Garage Sale Riddle

by Suzi Weinert

  The motorcyclist hugged the child. Before leaving, they talked animatedly with much smiling. But who waited for the old woman? The old man? Instead, the young family greeted her warmly before pushing her wheelchair out the door as the children skipped around her.

  Jennifer sobered. What if matches for these waiting-room people did not emerge from the treatment area? Might some get rushed to surgery, or ICU like her mom or even… to the morgue?

  Another walking-wounded patient limped in from treatment. Wait, didn’t she recognize him? She did a double-take. Yes, William Early, with a hand in an elastic brace and arm in a sling. Would he meet the lawyer with the briefcase? No, he went to the old man with the cane, and it wasn’t a happy greeting. In fact, the old man pushed William’s unbraced hand away when he tried to help him up. What was going on? For a fleeting moment, she considered hailing him, but held back.

  Just as well, since the nurse signaled her. “Would you like to sit with your mother now?”

  “Oh yes, I would. Thanks.”

  In the ER treatment room, despite IV bags and an unnatural plastic tube snaking from her mouth, her mother’s closed eyes and peaceful expression encouraged Jennifer.

  Minutes later an orderly wheeled her mother’s gurney to an ICU room, where nurses hooked her leads to telemetry machines whose beeps broadcast her vital signs. Jennifer sat in the straight chair beside the bed, staring at her mother’s inert form. Five minutes passed while Jennifer talked encouragingly to the sleeping woman. Then the curtain moved and Deputy Cliff Goodwin ambled in.

  “How is she?”

  “The drugs haven’t worn off yet but they say she’s stable. They’re keeping her a few days in ICU to see what happens.”

  “Are you up to talking with me?”

  Jennifer sighed. “I guess so. I want to help find those monsters who hurt Mom, ruined her house and stole her things. The Does—you’ve got me calling them that now—they need to pay for what they did and be jerked out of circulation so they can’t victimize others.”

  Goodwin settled himself in the chair next to her. “First, we need to know what they look like. Our sketch artist can draw what your mother remembers about them. She’s the only person we know who saw them. Since they stole a lot of her stuff, we can assume they took her credit cards, checkbook and so on. Can you freeze those for her?”

  Jennifer remembered the hassle dealing with her mother’s lost purse some years ago, but then her mother gave authorizations. “I have financial and health powers of attorney but haven’t used them and am uncertain what they cover. Could you go with me to the bank to verify it’s a crime situation when I ask them to freeze her bank and checking accounts?”

  “Yes, but you can deal with the credit cards by phone. Can you find their numbers in her files?”

  “I’ll try, but her filing is unconventional. Instead of putting those bills under MasterCard, Visa or American Express, she files them under “B’ for blue card or “G” for gold card. It’s a ‘don’t-ask.’”

  “When does the doctor think she can talk to me?”

  “Who knows? She’s out cold and they say may stay like this a few days. Without a description, you can’t start a manhunt?”

  “We found some fingerprints but need to sift them from friendly prints. If you don’t mind, I’ll take your mother’s prints and yours while I’m here.” He held up the portable kit. “But sketches are what we really need.”

  “Did you ask neighbors?”

  “Yeah, but no luck. Again, a sketch might help them remember who they saw and when.”

  They considered the problem. Then Jennifer sat up straight. “Wait, maybe there is someone.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother’s hair dresser. Mom’s gone to her for many years. Remember, I told you she loaned Mom a mobile phone to call me from the beauty shop restroom. Mom said Jane waited for her in the beauty shop so Chelsea may have noticed her. If we can find Mom’s rolodex in the chaos at the house, it has Chelsea’s mobile phone number. Maybe we could contact her tonight or meet her tomorrow.”

  “The sooner we get a drawing, the faster we can use facial recognition software. Do you know the name of the shop in case they’re open this evening?”

