight back to bed for me.”
Matthew went to collect his stuff. “Alright. But you owe me a talk later.”
Beatrice cringed as he strode out. “I am in so much trouble.”
“No kidding. But nothing you can’t sort out with some groveling,” the sheriff said.
Petunia waddled up to Beatrice’s feet, sat down, and gave a saucer–eyed look. “Maw?” she said piteously.
“Don’t even try it. I know you already got your breakfast. And you should be trying to make nice with Hamish, not me.”
Hamish looked up from washing his paw on the windowsill, gave them both a contemptuous look, and returned to his grooming.
14
The sun was high in the sky but it didn’t shed much light that February day, even though it was almost noon. Beatrice and the sheriff got out of his truck and approached George’s former cabin. The snow had frozen on top, leaving a crisp, crunchy layer. The frozen lake spread out to their left, covered in glittering snow. Their breath preceded them in great, dense puffs.
Beatrice’s head still swam a bit but the solid breakfast had at least helped calm her stomach and make her feel steadier. She crunched through the snow in her heavy boots, the cats dancing around her feet. They obviously remembered this place, because they wore matching worried expressions as if Beatrice was going to pass out again.
“It’s okay guys,” she reassured them. “Momma isn’t going to do anything stupid today, I promise.”
There was a plastic bag over the broken cottage window and a padlock had been fixed on the door. Yellow police tape was slapped on it. The sheriff tore off the tape and opened the lock. As Beatrice stepped inside, she had a dizzying flashback to the previous day.
Memories floated to the front of her mind: George on the floor, her hands on his sweater dragging him out, the nauseating feeling of the carbon monoxide getting through her scarf, the oppressive heat of the cottage and the bitter cold outside. She shook her head, trying to drive the images away.
The cottage looked perfectly ordinary now. It was a snug little space with expensive curtains and matching bed linens. There was the stove and a hot plate in one corner, a tiny sitting area, and most importantly: a desk with a laptop, a notebook beside it, and a pen with the cap off. Beatrice put on gloves and began to go through the notepad.
The first page was headed “Abby” and it had a list of what looked like her likes and dislikes. Under “likes” it said: calla lilies, Sting, e.e. cummings poetry, Jo Malone candles, watching the sun rise, Italian food especially tortellini… and the list went on.
“For a supposedly inattentive ex–spouse, George sure knew his wife,” Beatrice said, scratching her head. “Check out these dislikes: anyone arguing with her, criticism, not being right… Geez, he was angry.”
The sheriff flipped the page. “Well, here’s your list, Bee.”
Beatrice’s eyes bugged out of her head as she saw a similar list, but with her name above it. “Oh boy, this is going to be good,” she muttered.
Under likes, George had listed: desserts with high fat–sugar ratios, watching bad television, sleeping in, gossiping, taking baths, reading low brow mystery novels, CATS, making stupid jokes. He’d also written: secret romantic with desire to travel? Highlight worldliness, adventure, desire to sweep her off her feet.
“He makes me sound like such a pathetic plebeian,” she complained. “Also, how does he know about the baths? That’s just creepy.”
“Get a load of the dislikes,” the sheriff said.
Beatrice read: people who hate cats, healthy food, being in relationships, emotional vulnerability.
“Okay, now I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have saved him,” she said, arms crossed. “I mean, this entire notepad really screams: Beatrice, please leave me in the poison house to die.”
“Now Bee, that’s not so charitable,” the sheriff said.
“I’m charitable towards good causes, not scumbags. Anyway, I rescued him, didn’t I? I feel like I’m pretty free to dislike him now.”
The sheriff sighed, sat at the desk, and flipped open the laptop. “Well then, you might not want to stay for the grand finale: whatever’s on this laptop.”
“I’ll try to contain myself,” Beatrice promised.
Not surprisingly, the wallpaper on George’s laptop was a snapshot of himself holding a glass of wine. Beatrice swallowed her ire as the sheriff opened a web browser and began checking its history.
“Wow, your computer skills are really evolving,” she commented.
“It’s browser history, not quantum physics,” the sheriff said dryly. “Try to give me a bit of credit. Alright so, not surprisingly, he was on InstaLove.com a lot. A lot.”
“Can we get into his account?”
T
he sheriff pulled up the sign–in page. George’s email address was already filled in, but his password wasn’t.
“Any guesses?” the sheriff asked, turning around to look at her.
“George,” she said automatically. “And a number. When’s his birthday?”
The sheriff pulled the case file out of his bag. “1951.”
“Okay, try George1951.”
Amazingly, unbelievably, magically, it worked.
“See this is why George isn’t made for a life of crime,” Beatrice said. “He’s way too obvious.”
“Okay Bee, my expertise ends here. Show me how to use this website.”
Beatrice pointed him to the message box. There weren’t just messages to her and Abigail. George had been sending missives to a host of ladies.
“From the timestamps on these messages, it looks like George was targeting primarily Abigail first,” the sheriff said, scrolling through. “Look, he messages her almost right after she set up a profile. But after a couple of weeks of messaging, he starts contacting all of these other women. Why?”
“Maybe he got greedy,” Beatrice said, scanning the list of victims. “He figured that if he could scam Abigail, he might be able to get cash out of a bunch of other women too. Guess he had too much confidence in his Bryan persona. I mean, it was pretty good, admittedly. It was his ask for the cash that needed work.”
“Well, from what I can see neither him or the ladies mention money. So if he did speak to them about it, it must have been over the phone. I’m going to get the deputy to call up all these women. Make sure no one’s a thousand dollars in the hole thanks to our friend George.” The sheriff leaned back. “Well, I’m taking the computer and notebook into evidence. We can examine them further at the office.”
“I guess we won’t understand George’s motives until we talk to him,” Beatrice said, glad to be leaving. The cottage spooked her.
The Unfur-tunate Valentine's Scam (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 6) Page 8
