by Peggy Webb
“Snake Eyes, ask the broads where he is?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m driving, knucklehead!”
“All right, you broads!” Snake Eyes snarls. “Where’s George?”
“George, who?” Ruby Nell says.
“Don’t get cute with me, Blondie. You know who. That man you been cavorting with on the beach.”
I wouldn’t call dragging around a dead man cavorting, but I guess it could look that way from a distance, especially if you were inside a car and you didn’t have your binoculars.
Fayrene opened her mouth, but Ruby Nell poked her in the ribs and she closed it like a fish.
“Oh, George.” Ruby Nell laughed like she knew some private joke. “He went fishing.”
Snake Eyes exploded. “Fishing, the dame says!”
They didn’t buy it. When they turned around and headed in the direction of the cottage I knew we were in the hands of somebody who wanted George dead.
The only thing that might save our hides is for them to think George is alive, and we know his whereabouts. The other, of course, is those life-like latex masks they’re wearing. As long as we don’t see their faces, we might stand a chance.
Hunkered down now behind an industrial sized garbage can in the bowels of the Crusty Sea Dog, I listen in on the kidnappers, who are standing over their latest victims, checking to be sure the ropes will hold.
“The boss man ain’t gonna like this,” Snake Eyes says.
“What else are we going to do? These two silly broads know where George is and until they start talking, we keep ‘em here.”
I wait until the two thugs leave before I stroll out to save the day. Unfortunately, Ruby Nell and Fayrene are gagged and can’t even say, thank you, thank you very much.
Chapter 8
Clues, Disguises and Foolish Missions
Thank goodness Mama brought her laptop to the coast. And thank goodness whoever ransacked the house didn’t find it. And no wonder. Mama never puts anything where it ought to be. Instead of being in the nice office tote Jack and I gave her last Christmas, the computer is rolled up in two of her caftans and stuffed into the bottom of the bag where she keeps her dirty laundry.
“Look what I found, Lovie.”
She beseeches the heavens with a few choice words. Or maybe she’s directing her comments in the other direction.
“Who’d put it there except Aunt Ruby Nell?”
“Who’d find it except her daughter?” Who knows her like a book. A fairy tale book, where everything is fanciful. Or maybe a playbook for how to land in the looney bin, which is sometimes where I think I’ll end up if Mama doesn’t settle gracefully into her golden years and quit trying to give me gray hair.
I part my way through the upheaval the kidnappers have made of this cottage then put the cushions back on the sofa so I’ll have a place to sit down. Thank goodness, the battery is charged, the laptop powers right up and I know Mama’s password.
Lovie plops down beside me. “What are you looking for?”
“Anything I can find on George Ransom.”
“He’s a no good skirt chaser and an all-around low life.”
“We already know that, Lovie. I’m looking for something that might lead us to whoever took my mama and my dog.”
His Facebook page is filled with self-important ramblings about the great dishes he’s made as one of the greatest chefs in the southeastern states. Ditto, his Twitter account.
“Add big fat liar to his resume,” Lovie says as she reads over my shoulder.
His profiles all over the internet list married as his status and Baptist as his religion. Golf and tennis as his hobbies. He sounds like a regular Boy Scout.
“Shoot, golf and tennis won’t get you killed.”
I’m doing another Google search when Lovie yells, “Wait just a cotton picking minute!” She whips out her cell phone, and while my head is still whirling she transforms from my mostly stable cousin into a purring, preening femme fatale right before my eyes.
“It’s me, sugar lumps! Don’t you remember little old me?”
I roll my eyes and whisper, “Rocky?” though I know good and well she’s not talking to Rocky Malone that way. He has too much common sense to fall for her antics. And she’d never risk losing his respect by acting like a one-woman seduction machine in front of him.
Lovie makes shushing motions with her left hand and goes right on vamping whoever is on the other end of the line. Telling myself the ends justify the means, I make one more circuit through the beachside rental to see if I can discover any more clues to Mama’s and Fayrene’s whereabouts.