  “Let me think. Tropical…something. Tropical Tresses? Tropical Styles? Tropical Creations—that’s it.” She clicked Google on her cellphone. “Here it is.” She read the address to the detective, pressed dial and then Speaker so he could listen.

  After a few beeps a voice said, “Tropical Creations. May I help you?”

  “Yes, may I please speak with Chelsea?”

  “Ah… I think she just left. Let me check. Maybe I can catch her.” Long pause. After a moment a different voice spoke.

  “This is Chelsea.”

  “Chelsea, it’s Jennifer Shannon, Fran Ryerson’s daughter. I need to meet with you right away. It’s important.”

  “Oh, Jennifer, good to talk to you because I’m worried about your mom. A spooky thing happened the last time she visited the salon. Look, it’s seven o’clock and I’m just leaving work. I skipped lunch and am about to grab some food at Joe’s Diner on Tamiami Trail, a few blocks north of Vanderbilt Beach Road on the Naples Park side of the road. Would you like to meet me there?”

  “Good idea, Chelsea. I know where it is and I’m not far away, on Immokalee. I’d like to bring someone with me: a detective.” He nodded vigorous encouragement.

  “Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that.” Chelsea’s voice reflected concern.

  “When?”

  “Maybe 20 minutes?” Jennifer lifted her eyes to the detective for his reaction. He nodded. “Okay, Chelsea. See you then.”

  Goodwin stood. “Look, why don’t I take you to the house to pick up your wheels? Remember, your car’s in the driveway there. Then we can meet this possible eye-witness.”

  Jennifer nodded and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Love you, Mom. Sleep well. I’ll be back soon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Entering the diner, Jennifer recognized the beautician right away. Chelsea’s bright eyes and brown hair, cut in a youthful style, made her appear younger than fifty-five. During visits over the years, Jennifer often drove her mother to those weekly hair appointments. On those occasions, while Chelsea worked on her mother, another operator had styled Jen’s hair.

  Jennifer waved, hugged Chelsea and introduced Cliff Goodwin.

  “A detective?” Chelsea frowned. “Is this about Frances?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Jennifer explained why she came to Florida and what she found.

  “How terrible!” Chelsea shook her head in disbelief, “but I felt something was very wrong that day. I mean, not only did your mother borrow my phone, which she’d never done before, but that woman eavesdropped on our conversation and watched Frances every minute except when she went into the bathroom.”

  The waitress came and they placed orders.

  “Do you remember the woman well enough to help our police artist make a sketch?” Goodwin asked.

  “I tried not to stare at her but I got a good look and think I could help with a drawing.”

  “Would you describe her?”

  “Long black hair in a ponytail, dark eyes, slim, about my height, maybe in her thirties, serious expression, little smiling. The man was her opposite.”

  “The man?” Goodwin asked in surprise.

  “Yes, when the appointment ended, the woman called him on her cellphone. He came into the shop to get them.”

  Jennifer and the detective grinned at this piece of luck.

  “You said ‘her opposite’?” he probed.

  “Well, although they’re about the same age, he was blond, blue-eyed, husky, about six feet tall, all smiles and personality. I could tell your sketch artist exactly what he looked like.”

  Their food arrived and they talked as they ate.

  Remembering her mother’s last conversation about forgetting to pay bills and failing her driving test, Jennifer asked.
“Have you noticed anything different about her in the last six months?”

  “I see changes in all my older regular customers as the years roll by,” Chelsea volunteered.

  “Like?”

  “This goes beyond obvious changes like adding wrinkles and liver spots or walking stooped over or developing gnarled hands. Their new main topics are forgetfulness and medical problems—arthritis, pains in hips, backs, knees, recent surgeries or those coming up, medicines they take, and so on.”

  Jennifer chuckled. “I hear that from friends my age in their sixties.”

  “…and their personal care starts to deteriorate—they bathe less because they forget or it’s too much trouble. They forget to brush their teeth, so bad breath. Whew! Makeup works two ways: some older women forget it entirely and others apply it brighter and thicker than ever because of failing eyesight.”

