by Maggie Pill
Eat, Drink,
and
Be Wary
A Sleuth Sisters Mystery
By Maggie Pill
Copyright © 2017 by Maggie Pill
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Art by Yocladesigns: http://yocladesigns.com
Gwendolyn Press, Michigan, USA
Eat, Drink, and Be Wary/Maggie Pill—1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-944502-09-6
This one’s for Gina, with thanks for her expert advice.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter One
Retta
My pitch for the Smart Detective Agency’s next case was going well until Barbara Ann went all women’s lib on me. We sat in her office, Barbara behind the desk, sipping her special-blend coffee, mailed each month from Seattle. Faye and I sat next to each other in comfortable but kind of plain blue-upholstered chairs. Faye held a glass of iced tea in one hand while she jotted down notes with the other. I had a smoothie I’d bought on the way over at a little shop open only in the summer months, when northern Michigan actually has people in it.
“The FBI wants the Smart Detective Agency to go undercover for them.” My palms warmed as I came to the sticky spot, and I cupped my drink to cool them. “We’d attend a Love-Able Ladies Retreat at an inn near Traverse City.”
I was hoping that undercover and FBI would overshadow Love-Able Ladies, but Barbara gasped in outrage. I went on quickly, before she could start in.
“It’s this weekend, August 12th to the 14th, at the St. Millicent Winery on the Leelanau Peninsula.”
Known for geographic beauty and classy events, the area north of Traverse City is a place a person doesn’t have to be a wine lover to enjoy. St. Millicent’s was the newest winery/inn on the Leelanau, and according to what I’d read, it had lovely views of Grand Traverse Bay, plush accommodations, notable wines, and meals to die for. If I convinced my sisters to take the case, we’d get to experience it for ourselves.
“What would our job be?” Faye’s voice betrayed doubt, since she generally prefers staying close to home. I was confident I could convince Faye to go along once I dealt with Barbara’s objections.
“We’re supposed to get acquainted with a fashion designer who’s introducing her new line of clothing at the retreat. Her father’s suspected of being a big-time criminal, and the FBI hopes she might help them stop him.”
It was a perfect case for us. The only obstacle was Barbara Ann.
My oldest sister wasn’t distracted by talk of the FBI. “I’ve heard of the Love-Able Ladies.” Her voice turned sarcastically girlish. “‘If you want a better man, be a better woman.’ Seriously, Retta?”
That was the bump in my road. Love-Able Ladies was sort of a traveling celebration of femininity, encouraging “old-fashioned girls” to cultivate modesty and acknowledge that their place in society was a few steps behind their fathers, husbands, and sons. The organizers held retreats at various elegant resorts around the nation and railed against “bullying feminism.” The attendees were mostly well-to-do women who didn’t work outside the home and didn’t want to. The tone of their gatherings was self-congratulatory and a little self-righteous, with a lot of talk about “the civilizing influence” of wives and mothers.
It wasn’t the type of thing Barbara went for. Not at all.
Because I wanted to see St. Millicent’s, and because I don’t mind being called a girl at fifty-plus, I was determined we’d take the FBI up on their offer. “So they’re a little over the top on the pleasing men thing,” I argued. “We don’t have to agree with them to enjoy a weekend of fine wine and beautiful scenery.”
“I refuse to even listen to that garbage.” Barbara used her I’m-not-kidding voice. “Women died for the right to stand next to men in this world, Retta. Those women would drag us all back to the days of barefoot and pregnant.”
Looking at the flyer I’d downloaded and brought along, Faye commented, “Apparently not barefoot. One of the sponsors is Bellarina Shoes—at three hundred dollars a pair.”
“Another sickening thing.” Barbara was getting wound up. “They get a bunch of trophy wives together then present them with tables full of items they don’t need at ridiculous prices.”
“Hey, it’s no secret that girls love to shop.”
Without moving a muscle, Barbara climbed up on her high horse. “We aren’t girls, Retta, and neither all men nor all women love anything. You might spend hours picking out this week’s nail design, but I certainly do not.”
I could have pointed out how much nicer her nails would look coated in a tangerine shade to match her blouse, but I’m not that dumb. Faye curled her own fingers out of sight, establishing a neutral position.
Barbara Ann is what used to be called a bluestocking: intelligent, well-educated, and a little dowdy, though I don’t think that last one is a bluestocking requirement. Her clothing runs to navy and black; her favorite jewelry is a gold chain she’s had for years along with two basic wristwatches, one silver, one gold. She wears almost no makeup, just light blush and a moisturizing lipstick that hardly shows.