I’m well aware that this is probably a crime scene and I’m contaminating the evidence. I’m also aware that Jack Jones won’t like this one little bit. He’s truly a black panther where I’m concerned. He’d eviscerate anybody he thought was out to do me harm. If I let on to him about every iffy thing I do – most of it involving Lovie – he’d post Britt and Holmes to watch after me twenty-four/seven.
Except for the utter upheaval, I can’t find anything else in the cottage that looks like a clue. Lovie’s still on the phone, speaking a kind of seduction short hand that I don’t even want to know.
I head outside to look around. Nothing in the driveway. I glance up and spot the perfect place to park if you were spying on Mama and Fayrene and didn’t want to get caught.
There’s an enormous overhanging live oak that partially obscures a small parking lot across the street. For visitors to the cabins, I’m guessing.
Or two night prowlers up to no good. You could sit here in your car and act like you were discussing the weather while you waited for a cousin to come out of one of the cottages and join you for dinner. Or waited your chance to break and enter.
I immediately spot something on the ground that doesn’t belong there. Call it intuition. Call it smart. Call it great detective work. But I’m holding a matchbook from a riverboat casino, the Crusty Sea Dog. And every psychic bone I have is screaming that it belongs to whoever tried to break-in on Mama and then kidnapped her along with Fayrene and Elvis.
I’m careful to hold it by the edges as I race back to the cottage and find a plastic bag to preserve what might be a crucial piece of evidence.
Lovie is now standing beside the door to the back porch, just finishing up her phone conversation.
“Thanks, hot pants,” she says. “See you around.”
“Hot pants?”
Lovie pockets her phone. “Smart mouth.”
“Who the devil was that?”
“Just a guy I used to see once in a while.”
“Before Rocky?”
“Does it matter?”
“You know it does. I’m not kidding here, Lovie.”
“All right. Yes, before Rocky.”
“Good.”
“Don’t you want to know what I found out?”
It can’t be useful, unless the man she called makes his living as a genuine psychic, and he’s just taught Lovie how to reach out and read Mama’s mind.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What did you learn?”
“He’s a detective. And I sweet talked him into pulling up a rap sheet on George Ransom.”
“A rap sheet?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” Lovie says a string of unholy words. “For Pete’s sake, Cal, you sound like a parrot.”
“Okay, okay. I admit it. Mama’s missing and I’m coming unraveled.”
“Look no further. George was into some nasty stuff. Two arrests for betting on illegal dog fights.”
“That’s the lowest of the low! Anybody who would put poor dogs into an arena to kill each other ought to be shot. Same for anybody who bets on the fights. I’d shoot him myself if he weren’t already dead.”
“But that’s not all. George was into heavy gambling wherever he could find it. He got busted in a raid three times along with some of the pros who put on high stakes games in secret back rooms.”
“Any names?”
“Several. Snake Eyes Nelson. Tulip LeGrange.”
“Tulip? How dangerous can that be?”
“My thoughts exactly. Here are the biggies, though, Jim Diamond Powell and Luther Mad Dog Murphy.”
I can’t get back to the laptop fast enough.
“Bingo. Look at this Lovie.” I’ve pulled up a big article about the grand opening of the Crusty Sea Dog, owned by none other than Jim Powell, without the Diamond. And the casino is in Biloxi. “Remember that note Tootie found?”
“Don’t think about leaving town. We’ve got a score to settle.”
“Exactly! What if George was up to his ears in gambling debt and owed money to the wrong people so they tried to settle the score by knocking him off?”
“But Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene made it look as if they hadn’t succeeded.”
“So they kidnapped Mama in order to find our where George is!”
“What do you know, Sherlock? I think we’re on to something. Still, murder and kidnapping are serious business. Maybe we ought to call Daddy.”