  Jennifer shared one of her mother’s problems. “Or bathroom bulbs burn out and they can’t climb up to put in new ones. Their makeup looks fine in the pale indoor light but garish in the sunshine.”

  Chelsea nodded. “And then there’s nutrition. They eat less because buying and cooking food is a hassle, or their appetites change or they just forget. Medicines affect the condition of hair and skin and nails. Aging can change hair texture as blood flow to the scalp decreases. Stress or worry can also impact hair’s condition...”

  Goodwin grinned, “You mean like that old phrase, ‘he was so scared his hair turned white overnight.’”

  “Believe me, as a beautician I see effects of strain in hair health and color.”

  Jennifer probed further. “What else do you notice?”

  “Well, eyesight, if they don’t get new glasses. Hearing loss is another biggie. When they can’t hear, they’re uncomfortable around other people. Even if they use hearing aids, they forget the regular audio check-ups or haven’t the energy to go. Deafness means isolation, even in a crowd. I have one old client who avoids group activities because she hears nothing and feels left out. Now she’s a hermit except for her Meals-On-Wheels delivery person and her faithful weekly trips to the beauty shop.

  Goodwin chuckled. “So who’s she prettying up for at your shop?”

  Chelsea sighed. “I guess for herself. She’s all she has left. Actually, this is a good sign for an older person, meaning she hasn’t stopped caring about her appearance.”

  They ate silently, thinking this over. Jennifer pushed her empty salad bowl aside. “So if you see older clients develop problems needing attention, what do you do?”

  “What can I do? I don’t want to make them or their families angry by interfering. But I make suggestions; maybe tell a near-deaf client about another customer who said her hearing aid check-up opened her up to the world of sound again. Or maybe ask a client in pain if she’s heard of a certain doctor who helped another client with a similar complaint. But believe it or not, some older people don’t want to go to doctors at all. They don’t want bad news or long hours in the waiting room or finding transportation to get there.”

  The detective gestured with his fork. “If a problem looks serious, could you call an older client’s relative?”

  “Before your mother left this last time, I asked her for your phone number. As the man and woman hustled her out, she called back over her shoulder that she’d give it to me next time. But there wasn’t a next time. And here’s something sad I see: some seniors aren’t close to their children to begin with. Or if they are, they don’t want to bother them because they’re busy with fulltime jobs or young kids. Those seniors don’t want to be a burden to their children.”

  Goodwin set down his soda. “Yeah, independent seniors don’t like to admit they’re floundering. But they do flounder, right into county hands where police or social services reel them in.”

  “And children like me who live in another state think our weekly phone calls prove our parents are okay. But, as you say, they may sugar-coat what’s really happening.”

  “Exactly.” Chelsea stirred her coffee. “My older men regulars come to the shop about once a month, but my older ladies come every week. I see them oftener than their doctors or dentists or their grown children. I see them fifty-two times a year. Some of them feel like family to me. If they reveal they’ve had car accidents or failed driver tests, I worry about them and everybody on the road with them.”

  “With Naples’ large senior population, this shouldn’t surprise us,” Jennifer admitted. “But it should make us a lot warier on the road.”

  Goodwin picked up on this. “Yeah, the sunny climate and beaches lure them to vacation in Florida and when it’s time to retire, they sell the place up north, move here and get old. Causes police all kinds of headaches.”

  “Such as…” Jennifer encouraged.

  He nodded toward Chelsea. “Like you said, such as driving with no license or causing accidents. Their vision and hearing aren’t so good any more so they’re less alert and may not even see traffic signs, never mind obey them. Delayed reflexes add to the problem, and sometimes the aging process shrinks them so they can hardly see over the wheel.”

  They all laughed at that familiar sight.