Because I’d anticipated her reaction, I had my arguments ready. “This is a chance to enhance the reputation of our firm.” The Smart Detective Agency had done some good things in its first few years, but there were st
ill lots of people who thought three middle-aged women running a business like ours was a joke.
My remark hit home since Barbara really wants respect for the agency, but she wasn’t quite ready to agree with me. “I don’t see how going anywhere near the Love-Able Ladies gains us respect.”
“If you don’t like the assignment, Barbara, you could stay home.”
She practically vibrated with shock, and though I kept my expression innocent, I smiled to myself. Which would my sister give up: her feminist principles or control of a case? Delaying the decision, she asked, “Why doesn’t the FBI use their own agents?”
“Love-Able Ladies events are age-specific. There are retreats for women under thirty and some for thirty to fifty. This one is for fifty and over.” When Barbara’s brow rose I added, “The rationale is that attendees are more comfortable with others of the same age.”
“I get that.” Faye is the middle child and therefore less judgmental (bossy) than our eldest. “There’d be some comfort in knowing you’re in a group where everyone is dealing with a fifty-plus, saggy body.”
Grateful for her support, I forged on. “They also like that we really live in northern Michigan. It adds to our credibility.”
“And being private detectives isn’t a problem?” Barbara tried not to sound sarcastic, but she does, just a little, all the time.
“We won’t mention that. Just a housewife and a widow.” That was a mistake, because Barbara realized I’d already left her out of my scenario. I hurried on. “Faye and I could be convincing, but--” I met Barbara’s gaze, leaving the rest of the statement for her to finish. If anyone stuck out at a retreat like this one, it would be a woman who’d spent her life working alongside men in the tough hallways of justice. Barbara had never been anyone’s wife, trophy or otherwise.
Looking right back at me, she repeated her question. “Why us?”
“Agent Auburn heard about me from Lars. He thinks I can connect with Dina Engel, the crime boss’ daughter, because of the fashion thing. You know I love that.”
“And the assignment would be what again?”
“I meet this Dina and build rapport with her. If at some point in the weekend she seems receptive, I mention that my boyfriend is with the FBI and can protect witnesses who testify against criminal relatives. I give her my phone number, and she leaves the retreat with a way to contact the Bureau if she’s sick of living with a drug lord.”
“Why do they think she might be amenable to such an approach at this point in time?”
Barbara always talks like that.
“The agent who contacted me, Chet Auburn, says Roger Engel was horrible to his wife,” I replied. “Sleazy affairs with women from his night clubs, that kind of thing. He wasn’t much of a father either.”
“He’s got just the one daughter?”
“Dina. She was married once, but her husband died in a car crash. In 2010 her mother got really sick with diabetes, and she moved home to take care of her. After Mrs. Engel died, Dina apparently decided she wanted to have a career.”
“In clothing design.”
“Right. Engel was against it at first, but she stood up to him. With her mother’s death and her insistence on doing something of her own, Auburn thinks Dina’s had a change of attitude that might benefit the Bureau.”
“She’s been a criminal’s kid her whole life and now she’s going to turn on her only remaining relative?”
I shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, they’ll try something else.”
Barbara tapped her pen on the desk pad for a few seconds. “Fashion talk, Love-Able Ladies—it’s not me.”
I felt a little thrill at how easy that had been. “Which is exactly why Faye and I should go.” I kept my voice casual, as if the two of us handled cases without Barbara Ann all the time. Faye wore an expression of mild terror at the thought of going somewhere and meeting strangers without Barbara to guide her, but I’d deal with that later. “Someone should mind the office, and as you say, this isn’t your cup of tea, or glass of wine, in this case.”
Barbara knew she was being herded toward a decision, but she wasn’t sure how to change direction. “How dangerous is this case you volunteered us for likely to be?”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t volunteer. Agent Auburn called me.”
“Have you met the man?”
“No, but he and Lars worked together in New Mexico.” I raised my palms in a question. “Would my boyfriend ask me to do something dangerous?”
Barbara had to shake her head. Lars Johannsen had helped us out with a couple of cases now, and we all trusted him. Still, she was reluctant. “Going anywhere near this woman seems like trouble to me.”
“If Ms. Engel is willing to talk about her father, we offer her a way to contact the FBI. If not, we give Auburn our impressions so he can decide what she might respond to in the future.”
“Like what?”
