Family Jewels

Chapter 12

So what did I learn from the search?

I now knew that Roger Cassidy had the largest collection of big boob magazines on the planet — dating back to when the big boobs of yesteryear had yet to be dwarfed by their silicone sisters. Harriet and Wiggie had separate bedrooms (surprise, surprise). He slept on a twin bed while she reserved the queen sized bed for her own pencil-like form. Beth Mary had the second biggest big boob magazine collection on the planet — though hers wasn’t as neatly stacked as Roger’s.

Vanessa Trueman’s place was neat at a pin, while Quinn Foster hadn’t done the dishes in a week (which is two days longer than my record, thank you very much). Big Eddie had piles of underwear — literally. Boxers. And about two weeks worth of laundry undone. He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by his slob state. Laughed it off. Happy as a clam the whole time Deputy Almond and the others searched his place.

Many of the residents seemed to swear by Bengay. There were too many litter boxes around for a residence that was supposed to be pet free. Six out of ten people really do not make their beds up before leaving the house in the mornings (I would have guessed higher), and hotel-stolen ashtrays are the norm rather than the exception.

Yes, through Dylan, I learned all the above and more (in many cases TMI) about the Wildoh residents.

Oh, and I also found out that Mona Roberts slept on the floor in a sleeping bag in an empty room. No furniture. Nothing in the closets. Just a few meager belongings spilling out of one old suitcase on the floor.

And of everything Dylan told me, this latter fact surprised me the most. While Tish McQueen enjoyed the big double bed in Mona’s master bedroom, Mona slept on a sleeping bag on the floor in the one unfurnished spare rooms. Mona’s cupboards were all but empty, her cookie-jar money stash (all old folks have one — it’s the law or something) consisted of three bucks in Canadian change.

But despite all these interesting discoveries, there was no sign of any of the jewels gone missing. Nothing. Nada. I’d figured that the items stolen earlier would be long gone by now, but I’d have thought Roger Cassidy’s recently stolen broach would turn up. It hadn’t even been 24 hours! According to the notes taken by Officer North, with all the commotion, no one had been off the complex in that time frame. No one except for … FUCK!

Katt Dodd, of course.

Me, Mrs. Jane Presley and Katt Dodd.

This trip just kept getting lovelier by the minute.

Actually Mrs. P just laughed off Deputy Almond’s suggestion that she was in cahoots with my mother. We’re talking knee-slapping laughter. She laughed all the harder when he later tried to turn on the charm. Mrs. Presley was driving Almond nuts (no pun intended). But I have yet to see something or someone that Mrs. P is afraid of. Or someone who could sweet talk her. Not after all those years of running a no-tell motel like the Underhill.

And though I wasn’t worried about Almond’s accusations about me (and the prick wouldn’t dare try to sweet talk me after the other night), well, I was getting more pissed off by the minute.

“Happy now, Dix Dodd?” the king of polyester pants asked me when the search of the premises had been completed.

I didn’t answer Big Eddie. If he was looking for an apologetic mumble, a sheepish hanging of the head, he was barking up the wrong goddamn tree.

Fact was, I was not happy. But nor was I convinced of Eddie’s innocence. In fact, more and more my intuition tingled. I just knew somehow Big Eddie Baskin was connected to all this. But how? If he’d not left the complex in weeks (and why the hell not?), and the jewels truly weren’t to be found on the premises, then where were they?

“Maybe you should stick to writing those dirty books and let the men-folk handle the investigations?” Noel Almond suggested helpfully.

The suggestion stung all the more because Deputy No Nuts knew I was no writer of books, dirty or otherwise. I was a PI, dammit, and at least as good at my job as the ‘men-folk’. But to protest would be to blow my cover, and I wasn’t ready to do that yet. So I bit my tongue and said nothing. And bit it. And bit it some more. God, the man infuriated me!

I was also genuinely worried that no evidence had turned up in connection with the missing jewelry. But too, on this Wildoh search, I thought some sign of Frankie Morrell might show up.

A snapshot.

A piece of clothing.

Another blue-haired hooker, lounging on a sofa.

A lily pad with identifying evidence.

