Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

Chapter 3

You’d think after such a long drive, I’d have slept like a log once I’d finally showered, put my PJs on (baggy t-shirt and boxers) and finally crashed on my mother’s pull out sofa in the living room. And, well, you’d be right. Holy shit, did I sleep!

Despite all the drama and tension, once I closed my eyes, I was out. I know that I snored. I know this because at least once during the night, Mrs. P came out and rolled me onto my side to get me to stop. The pullout wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but I’m a PI. I can sleep practically anywhere. Besides, the beautiful Florida night more than compensated for any shortcomings the bed might have had. I’d left the French doors open right up until bed time, and the breeze had blown right in through the screen. It was closed and locked now (both Mother and Mrs. P double-checked it, thank you), but I could still faintly hear the palm trees in the yard swaying and rocking me to sleep. And it was blessedly quiet compared to Marport City.

Mrs. P bunked in with Mom. She had a large double bed in her room, which she insisted Mrs. P take. And she herself slept on a small, foldout bed that we brought up from her storage locker in the basement. I know the two stayed up late talking. Before I turned out the lights, I could hear the giggling through the thin walls. Mother and Mrs. P were so very different, yet alike in many ways. Both widows who’d done a lot of the childrearing on their own. And both looking for fun in life now. Despite everything going on, Mom was determined to make Mrs. P’s visit to Florida enjoyable. As much as she frustrated me by times, I had to hand it to her. She did have this way of connecting with people, making everyone feel like they belonged.

Even me.

I did of course spend my pre-sleep hours going over (and over) everything mom had told me. The conversation hadn’t ended in the kitchen of course. One thing for sure, she was really smitten with Frankie Morell. Mom’s one tough lady, strong as they come, but she obviously had a soft spot for Frankie. She felt awful about him ‘hopping’ away in a huff. But she had to teach him a lesson. And she hadn’t expected him to hop off before she turned him back.

Yes, Mom really believed she’d turned him into a frog.

Now there was a vision for you — a geriatric frog waiting for a kiss to turn back into a prince. Good luck with that one, Frankie.

Why was mother doing this, though? Was she going senile?

True, she always attested to being ‘magic’ and with a conviction that made Peaches Marie and me believe it when we were younger. She could pull rabbits from hats and sneeze out flowers. She could make white milk into chocolate! And she always, always knew when we were lying. Or holding something back from her. Guess that’s where I got my own intuition. Of course, as we got older, we (or at least I) realized that kind of magic just didn’t exist in the world.

So, yeah, I was worried about mom. If she didn’t tell us what really happened to Frankie, she’d be in deep shit. But would her pride let her? She might have to admit he’d left her, or worse, left her holding the bag. If he’d stolen the jewels, taken off and left her to take the blame, this didn’t bode well for mother. I had to find Frankie. I had to find the jewels. Thus I had tossed and turned with these thoughts in my sleep, waking on the floor half under the pullout and half out (and not the sunny half), my pillow bunched tightly in the crook of an arm. Damn that REM sleep behavior disorder.

But when I did awake, it was to the smell of bacon, eggs and toast. Mrs. Presley was in her element whipping up breakfast. Mom was just getting in from her early-morning power walk, looking like a million bucks in her white tracksuit, hot pink sneakers, and flawless make up. And best of all — carrying a tray of coffees.

I had a funny feeling I’d be needing that caffeine today.

And, was I ever correct on that.

You see, yesterday had been golf lesson day. Big Eddie had taken the ladies out to help them improve their game. They’d shot balls into the lake. That meant today was lake-cleaning day. And mother assured me I wouldn’t want to miss that.

Personally, I had my doubts. I mean, come on! How boring could life be here?

~*~

“So tell me, Ms. Dodd….”

“Please, Mona dear, call her Dix. Just because she’s a rich and famous author doesn’t make her pretentious. Why, she’s very down to earth.”

I flashed my mother an I’m-right-here look that she chose to ignore.

We were sitting in the front room — the recreation room. And it was beautiful. The sun shone in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside flowers bloomed and trees hung lush and green. There were a few people strolling on the walkways over the lawns, and each one turned and waved. And the man-made lake was well within sight — less than forty or fifty yards from the rec room. Close enough that I could see the water’s surface was dotted at intervals with floating markers, distance indicators on a watery driving range. According to Mother, this was quite the popular spot, though she didn’t golf herself. At least I didn’t think she did. (Yes, yes, another stab of guilt.) There were lawn chairs out front, so that anyone could watch Big Eddie and his golf instructions. My first visual had been of swimmers getting whacked on the head with golf balls, but Mom had assured me that no one swam in the lake during driving practice. There were swim times (though everyone used the heated indoor pool instead), there were driving-range times, and there was the time when Lance, the pool boy slash diver guy (We call him Lance-a-lot … get it Dix? / Yes mother. Ha, ha. I get it. / No, I don’t think you do.) cleaned out the golf balls from the previous day’s session.