“And pull him off the murder investigation only to have Mama come strolling in from some wild goose chase? I don’t think so.” I stow Mama’s laptop back in her laundry bag then grab my purse. “Come on, Lovie. We’re going to the Crusty Sea Dog.”
“You think that’s where they’ve taken Aunt Ruby Nell and Fayrene?”
“If I were a betting woman I’d place a million dollars on it.” I pull the plastic bag out of my pocket and show Lovie the matchbook. She lets out a whoop. “Even better, it’s walking distance from here, Lovie. Only two miles.”
“I’m not walking two miles on these sweet puppies. I’ve been on them all day as it is, and I’m not into self-inflicted torture. Besides, we can’t just barge in there and start asking around.”
I give her this look, and she says, “Oh no, you don’t.”
“Oh yes, I do! Come on. We’re wasting time.”
“I know what’s going around in that head of yours, Cal, and I can tell you here and now, I’m not wearing a mustache.”
I just give her another look then head straight to Mama’s pink Cadillac. Lovie’s already loping around to the driver’s side. This is what’s so great about my cousin. We’ve been doing everything together for so long, we can almost read each other’s minds.
Here’s what mine is telling her even as I climb into the passenger seat. Given the choice of arriving at the Crusty Sea Dog in Lovie’s catering van with the logo on the side, a dead giveaway for us, we opt for the caddy. Who knows? Gambling brings out all kinds of crazy. We might even find a parking lot filled with flashy cars. We might blend right in.
First stop for us is the Biloxi Hotel and Convention Center.
“Keep your eyes peeled for Jack. If he sees me, he’ll know exactly what I’m up to.”
“Two o’clock.” I’m about to wonder why she’s telling the time when I spot the ever delicious-looking object of my affection getting off the elevator. Suddenly, Jack stands there like he’s connected to me by sonar. Lovie jerks me behind a potted plant, and none too soon. Jack’s turned to stare in this direction.
“Don’t come over, don’t come over here.” Sweat is pouring down my face, and I sound like Fayrene chanting her grocery list/mantra.
“He’s heading in the other direction.”
“Thank goodness.” Still, we duck from potted palm to potted palm. That man has eyes in the back of his head. I’m not about to expose myself in that long, open stretch to the elevator.
I reach from behind the potted palm with my long arm and punch the button. When the doors slide open, we duck inside and I punch Mezzanine.
“What are you doing?” Lovie looks like she could bite ten penny nails in half.
“You’ll see.”
When the door swings open again, I grab Lovie’s arm and scuttle down a darkened hallway. Thank goodness, Lovie asks no more questions. We’ve been on many a clandestine mission together, and she knows the value of stealth.
“Here it is.”
“This is the staff room, Cal.”
“I know.” I push the door open, prepared to give a charming little speech about being lost. “Coast is clear.”
We enter a spacious room with several tables and chairs, a small refrigerator and a large coffee maker. A line of dressing cubicles with cubby holes are along the south wall. Hanging in each slot, I see exactly what I’m looking for. Lovely, lovely uniforms. Fabulous disguises.
“Just grab whatever is your size, Lovie.” She jerks up a maid’s uniform that’s two sizes too small for her. I can tell by looking. “Not that. That’s too much like you.” I nab an oversized jumpsuit, probably from the maintenance. “This.”
“Ugly as sin.”
“I know.” I nab one for myself, as well, and two caps plus a tool box. “Let’s get out of here before we get caught.”
“Best idea you’ve had all day.”
We hide the uniforms in Lovie’s big, big glorious tote but there’s no way to hide the tool box.
“How are you going to explain that?” Lovie says.
“I hope I don’t have to.”
We get back into the elevators with Lovie hanging onto her bulging bag and looking guilty as sin and me trying to act nonchalant. Just our luck, Melinda races toward the elevator and slides inside right before the doors shut.
“Big day shopping?” she asks, and I can just hear Lovie thinking. Nosy heifer.
“The best,” I channel Mama.
