The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 8

“I’ll bet there’s some kind of finder’s fee,” Vesta mused.

Scarlett, her Best Frenemy Forever for sixty years, laughed. “A finder’s fee! A person is not some trinket you get paid a finder’s fee for, Vesta.”

“I know that,” said Vesta annoyedly. She took a sip from her hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top and mused some more.

They were seated in the outside dining area of the Hampton Cove Star, the boutique hotel in the heart of town, where they had a good overview of the comers and goers and the hustle and bustle and generally could spend all morning over one hot chocolate (and a flat white for Scarlett) without being kicked out by the waiters. It also helped that Vesta’s son was chief of police, and that he just happened to be dating the mayor.

“Look,” Vesta said now, as she leaned closer to her friend. “Quintin Gardner was crazy about Vicky. He went nuts when she disappeared. So it stands to reason he’ll be thrilled to have her back, right? Or at least find out what happened to her. And his happiness will translate itself into a nice monetary reward, that’s all I’m saying. The neighborhood watch could use a nice big reward.” Not to mention she herself could do with a nice big influx of cold hard cash. Her pension only stretched so far, after all, and the receptionist work she occasionally did for her son-in-law wasn’t exactly bringing in the big bucks either.

“What does the watch need money for?” asked Scarlett, who was dressed to the nines as usual: bright red top, leather short-short skirt, fishnet stockings, and high heels. Her russet do was done to perfection, and all in all she looked like Vesta’s daughter, not her contemporary. Vesta didn’t mind. Dressed in her usual tracksuit, this one a bright fluorescent pink and blue, and her white curls tucked against her cranium, she didn’t care that she didn’t look like some overaged sex bomb. She’d long ago accepted that she might not have the looks, but she had the brains and the brawn, which made them the perfect team.

“The watch could do with a patrol car, for one thing,” she said. “Not that old Peugeot Marge lets me drive around in. I’m talking a turbo-charged pair of wheels that will make the bad guys run a mile. And of course we could use the money on surveillance equipment: night-vision goggles, listening devices…” She waved a hand. “Stuff like that.”

Scarlett raised her perfectly microbladed eyebrows, though it was hardly noticeable. All that botox had pretty much lulled her facial muscles to sleep. “My, my, aren’t you the ambitious little watch leader. A car and surveillance equipment. What next? Stun guns and a rocket launcher? This is just a small town, Vesta, and we’re just a small-town neighborhood watch. The kind of crime we get is peanuts compared to big-city crime.”

“Yeah, but it still pays to be prepared,” Vesta grunted. The thing was that she hated not to feel appreciated—even laughed at, she felt, by the police department and even her own son. They thought they were just a bunch of old fruitcakes farting around and dabbling in crime prevention. “I want to be taken seriously, Scarlett,” she said. “I want people to sit up and take notice when we pass them by on the street. I want them to point and say: look, there goes Vesta Muffin, she of the watch.”

“Sure,” said Scarlett with a grin. “Next you want them to start applauding. Face it, Vesta, that’s never gonna happen. They’ll always think of us as a bunch of busybodies sticking our noses where they don’t belong. That’s human nature for you.”

“Well, I’m going to change all that,” said Vesta stubbornly.

“You do whatever you like,” said Scarlett, stifling a little yawn with the back of her hand. “I’ve got a mani-pedi at eleven and a massage at twelve.” She directed a knowing look at her friend. “Wanna join me? You could use a nice massage, Vesta. You’re a bundle of nerves.”

“I’m a bundle of nerves cause I know that if only we can find Vicky we’ll get all the respect we deserve and more.” Not to mention that reward money she was sure existed.

“Vicky Gardner,” said Scarlett, draining her flat white. “Wasn’t she in school with Marge?”

“She was. Pretty little thing she was, too. Turned all the boys’ heads.”

“I’ll help you find Vicky on one condition and one condition only,” said Scarlett, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Vesta’s arm.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“That you join me for a nice relaxing morning at the spa.”

“I don’t do spas,” Vesta growled. “Spas are for pampered old fools and airless bimbos.” But instead of being offended, Scarlett merely cocked her head, like a bird sitting in a tree. Finally Vesta groaned. “Oh, all right. One visit to the spa, that’s it. And if they so much as come near me with one of those torture instruments I’ll punch them in the snoot.”

“You’ll love it,” Scarlett said with a laugh.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Vesta muttered. She was getting soft in her old age, if she allowed herself to be dragged into the spa. Then again, ever since she and Scarlett had renewed their friendship something had changed that she couldn’t put her finger on. Almost as if she was becoming a mellower version of the old Vesta.

And she didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.