Mom sat there, practically purring as she introduced me, her erotica-writing daughter, to her Wildoh friends. I smiled through the introductions. Smiled so hard my jaw ached. I’d gone undercover in some pretty strange situations before, but I had to admit this was one of the weirdest.

When I first went into the P.I. business, I asked mom to keep things hush-hush about my career. True to her word, she had over the years evaded any and all questions as to her eldest daughter’s profession. So granted, when faced with the task of inventing a career for me, she’d probably had to think fast. But erotica writer?

Why couldn’t she have given me a normal career, like a doctor? God no, not a doctor! I’d be screwed if someone needed anything beyond a hangnail fixed.

Seamstress? Nah. Someone was bound to notice I fix my hems with staples.

Maybe mother could have told them I was Marport City’s finest orthodontist (finally realizing the dream of my buck-toothed high school guidance counselor, who wistfully urged everyone he ever counseled to become an orthodontist). That would have been perfect. I mean, how many seniors citizens have braces on their teeth? (Yikes, wouldn’t that look scary in that jar over night?)

At least Mother’s imagination had made me popular with the crowd at the Wildoh. Sought after, even.

“All right then, Dix,” Mona continued. “I know you do a lot of research for your books—”

“How do you know that?” Smile. Keep smiling.

“Why, that’s what your mother told me.”

Mother smiled at me adoringly. Molars crunched molars as I smiled back. Then I turned to address Mona again. Okay, Game on: “Well, you’re quite right. I do a great deal of research.” I crossed my legs and dangled/bobbed my left foot in the air. Don’t ask me why I dangled/bobbed. It just felt right for Dix Dodd, sex goddess writer woman. “Hours and hours of research.”

“Why don’t you tell us all about it?” Mrs. Presley said. “Every little detail.”

Collectively, everyone at the table leaned forward. I looked around at the eager and anxious faces. It was looking like Christmas Dinner at the Wildoh and I was in charge of the stuffing.

“Please do,” Tish McQueen invited, but her voice rang with a clear challenge. “I’m sure you could enlighten us all.”

That was just after she’d given another one of her looks toward my mother.

Yes, another one. I’d caught that transaction between these two women early. Tish was a stunningly beautiful woman, and though my mother is a pretty hot ticket herself, Tish had a hell of a figure for an old gal. Hell, she had a great figure for any gal. When she’d swooped into the common room, she’d looked like she was dolled up for dancing. High heels that would have killed me, tight Capri pants that would have killed themselves had they found their home on my ass, and a diaphanous blouse. She had earrings that dropped to her shoulders, bracelets that jangled every time she moved an arm. Tish’s make up was a little heavy for the bright lights of the common room, and by the yawns she tried to stifle, I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t been out dancing all night. She wore her silver blonde hair up, and she lifted a hand to touch it every so often. More than touch it … she readjusted pins and tucked in strands that had no business being out at this early hour of the day.

Tish might be rooming temporarily with Mom’s friend Mona, but I believed dear Mother was wrong on the automatic extension of loyalties there.

“Well … Tish, is it?” I flipped my hand with an I’m-too-important-to-care condescending wave to go along with the dig. I knew her name. That was snide of me, but what the hell. And too, I wanted to appear a bit on the flaky side. That’s more of a smart blonde trick than a private investigator trick. Let them underestimate you, when it suits your purpose (ideally, just before you nab them).

Tish McQueen didn’t miss a beat. “That’s right, it’s Tish. But don’t worry, dear. Lots of people start forgetting names when they get to be our age.” She raised her arms to re-stick a piece of hair — dipping her cleavage as she did. Holy shit! I know she did that on purpose to give me a gander, but … holy shit. I was never that well-endowed (and I had the fake boobs at the office to prove it). But more to the point, you’d think gravity would be more on my side than hers! Surgery? Pretty expensive endeavor….

“Please, Dix, do tell us about all the research,” Tish repeated.