“Oh, I know the feeling. Nothing does me more good than loading up Jeff’s credit card.” Melinda eyes my tool box. “What on earth is that?”
“Birthday gift. For my husband. It’s too cumbersome for a bag.”
“It looks…old. Where on earth did you find it?”
If she asks any more questions, I’m liable to bop her with the tool box.
“Antique shop,” Lovie says, and I feel rescued.
Melinda allows me the reprieve for all of two seconds and then her eyebrows lift right into her hair.
“Oh, really? I went all up and down the strip and didn’t see one.”
Holy cow! She’s as close to death by hair stylist as she’ll ever come.
“There’s the cutest little antique shop about ten miles out of town.” I smile through my gritted teeth. “You ought to see it! They have everything. Wedding dresses, horse collars, ten penny nails, cast iron skillets, lamps, tables.” This is the slowest elevator in the world. I’m running out of merchandise and patience, too. Melinda opens her mouth. Another foolish question, no doubt, and I barrel on with the names of all the china I didn’t see in the antique shop that doesn’t exist.
Six years and three gray hairs later, the elevator stops.
“My floor!” Melinda uses that overly cheerful voice of people who are trying too hard to be your best buddy.
I can picture her giving us the third degree all the way to our rooms.
“Bye, Melinda,” I say.
“I thought this was your floor, too.”
“It is, but Lovie, and I are going to view the Gulf from the restaurant on the top floor.”
“I didn’t know it was open this early.” Melinda’s got me there.
“It’s not,” Lovie says, just as smooth as ice cream. “I know the chef. We’re going up for a private tour from him.”
Melinda stands in the hallway staring at us till the door closes.
“What was that all about?” I punch the button to the top floor.
“She probably noticed you’re just now punching the button. Plus, she’s a nosy.” As the elevator rises Lovie uses a string of descriptive terms Webster never thought of. “What a waste of time. I hope that heifer is watching.”
The door swings open on the top floor. Thank goodness, nobody gets on.
“I hope we don’t encounter Jack going back down.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to sweet talk your way ou
t of trouble.”
Lovie presses the button and we ride back down without further interruption. We high-five and then race to our room to get into disguise for the Crusty Sea Dog.
Chapter 9
Mustaches, Weapons and Fort Knox
We’re in borrowed coveralls with our hair crammed under baseball caps, and we’re skulking down the stairs hoping to lower the risk of running into anybody, especially somebody we know. My cousin wanted to take her baseball bat, but I told her it wouldn’t work with her disguise.
“Lovie, you look good in that mustache.”
She destroys her hopes of the hereafter with her language, but she’s wearing this satisfied smirk she always gets when we’re heading for trouble.
“So do you, Cal. What I want to know is why on earth you travel with fake mustaches? Are you and Jack into kinky stuff?’
“I ought to punch you. No. I keep toupees and wigs in my beauty kit, too. You never know who’s going to need an emergency makeover at conventions like this.”
“Who’d need toupees and mustaches?”
“Old geezers trying to look young.”
We finally reach the bottom of the stairs and hurry out the side door to Mama’s ostentatious car. Lovie slides behind the wheel, and after three tries, gets the top up, which just goes to prove how smart she is. You’d never expect to see two janitors riding around in a big pink convertible. Brand new, at that. The top will give us some protection from prying eyes.
Just as I suspected, the parking lot at the waterfront casino is filled with snazzy cars that make Mama’s pink Cadillac convertible blend right in. We are just about to bail out of the car when a tour bus drives in and a large group of tourists pile out. Lovie and I hunker low till they are all inside the casino.
“Quick, Lovie. Now’s our chance.” I hang onto the hope that I’ll find Mama inside, sassy as ever. I refuse to let myself think of the alternative.
We make a fast exit and put some distance between us and the flashy car then stride toward the huge riverboat casino and hotel as if it’s about to sink at any minute and we are the only hope of survival. Nobody pays us any attention, which is exactly what I’d counted on.