Of course, Mom had her little green heart-shaped evidence still in the freezer. Yes, she was still sure that had been Frankie’s way of trying to win her back.

But as far as hard (okay, remotely believable) evidence as to the whereabouts of Frankie Morell … that would come later.

Oh boy, did it ever.

~*~

That afternoon, Mrs. Presley thought she’d get some Florida sunshine. There was no golf this afternoon (guess Big Eddie exhausted his balls the day before and it wasn’t Lance-a-Lot’s day), so she pretty much had her pick of the lounge chairs outside the rec center, and that was where she was headed. No, Mrs. P wasn’t the most welcome guest at the Wildoh. Everyone associated her with Katt Dodd. Hell, half of the Wildoh residents thought she was the head of some Ontario granny jewelry fencing ring, and the other half thought she was the mistress of a mafia kingpin, ready to make one call and they’d all have horse heads in their beds by morning if they pissed her off any more. Mrs. P really shouldn’t have told them that.

So in her oversized Hawaiian top, below the knee shorts and sombrero that shaded every square inch of her small body, Mrs. P set off. Despite all the goings on, I think she was having a good time in Florida. She’d never complain, of course. And I was damned determined to get her to at least one of those monster bingo games she so wanted to attend. She certainly knew the severity of the situation. But it didn’t worry her. “Ah, you’ll get it figured out Dix,” she said as she headed for the door.

“I don’t get it,” I told her. “It feels like it should be Big Eddie. My intuition … Mrs. P, it’s jumping all over Big Eddie.”

“Maybe it’s hormones,” she suggested. “Maybe they’re causing you to not see straight. Woman your age … wouldn’t be the first time hormones sent things out of whack.”

Anyone else I would have whacked.

I thanked her from my seated position on the couch. Tossed out a two-thumbs up.

But truthfully, I was getting worried about this case. And as she set out the door, I tucked my arms around myself and let my smile fade. I was missing something. But what? Big Eddie was too damned cocky to not be guilty. Too damned smug about the whole thing. But without evidence….

“Cupcake, Dix?”

I only realized how very deep in thought I was when Mom’s words jolted me back to the present. I scooted my feet off the couch and she sat down beside me, sighing as she did. Mother had been in the kitchen baking, and before me now sat a tray of chocolate cupcakes, with inch high frosting.

Well, they wouldn’t be sitting there for long.

Oh God, they were good. Rich. Sweet. Decadent.

But in the time it took me to scarf down two of the chocolate delights, she’d barely picked the paper off hers. (This is a reflection on her mood and lack of appetite rather than my gluttony and love of all things chocolate. Yeah, we’ll go with that.)

“I got an email from Peaches Marie,” Mother said.

“Is she having a good time?”

“Yes,” she said, brightening a bit. “She and Rosemary were just heading up to the Shetland Islands. I like Rosemary. She’s good for Peaches Marie. Gets her to lighten up a bit, you know.”

Lighten up? My barefoot, vegan, sister with a penchant for yoga positions that make my bones creak just thinking about them, needed to lighten up? If Peaches Marie got any lighter, she’d float away.

And if Mom thought my sister was tightly wound, I’d hate to think what she thought of me.

“Did you tell her about everything going on here?” Though I tried to make it sound casual, I had to ask.

“No.” Mother sighed. “Why worry her yet? Let her enjoy the trip. Let her have a good time while she still can. Before….” It wasn’t quite a sob that ended her sentence, but as close to sob as I’d heard from my mother in a long, long time.

I did not like that all-hope-abandoned resignation in my mother’s voice. She was giving up. Mother reached over beside her on the couch, and pulled a rose-colored, knitted afghan over her knees.

She wrapped it around her legs and ran her hand over the rough pattern. “I wonder if I could make one of these,” she mused. “I wonder … I wonder if they let a person knit in jail. You know … they might not with the long-pointy needles and all.”

I set my cupcake down. “Mom,” I said. “There is no way in hell—”

“I’m an old fool, Dix,” she said. “Noel Almond is out to get me. And I know that he will.”

“But you’re innocent.”

She huffed. “I know this. You know this. Jane Presley … Mona Roberts. That’s a tally of four in my corner.”