She was one up on me. Maybe even on to me. Or potentially on to me. I’d better make this good. I searched my memory banks for all my personal expertise. Well, that was a quick little withdrawal. Then my mind flipped to Dylan. And I sat up a little straighter. True, we’d only been close-close that one time. And it hadn’t gone all that far. But the memories of lips on mine, his hands in my hair, his eyes on me, looking me over with a hunger that matched my own….

“Dix? Dix!” Mother’s voice snapped my attention.

“Oh! Sorry!” For some strange reason I caught myself waving a fanning hand to cool me off. “You ladies keep it warm in here.”

“Oh, that’s just you kicking into sexy writer mode,” Mona said. She laughed, but sincerely. With me, not at me. I did like Mona, and could see why she and Mom were such good friends. Mona seemed more down to earth than the rest of the Wildoh residents. Her clothes looked thrift store and her make up was nonexistent. Her shoes caught my attention. More than a little on the scuffed up side.

Yet Mona was a genuinely happy lady. That was obvious. At least, most of the time. But even I could feel the tension when Tish walked in the room. Friendship? Sure. Civility? Absolutely. But caution. There was just a tightening to Mona when Tish came along. Words came out a little too quickly, and gestures were made a little too hesitantly. Others might not notice that, but I was, after all, Dix Dodd, world famous erotica-writer … I mean, PI.

Beth Mary MacKenzie adjusted her teeth. (meaning she took them out, looked at them and put them back in again). Then she smiled her thousand dollar smile. “Do you watch videos, Dix? Those sexy ones? Do you interview lots of men? Good-looking ones I bet.” She was talking a mile a minute.

Beth Mary was an odd duck (and being the self-proclaimed queen of the odd duck brace, I know my odd ducks). Instantly, I liked her. She wore her gray hair long and braided down her back. She wore jeans and a plain white shirt that was two sizes too big, and I envied the comfort.

The other two people at the table were Harriet and Wiggie Appleton. In my entire life, I’d never seen anyone sit straighter than Harriet Appleton. And that line of her back was only rivaled by the perfect pleats in her skirt and the creases in her blouse. Man, this was no laundry-out-of-the-dryer chick. But it wasn’t just her appearance, Harriet gave new meaning to the phrase, stiff-upper-lip. It was one straight line across — thin and barely there.

Wiggie, her husband of 40 odd (and, oh, I can believe they were very odd) years, sat beside her. Not so stiffly. Wiggie slouched in his seat, and I would wager the mismatched tracksuit he wore had never seen an iron.

“I’m not so sure I want to hear about … any kind of research a pornography writer would be conducting.” Harriet sniffed the air in a I-know-who-farted manner.

“No one’s forcing you to stay, Harriet,” Mona said, pleasantly. “But this might be fun.”

She sniffed. “If you ask me, people are having a little too much fun around here.”

“Amen on that one!”

Good one, Mother.

Harriet didn’t think it was such a good one. “Humph!”

“I’d like to ask Frankie Morell just how much fun you’ve been having, Katt Dodd. Oh that’s right, he’s gone missing. How convenient.”

“Not convenient for me, Harriet,” Mother said. It unsettled her. I know that it did.

“Oh? And why is that now, Katt? Because you’re a suspect in his disappearance?”

It was official: I did not like Harriet Appleton.

Mother waved a dismissive hand, “No not that. It’s because I’m horny as hell and this kitty wants to purrrrr.”

Beth Mary’s teeth clacked just before her jaw dropped. Mona snorted a laugh. Tish nodded appreciatively. Mrs. Presley of course, laughed out loud. I was never so proud of my mother.

Harriet Appleton shook her head in disgust.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Wiggie smiled at me. Weakly and slyly, but his eyes sparkled as mother put Harriet in her place.

It was all I could do not to reach over the table and give mother a high five.

On that note, I was bound and determined to give the gals and Wiggie an earful of my best research. I just had to figure out what the hell that was.

“Well,” I said. “Research? Ah yes, research.” I tapped a finger to my temple as if thinking. Then I tapped it again. Once more for good luck….

Did I mention I was pathetic at stalling for time?

“Yes,” I finally said. “Of course I do a lot of research. A great deal of reading of the classics in erotic literature.” I tried to sound authoritative.

“What classics would that be?” Tish asked. She twirled a silver blond lock in her fingers. “I’m quite widely read. Actually, I used to work at a bookstore. Maybe I’ve heard of them.”

Damn, damn, damn. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a good book or two tucked under my mattress. But there was a reason certain pages were dog-eared. Those were the juicy parts. If I tired to elaborate on plot, I’d be screwed.

