Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

“Not much. But you won a week at a timeshare in the Dominican Republic. You just have to pay the taxes on the prize.”

“Gee, what’s the catch?”

Dylan chuckled. Even in the low lighting of the room, I knew his eyes were sparkling. And chances were mine were too. What was it about this guy?

“Seriously though, nothing urgent.” He took a long swallow of wine that matched mine.

I topped up both our glasses. “So,” I said. “Any luck checking on our newfound friends?”

The look on his face changed instantly. When Dylan Foreman went to work, it was all business. The guy was smart, and I loved that intense look he got when we were working on a case. After his apprenticeship was over, he was going to make one hell of a good private investigator.

“Where do you want me to start?” No notes, no hand-held gadget to retrieve the information. It was locked solid in his mind.

“Tish McQueen.”

“You mean ‘Tish the Dish’?”

Tish the Dish? I sat up straighter.

Apparently, Dylan had already gotten an eyeful of Miss Above-the-Law-of-Gravity Tish McQueen.

“You’ve seen her?” I followed the question with a drink.

“Nah. That was her stripper name.”

I almost pffted out my drink out onto my chin. Yes, just almost. This was wine, not coffee.

“Apparently, our Miss Dish had quite the career in her younger days. Worked from Florida to Toronto. New York to Vancouver.”

“And all ports in between?”

“And she not only worked under Tish the Dish. But also Trixie O’Treats. Tish Tush. Oh, and my personal favorite — Tish the Fish.”

I blinked.

“Mermaid theme,” he elaborated.

“And when was this?”

“Early sixties. I found some posters on the Internet from her stripper days. I tell you, Dix, she was a headliner. Built like a….”

He didn’t finish the thought. But my shoulders pressed back even farther as I did.

“Let me guess,” I said, a wee bit snarkily. “She made a mint and put it all into a orphanage for impoverished children?”

Dylan waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, that’s whores who have hearts of gold, not peelers.”

“Fine line,” I grumped. “So what did she do with her show-biz money?”

“Invested it. Property in Northern Alberta, just before things really started booming out there. I’m telling you, Tish McQueen is loaded. And from what I’ve read, she’s one shrewd business woman.”

“I wonder how she knows Mona. Mona doesn’t look like the stripper type.”

“Geez, I should hope not. She’s 70 now,” Dylan said. “Even if she had been a stripper once, she’d hardly look like one now.”

“Huh. You haven’t seen Tish yet,” I muttered. Stomach in, chest out. If it sat up any straighter I’d be leaning backwards. Oh, the hell with it. I slouched back into my normal posture. “What did you find out about Mona?”

He got that pensive look — that sexy, thinking-man, pensive look that drove me wild.

Drove me wild? Where the hell did that come from. Suspiciously, I looked into my wine glass.

“Mona Roberts,” he began. “Age 70. Widow of ten years. Homemaker. Married thirty-two years to the late Theodore Roberts of Brunswick, Vermont. He was in insurance sales and did quite well. Left Mona a tidy sum.”

“Did they have any kids?”

“Just one. A daughter. She’s still in Brunswick. Married with a teenage daughter.”

“So nothing much of interest on Mona, then?”

Dylan twisted his lips. “Not quite. The tidy sum that Theodore Roberts left Mona? It’s gone. And it went quickly — in the last two years.”

Interesting. “Where’s it going?”

Dylan took a sip of his wine. “Hospital bills. Her granddaughter’s been in and out of the hospital a dozen times over the last couple years. Cancer treatments.”

I felt a stab of sympathy for Mona. When she’d left this evening, Mother had packed her a plate of food for tomorrow. Mona had demurred, of course, but even I could tell it wasn’t real. How hard up was Mona Roberts? Hard up enough to steal?

Jesus, I hoped not.

“Big Eddie Baskin? No, wait! Let me guess.” I held up a hand before Dylan could answer. I was after all, Dix Dodd, people-reader, private eye extraordinaire. I’d impress Dylan with my great observational skills here. I scanned my memory banks on Big Eddie — good with the ladies, liked to be in charge, makes his way taking care of the things at the Wildoh…? “Got it! He ran a bordello.”

“Ah, no, Dix.”

“Close?”

“Not a bit. Big Eddie Baskin is retired from the US Army.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. He was a machinist.”

That of course would explain one of the little dangling charms hanging from the chain around his neck — amongst the ones of golf clubs, half a heart, and the obligatory horseshoe, had been one of a mini screwdriver and mini wrench.

“Clean record?” I asked.

“Choir boy,” Dylan responded. “Never married. No kids. Likes to bet on the ponies, but nothing too serious.”

Dylan proceeded to give me the 411 on the other people I’d asked him to check out.

Beth Mary MacKenzie, the pup of the crowd, was a mere fifty years old, though she looked a hell of a lot older. Of the group, she was the newest Wildoh resident. She’d taught school in Northern Alberta up until a year ago, when she’d retired and bought into the Wildoh.

“Fifty is young to retire,” I murmured.

“Not if you win the lottery.”

“Did she?”

“I couldn’t find any records of a win online, but not all winners get the press. If it wasn’t a giant one, who knows? Sometimes they just go for the … um … media friendly types for their promotions.”

I hated that, but Dylan was right. Beth Mary was one ugly woman. Unless she won a shitload of money, it probably wouldn’t have been newsworthy. A modest win — just enough for a comfortable future — could easily have gone under the radar.

“Or she might have inherited something. From my cursory search, I’m not seeing anything like that, but give me time. I’ll dig deeper.”

“Who’s next?”

I listened with greatest interest when Dylan brought up Harriet and Wiggie. And with the biggest disappointment also.

“He was a patent lawyer in a small Orlando law firm, and she—”

“—sucked the blood out of the rest of the clients?” I offered.

“She was his secretary for many years.”

“Kids?”

“Nope.”

“Financial woes?”