“Deputy, get your colleagues in. Get the feds. Hell, call in the Marines if that’s what it’ll take to shut this girl up.”
Oh, I was getting mad. And a little worried. I looked at Dylan. His brow was lined too. He was still in character — still Dylan Hardy, the thick as bricks security guy, but where no one else could, I could read the concern on his face.
Deputy Almond took the floor. “Whereas Big Eddie brought it up….” he punched him in the arm in some stupid male bonding ritual. As if he’d shot him with HGH, Eddie Baskin stood a little taller. “I’m going to bring my officers in to search the place. The whole place — all the grounds and everyone’s condo. I don’t have search warrants. But I don’t need them if there are no objections. You’re all gathered here. This seems to be pretty much everyone. Does anyone object to a search of their premises?
The fucker! How could anyone object?
Harriet glanced at Wiggie, and he actually kept eye contact for a change. Tish only smiled, but it wasn’t her place but Mona’s that was going to be searched, so why should she mind? Mona’s face shot red again.
“And remember,” Almond added for selling emphasis. “We still have a missing person on our hands in the suspicious disappearance of Frankie Morrell. If everyone is agreeable, and we can bypass the warrants, we’ll possibly be one step closer in solving that murder.”
“Who said anything about a murder?” I said. “All you have is a missing persons case.”
He looked over at me that dismissive, oh-are-you-still-here? look I was too damn used to from my years working at Jones and Associates. Then he smiled broadly, as if I was supposed to melt or something. “Right, Dixie. Until we actually find out where your mother … um, I mean, where the body is stashed, then we get to call it a murder.”
Within the hour, fifteen officers were pulling into the Wildoh.
I recognized Officer North from the other night. Almost imperceptibly, certainly apologetically, she waved at my mom. One by one, while the residents waited in the rec room, the condos were checked.
Big Eddie insisted that the officers start at his place — his shop, his apartment. He helped all he could. Thought of places to check that the officers perhaps would not (air ducts, vacuum cleaner bags). He unlocked every door for them, pointed out every wall safe, and stood by while each was opened. All the while Dylan tagging along in good, old thick-as-a-brick fashion in case any heavy lifting was required.
Oh, and guess what they found?
Not a damn thing.
Not one single shred of evidence to point to Big Eddie, or anyone else.
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.