“Pretty good number.”

She tried to smile. “Dix, I didn’t steal any jewels. No matter how bad things got, I’d never steal from anyone, let alone my friends. Times have been hard lately and I’ve had to sell off the rights to some of Peter’s old songs.” She looked at me sheepishly.

“You did?” Of course, I already knew this, courtesy of Dylan’s digging, but I feigned surprise. “Mother, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell your sister either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It wasn’t.”

Of course it was.

“Dix, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve enough on your mind with your growing business. I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re my mother, you’re never a bother. We’re—”

“We’re family,” she finished for me. “And I’ve done my best by both you girls. But I never wanted to burden you with any of it. Not when your father was sick. And certainly not now.”

It was true. She’d been the one. It was only when I was grown up that I realized the sacrifices she must have made. The tears she’d hidden. The times when there was barely anything to hold on to — Katt Dodd had held on. For us. For my father. For herself.

She didn’t deserve this shit now. She didn’t deserve to be framed for these crimes. And she didn’t deserve a daughter complaining about her wildness. About her going out and whooping it up in her latter years after all she’d done for us. Now some asshole was quite willing to let my mother spend her golden years behind bars for crimes she hadn’t committed.

Damn that Eddie Baskin. I’d find the truth of this matter if it was the last thing I did.

“I’ll figure this out, Mom,” I said.

I got up and marched off to the kitchen.

“There’s more cupcakes on the counter, Dix.”

God, did the woman know me or what?

But I wasn’t after more cupcakes. I got two tall glasses and ice from the freezer. And lastly I grabbed two cans of Mountain Dew from beneath the cupboard.

Mother’s eyes widened then misted when she saw me carrying them back.

I sat down on the sofa again — beside her, yes, but closer somehow.

“I’m … I’m scared, Dix.”

“I know.” The pop cans clicked as I pulled back the tabs and fizzed the contents into the tall glasses. “Remember when you promised me you’d never tell anyone what my real name was?”

She nodded emphatically. “And I never did.”

“I never doubted. Because you promised me you wouldn’t.”

She smiled. “If I recall correctly, it was more than a promise. It was a pinkie swear.”

“It was a pinkie swear over Mountain Dew and cupcakes,” I said. “That makes it iron clad.”

We linked our pinkie fingers together.

“Mom, I promise you, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

She blinked rapidly. “Thank you, Dix. I have faith in you.”

~*~

I spent the rest of that day like a woman possessed. It was one of those hot-as-hell, muggy Florida days. Sweat rolled off me, refusing to evaporate in the hideous humidity, and I kept the water bottle filled. I talked to all the Wildoh residents who would talk to me. None of them yet knew that I was a private investigator. They still thought I was the not-too-bright, erotica-writing daughter of Katt Dodd. So although they talked to me with hostility, it wasn’t guarded hostility.

Except Big Eddie. He wasn’t the least bit hostile. The fucker was still just a grinning. I knew he was the culprit. He didn’t seem to care. Smug son of a bitch.

I snooped around every complex, watched the comings and goings of everyone that I could. One of those people coming and going was Dylan, going about his security/maintenance duties. He nodded at me politely each time we passed, me on my overt fact-finding mission and he on his covert one.

I charted. I plotted. I drew little stick figures and great big question marks, as I tried to tie each and every individual into Big Eddie Baskin.

I thought about motive.

I considered money.

I pondered access.

And I had no doubt Dylan was doing the same.

And why was I looking for connections to Big Eddie? Because he had to have had an accomplice, that’s why. Someone had to be working with him to get the jewels off the property.

And I didn’t like how these lines of thought looped and led.

That evening Mother was almost her old self again. Apparently the pinkie swear promise was all she needed to buoy her spirits. She insisted we all ‘doll up’ and head out for a night on the town.

I did the DD (designated driver, not Dix Dodd) while out with Mom and Mrs. P But I enjoyed a nice, cold glass of wine when I got home. And only as I relaxed and sipped, did I realize how tired I was. Pooped. Beat.

And I slept like the dead. I didn’t stir until the next day, when I awakened to my mother screaming and pointing a shaking finger to the empty wall safe.