And not in the good way.

I’d have to make up some new titles.

“Oh you may not have heard of the modern classics.”

“Such as?”

“Yeah.” Mrs. P smiled. “Such as what?”

I couldn’t give her the kind of glare I wanted while staying in character, but I’m sure she interpreted my fierce smile appropriately.

“Well, what firstly comes to mind is the Syvanna Sly series. She’s a wonderful new author. Writes from a women’s point of view. Pure lust. Pure sex. They are hot!” I had to think fast, talk fast, and boy, was I winging it. “The series revolves around the sexual escapades of this middle-aged woman.”

“What’s her name?” Mom asked.

Not helping! Not helping!

“Daphne. Daphne Delicious.”

Okay, now I was just not helping myself.

I continued. “And she’s you know, middle-aged.”

“Got that. Go on.” Tish prodded.

Fine. I would. “So Daphne Delicious is busy in the world finding herself. In every way. She has a new career. Well, not really new. More … more like she finds more independence in her career these days. But she’s also finding a newfound sexuality. But here’s the kicker … she likes men, but she doesn’t exactly trust them. Not anymore. She was burned, burned badly before and be damned if that would happen again. Then into her life comes this young man. Tall. Handsome. Smart and sexy in a smart and sexy kind of way.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s Dyl … Dilson, Mrs. P. His name is Dilson.”

“Why, that’s an odd name.”

“Yes, it is.” Keep grinning.

“Is he handsome?”

“Yes, Tish, he’s drop dead gorgeous.”

“Does he work for you, Dix?” Mrs. P says. “Oh sorry, I mean does he work for Daphne Delicious?”

I gritted my teeth. “As a matter of fact, he does.”

“Yum. Does she do him?”

Mona swatted my mother. Playfully of course.

But I had to wonder myself….

“Well, she better!” A male voice boomed into the room. “Can’t tease a fellow like that forever, can you, now, ladies?”

Collectively, everyone turned.

Harriet drew herself even straighter and Wiggie gave a friendly wave. Mom smiled. Tish twirled her hair and Beth Mary stuck her fingers in her mouth to readjust her teeth.

“Hey ya, Big Eddie,” Mona called out.

“Hey ya, Mona.”

He came over and kissed her on the cheek. “There’s your birthday kiss!”

“Ah, Eddie,” she gushed. “You know my birthday’s not for three more days. You’ve been laying a kiss on me every day for the last two weeks.”

He winked. “Just practicing up for the real thing.”

He turned his attention to Beth Mary. “All set for our golf lesson, BM?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Eddie,” Beth Mary said. “I don’t seem to be making much progress. I’m just about ready to give up on those balls.”

“I’ve got just the thing then. We’ll use the lucky balls.”

Beth Mary smiled. “The orange ones?”

“The very same. I got a lucky orange one here, I’m warming up for you.” He rolled his hand around a golf ball in his deep pocket (God, I hoped he was rolling his hand around a golf ball deep in his pocket).

They had to be doctored or course. Weighted or some such thing to send them farther. And painted orange to distinguish them from the non-weighted balls. What the hell, wouldn’t hurt. And if Beth Mary thought they brought her luck, then maybe they did.

When he stood upright again, I got a full view of Big Eddie. All five foot two of him — in platform shoes. Wearing heavy socks. I half squinted my eyes as he moved closer. The sun reflecting off the several layers of chains around his neck was almost blinding. Okay, maybe not blinding, but the guy definitely had a thing for bling. The chains he wore were gold — well, gold in color. And he had more trinkets hanging from them as if he was wearing a charm bracelet around his neck. Four leaf clovers, medallions, the obligatory diamond-studded horseshoe. Or, I suspected, diamond-ish. One thing for certain, whoever was pinching the jewels at the Wildoh would not be hitting Big Eddie’s place any time soon.

Mother had told me Big Eddie lived in the staff quarters. Had his own tiny bachelor apartment in exchange for bi-weekly golf lessons and generally taking care of a few things around the Wildoh. Not all the employees had apartments on the premises, but Big Eddie was more than a golf instructor. He was kind of a social director at the Wildoh, from what I’d heard. This was Florida, and most staff were young and transient. But Big Eddie had been with the Wildoh for a while now.

“Who’s the little lady?”

I waited for someone to answer.

Oh me.

I extended my hand. Please just shake it. Please just shake it.