I ticked off examples on my fingers. “Emotional appeal, financial reward, guarantee of immunity, or assurance of protection.”
Faye’s expression became concerned. “Is she afraid of her father?”
“If she isn’t, she should be. Bad things happen to people who cross Roger Engel.” That was bound to get Faye on my side. Her soft heart demands that she help those who are mistreated in any way. But the argument was a two-edged sword. While Faye made a sound of sympathy for poor Dina Engel, Barbara practically pounced on my admission. “Then this job could be dangerous.”
“Engel won’t be anywhere near Traverse City.” I went over it again. “We chat Dina up and take it as far as we can. That’s it.” I looked to Faye for support.
“It sounds like something Retta would be good at,” she said, and I let out a little sigh. Faye was on my side. That was half the battle, but if we had to drag Barbara along, her twitchy left eyebrow would betray how much she disapproved of everything Love-Able. We were much better off if she stayed home.
To my surprise and delight, Barbara agreed. “I vote we help the Bureau with their case, but you two attend the retreat without me.”
I didn’t look at Faye, who was no doubt equally amazed and afraid. Me? I was thrilled. The two younger sisters had a case all our own. That’s what I call an opportunity for growth.
Chapter Two
Faye
While Retta confirmed the details of our weekend and Barb went off to finish our only current case, I researched Dina Engel. There wasn’t much about her online until the last six months, when a website featuring her upcoming line of clothing had appeared. “Detroit Chic” had an official launch date in September, but on the last morning of the Love-Able Ladies retreat she planned to do a “mini-reveal” as a way of building buzz. Though they weren’t yet available for sale, getting a hundred well-heeled Michigan women interested in her designs was a nice initial step.
While there was plenty of information about Detroit Chic on the internet, there was little about the company’s designer/owner. The About Us section on the website had a few pictures of Dina at work, but in most she had her back to the camera. There were articles in the Detroit Free Press about how great her enterprise might be for the city, but there was almost nothing about Dina herself. The only clear picture revealed a petite woman of perhaps forty with soft blond hair. She looked slightly Slavic, with a round face that had begun to show both age and incipient weight. In the picture she wore ragged low-rise jeans, a shirt with epaulettes, and those flat tennis shoe throwbacks that made my feet hurt just looking at them. Either Dina spent a lot of time sitting or she was able to tolerate a lot more pain than I could.
The Smart Detective Agency had “special” connections, meaning paid sites that let us snoop into peoples’ lives. There wasn’t much to find about Dina, no credit cards or credit history, but two things did catch my interest. First she’d received a bachelor’s degree in fashion design back in 2000, so Detroit Chic was probably the resurgence of an old dream. Second, an item in the Detroit News mentioned her marriage
to attorney Daryl Sweet in 2008. Sweet’s death in a car accident was reported two years later, and Dina had apparently taken back her maiden name afterward. That was all I could find: statistics and dry facts. Nothing personal, nothing scandalous, nothing humanitarian. It seemed the woman’s life had been spent outside the limelight: protected daughter, invisible wife, silent widow, and if Retta’s information was correct, for the last few years, her mother’s main caregiver.
What kind of person was she? The FBI thought her mother’s death had changed Dina, and I understood that. There’s nothing like the passing of the previous generation to remind us that life is fleeting. Had Mom’s death made the daughter determined to make something of her life? Had she stepped out of Papa’s control? Or didn’t she care where the family money came from as long as she got what she wanted?
Next I looked up Dina’s father, Roger Engel. The son of Swedish immigrants and originally named Rutgar Engla, he showed up in police data bases many times in his youth. Only one arrest stuck, a two-year sentence for car theft at nineteen. The experience apparently help the kid wise up, because after that he’d hired better lawyers and beaten every attempt to lay a crime at his door. He was, as Retta mentioned, known for licentious living and multiple affairs, the typical “Look what I can get!” mentality of a man who hasn’t got a clue what being a man is about. Looking at an array of photos taken over the years, I saw that old Roger had paid for his fast-paced lifestyle by aging badly. The smirking, Viking-like youth in his long-ago mug shot was now a bloated toad who looked ready for a visit from the Grim Reaper.
I was still reading about Engel’s alleged criminal activities when Retta stowed her phone in her gym-bag-sized purse and announced that our weekend at the retreat was arranged. “It was fully booked, but Auburn made two registered attendees an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
“What?”
She giggled. “Not like in The Godfather, silly. They ‘won’ a trip to Cancun that has to be taken next weekend. Your name and mine magically appeared in their spots.”