  “And that’s only their driving. Elder scamming and fraud are another big problem,” he added. “A perp’s ideal patsy is an older woman alone—a widow; and since women outlive men, there are plenty around. These senior ladies trust what they hear and expect the best in people, not realizing scam artists deliberately target them for easy fleecing. Like your mother…”

  Jennifer nodded soberly. “Back in Virginia, Fairfax County has a “50+” program with scam prevention alerts. But seniors live in every state, so this must be a nationwide problem. ”

  The detective noticed they’d finished dinner. He dropped his napkin beside his plate. “I could tell you plenty of stories about criminal exploitation of older folks.”

  “Like?”

  “Like identity theft, telemarketing fraud, mail fraud, internet fraud, home improvement fraud, mortgage fraud, investment fraud, caregiver fraud.” He laughed. “A new one is an IRS phone scam telling victims they owe money for unpaid taxes and are threatened with arrest if payment isn’t made right away through a wire transfer. If they don’t cooperate, the caller gets nasty and threatens them.”

  Chelsea frowned. “Are you serious?”

  “You bet. The real IRS never demands payment over the phone or asks for credit card numbers, but many seniors are fuzzy about their taxes, and arrest threats alarm anybody. They think sending a payment will make the problem disappear. Taken together, crimes targeting seniors make a serious problem for police.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “I didn’t realize this—until today.”

  “Yeah, and the newest one is the virtual kidnapping scam.”

  “The what?”

  “Virtual kidnapping. The scammer calls saying a family member’s been taken hostage and tries to convince a parent or grandparent of the abduction by having a fake victim scream for help in the background. If the scammed person won’t pay the ransom, they say the kidnapped victim will be maimed or killed. A variation is saying a family member has been hurt in a car accident with a gang member, who won’t allow medical care until he’s paid for damage to his vehicle. The scammer says he’ll stay on the phone until money is wire transferred using Western Union. They keep you on the line preventing you from calling or locating the supposed kidnapped victim.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “People fall for that?”

  “They do, older folks particularly.” Goodwin gestured toward Jennifer. “Then you have all the home improvement scams. Some of the perps we call gypsies, who travel up and down the east coast bilking homeowners out of their money. Others we call woodchucks—they’re the homegrown opportunists. You just had a mean taste of a scam with your mother. As these combined older generation problems increase, they become a national issue affecting us all.”

  Jennifer and Chelsea stared at Goodwin, trying to process this unsettl
ing information.

  CHAPTER 13

  Finally, Jennifer glanced at the diner’s wall clock and counted out some cash. “This should cover mine with tip. Sorry, but I need to get back to ICU. You two stay and make your sketch-artist plans. Chelsea, let’s trade cellphone numbers.” They did.

  “Do you have far to go?” Goodwin asked Chelsea.

  “No, only a couple of miles.” She sighed. “I’m returning to an empty house now that my daughter and grandchild moved out for good.”

  “Be sure to lock your doors at night.”

  “Thanks, Deputy. Spoken like a good cop.”

  Goodwin turned to Jennifer, “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, after we finish our crime scene pictures, we need a list of what’s stolen from your mother’s house and you’ll want to get your own snapshots of the damage for your insurance company. Also, I need your mother’s statement the minute she’s able to talk at the hospital, so please let me know when she wakes up. Do you still have my card?”

  Jennifer fumbled through her purse. “It’s probably here, but…”

  He handed her another. “…Just in case.”

  Jennifer hurried to her car. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the hospital parking lot. Upstairs at the ICU desk she spoke to the nurse. “Is my mother, Frances Ryerson, in the same place?”

  Caught mid-phone conversation, the nurse nodded and Jennifer threaded her way back among the curtained stalls. But as she approached, she saw activity in the room and heard several voices. What did it mean? She ran the rest of the way and slipped inside to find three nurses working on her mother.

  “What…what’s going on?” Jennifer demanded.

  “She, ah…she had a bout with hypotension, but we think it’s under control. She seems okay now. See, she’s resting comfortably again,” one nurse added after the rest left.