He wiped his hands on his pants, depositing the bit of white powder there that had to be from a sugar donut, held my dangling fingers a little too long in his damp grip, then pulled my hand forward and kissed it loudly.

“Dix Dodd,” I said, pulling my hand back and fighting like hell to keep from wiping it on my jeans. It wasn’t an Eddie thing. It was a slobber thing. “Pleased to meet you, Edward.”

“Please call me Big Eddie. Heavy on the big.”

Men in polyester pants shouldn’t say those things.

“Are you moving in to the Wildoh?” he asked. “I know they’ve been renovating the C Complex. Fixing up some cute little places there. Are you looking at one of those apartments?”

Okay, that’s it — I wiped my hand on my pants. He didn’t notice. Crap. I hardly thought I looked old enough for a retirement home. After all, wasn’t forty the new thirty?

Mrs. Presley laughed out loud. “Well, there you go, Dix. Nice little retirement home all ready for you.”

“This is my daughter, Big Eddie. She and Jane,” Mother nodded towards Mrs. P, “are staying with me for a few days.”

“Well, that’s just lovely. But are you sure she’s not your sister, Katt?”

“I’m sure Big Eddie.”

Mother wouldn’t blush in a million years, but she grinned a Cheshire cat grin. I had to admit, Big Eddie was a charmer with the ladies. With the older ladies.

“Good Heavens,” Harriet hmphed again. “Edward, you’re full of yourself again this morning, I see.”

He chuckled, but a little too deeply with just a tad too much time between the ha-ha’s. There was no love lost in either direction.

“Harriet, dear, you’re looking well this morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why it is that you think you have to flirt with every woman who comes into the Wildoh is beyond me.” She glared at my mother. “And especially those of … the criminal persuasion.”

What the f —

“Now, just wait a minute,” I said. “My mother is not a criminal. She’d not guilty of anything. From what I hear, there’s nothing but circumstantial evidence and unfounded rumors floating around. That’s hardly a conviction in my books.”

Mother put a cautioning hand on my arm. Or maybe it was an appreciating one.

“Oh, I’m surely not interested in your books, Ms. Dodd.”

It took me a minute to realize she was referring to my erotica. Or my supposed erotica.

“Well, maybe if you’d get the broom handle extracted from you backside, you would be.”

Well, that shut her up. In fact, that shut everyone up. Except for Tish, that is. She snorted a laugh.

Wiggie squirmed in his seat.

“Now, ladies, please,” Big Eddie said. “Let’s not have any more craziness around here. We’re all just under a bit of pressure with the … things going missing and such.” His eyes more than slid to my mother before quickly sliding away. Why the hell was everyone thinking my mother guilty? There had been no trial! There was no evidence against her! It was that damned Frankie Morell. This was all his fault, with that disappearing act he’d pulled.

“Big Eddie’s right,” Mona said. “We’re all just tense and—”

“Some of us more so than others.” I glared at Harriet as I said this.

“Why don’t we all just cool down?” Mona jumped from her seat. “I know! I’ll grab the crib board. Nothing like a good old-fashioned crib game to ease the tension. You know fifteen-two, fifteen-four—”

Her crib talk was interrupted — loudly and strangely musically — by a car horn. One of those musical ones like the General Lee from the Dukes of Hazard. But this one didn’t play those few notes from Dixieland. The driver of this vehicle played a few unmistakable sounds from a Rod Stewart tune. And if the leaping and squealing of the ladies at the table was any thing to judge by, yes, they did want his body and thought him sexy.

“It’s him!” Beth Mary shouted. She tipped her chair over and left it on the floor as she raced to the picture window, thumbing her teeth back in as she went.

“Who?” Mrs. Presley asked, but she herself was already on her way across the room. “Him who?”

Tish grabbed under her boobs, adjusted them left-right-center in one deft motion. “Lance-a-Lot. Golf lessons were yesterday; ball retrieval today.”

“Oh.”

Mona grabbed Mrs. P by the hand, ‘Come on, you got to get a look at our Lance.”

Even Big Eddie sauntered his way over to the window.

“It’s time for us to go, Wiggie.” Harriet grabbed her husband by the shoulder (and I couldn’t help but wonder what she grabbed him by when they were home).

For all that, Harriet was taking her sweet time leaving. And with each step, she craned rotated her neck around just a little more until I thought she might snap it clear around (and if there was one demon-possessed woman in that room, my money was on her).

“Leaving so soon, Harriet?” Mother asked sweetly.

Harriet stopped short. “I am not going to lower myself to your level of entertainment, Katt.” She spat my mother’s name out as if it spoiled in her mouth. She waved a flustered hand to the window. “And this … this … spectesticle I do not need to see.”

She practically pushed poor Wiggie through the door and it swung firmly shut behind her.

I leaned in to Mom, “Did she say spectesticle? Now there’s a slip of the tongue.”

Mom looked up at me, trying to give me a genuine smile, and it broke my heart that she didn’t quite pull it off.

As if on cue, the doors swung open again. A dozen other women came rushing into the room. Some said hello to Mom, others — very obviously — did not. Chairs began to fill up as the women, and yes, Big Eddie too, took their seats in front of the window. Seven or so more ladies strolled to the front of the building and claimed the lawn chairs there.

“Got a chair right here for you, Katt. Right beside me,” Mona yelled, and I felt the relief flowing off my mother.

Mona Roberts was definitely going on my Christmas card list. Which brought that list to a grand total of … one.

Mom led me along by the arm. “You’ve got to see this, Dix!”

She took her seat beside Mona, and I stood beside my mother’s chair. All eyes were forward focused, looking out the window waiting for this Lance guy to clean the lake. I scanned the crowd of anxious faces.

Okay, like how boring was this place? There they sat, a group of senior woman and Big Eddie looking out the window as if Frank Sinatra himself were going to jump out of that truck. They leaned forward, they grinned widely. Why, you’d never catch me acting like that. No chance in hell. Not in a million years. Not in a —

“Oh my God!” There was a high-pitched squeal.

That was from me.

Lance-a-Lot got out of the truck. He was average height I supposed — just under six feet tall. His black hair looked almost blue with the sunlight on it. He was tanned, muscular, and wearing nothing but the happiest pair of Speedos on the planet. Yes, Speedos. Bursting with happiness, if you get the picture. Overwhelmed with joy — if you know what I mean.

Okay, enough of the euphemisms. The guy was hung. And at full attention.

“Mercy!” Mrs. P shouted. “What’s that freak of nature?”

“Gotta love mother nature,” Tish commented appreciatively.

With my sharp investigative mind, I watched the diver closely. I was a PI after all, I had to catch every little detail. And every big one, too.

Lance Devinny obviously knew he had an appreciative audience. He strolled a few feet from the truck, stopped suddenly and gave a quarter turn to wave at the ladies and beamed a full smile. Big Eddie grumbled, “Now, what’s that boy got that I ain’t got?” He ran a hand through his own dark hair — thinning as it was. The hair, not the hand.

Out of politeness, no one answered.

Did I mention Big Eddie wore polyester pants?

The group continued to watch as Lance turned back around, flexed his butt cheeks — left, right, left again — and made his way to the water. He walked out to his waist, then quick as anything dove into the shallow lake.

With a collective sigh, the group leaned back. And there was an appreciative moment of silence. And by moment, I mean, literally, moment. But tranquility shattered pronto.

“Help! Somebody help!”

Everyone jumped. Even the ladies who’d taken chairs outside came in to see what was going on.

The voice was coming from the hallway. So was the sound of low-heeled shoes thumping down the hallway along the tiled floor. The door to the rec room swung open, and Harriet Appleton stood there, one hand on her chest, one hand on Wiggie’s. Poor Wiggie looked more out of breath than she did.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, immediately taking charge of the situation.

“My mother’s wedding ring!” Harriet shouted. “It’s gone. Stolen! It was one of a kind, precious and priceless. It was an antique! It was my grandmother’s,” she wailed. She glared at my mother. “You did this, Katt Dodd! I know dang right well you did!”

“You’re wrong,” I said. “And you’d better stop making accusations you can’t back up.” I gave her my best glare.

She didn’t miss a beat. “I had the ring out late last night. I was giving it to my great niece for her own wedding ceremony. I put it back in my jewelry box — Mr. Appleton saw me do it.” Wiggie nodded on cue. “And now the ring’s gone.”

“I had nothing to do with this!” Mom said.

Harriet huffed. “A likely story. I’m calling Deputy Almond. You’re a thief, Katt Dodd. And most likely a murderer, too.” She turned to me. “And we’ll see whether or not there are accusations that can’t be backed up!”

“Harriet, I’m innocent!” Mother pleaded to her. I couldn’t help but notice everyone else moving away from my mother. Everyone but Mona, of course. And Mrs. P. “I would never take your ring.” She looked around the faces of the crowd gathered there. “I’d never steal anything.”

Even Big Eddie turned away.