Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

intuition wasn’t ‘calling’ yet, not pointing me in any particular direction. But give it time….

~*~

While Dylan, Mrs. P and I landed in Pinellas County as a trio, it was only Mrs. P and me who were going to the Wildoh Retirement Home (Motto: We supply the wild; you bring the oh! ). Dylan would follow later, but not as my assistant and not as a guest. To investigate fully, he’d need to find a way to come in undercover. Before we’d even hit the Florida state line, we’d formulated a plan, made some calls and put it into action.

Dylan would be staying at the Goosebump Inn, about a mile from the Wildoh Retirement Village. Just a quick jog down the road for the fit Mr. Foreman. We checked him in to Room 46, along with all the fancy electronic equipment we’d brought with us. As command central for our operation, the room was on the small side, but on the plus side of the ledger, it was around the back of the motel and away from traffic.

Did I mention it was small? Barely-turn-around-in small, with a three-quarter sized bed and a chair that looked downright menacing, huddled there all lumpy and mean. Dylan gave it one look, then began piling it high with equipment. There was a small TV in the corner perched precariously on a too-small, too-wobbly chrome stand. In the bathroom, the showerhead was mounted so low, Dylan would have to crouch down to catch any spray.

“And the pool is open for the season,” the receptionist had gushed. All of 16 by my guesstimate, with a nametag that read Rosie Sinatra, she’d eyed Dylan very thoroughly as she showed him to the room.

Dylan thanked her, but pool play was the last thing on our minds.

We’d checked on the Internet, made a few phone calls — that’s what had led us to the Goosebump. I wanted Dylan close, but discreet. Not that I had any illusions that he’d blend in. With that six-foot-four frame and lean good looks, that wasn’t going to happen. But I wanted him separate, seemingly moving in another world. He’d get himself into the Wildoh one way or another.

I felt a twinge of guilt hiding Dylan’s part in the plan from Mom, but it was for her own good. (Jesus, I felt old just thinking that.)

Mrs. Presley had so not been down with the plan as we’d formulated it en route. She hadn’t liked the idea of keeping mother in the dark, even to a small degree. “Family doesn’t do that, Dix. Family sticks together. Trusts each other. Counts on each other, through thick and thin. You hear me, Dix?” she’d said from the back seat. “Thick and thin.”

My dead butt had slunk down further in the seat with every word of admonishment.

But finally we’d convinced Mrs. P to play along. Well, okay, we’d bribed her. One night of bingo before we left Florida, and….

“Okay, you two,” she’d said. “Here’s the deal. If you answer my crossword question in 30 seconds, I won’t breathe a word to Katt about Dylan. Ready? Give me a six-letter word for ‘style,’ starts with D … and go!”

Drape? No that’s five letters.

Dashing? I counted on my fingers. Crap!

Style, style….

“Doggie!” I’d shouted at the top of my lungs, pumping my arm in the air. “I got it! It’s doggie-style!”

“I think the word’s design,” Dylan had said dryly.

Mrs. P had sat back, tsking. “Gracious, Dix, what is it with you?”

But we’d gotten her on side, and that was the important thing.

It was late afternoon before we got Dylan settled and made our way over to the Wildoh.

As I stood outside her little apartment waiting for her to open the door, I squinted my eyes to the slanting sunlight, all Clint Eastwood like. Hands on hips, feet spread wide apart, shoulders back, I braced myself. Steadied myself. Steadied my nerves. Steadied my mind and body before the inevitable.

Katt Dodd opened the door, took in the sight of me, then threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.

Must. Breathe. Now.

I love my mother. I’m just not the touchy, feely type.

“Why, Dix,” she said, finally releasing the death grip. “What a surprise! What are you doing in Florida?”

That was Mother. Not oblivious to the gravity of her situation, but totally making light of it. Not just keeping the stiff upper lip, but keeping it in a smile. Yet there was something more there. I’d seen it when my father had died — those last few weeks when mom had stayed with him night and day. There was worry behind those sparkling blue eyes.

Her apartment — Suite 101 of Complex B — was on the ground floor. I’d not been pleased with a ground floor suite when Mother had told me she’d bought the place, but she was determined this was the one for her. This was the one with the best ‘vibes’, she’d said. And I knew there was no changing her mind after that. The complex itself was nice, and complete with everything — laundry service, bus service into town for those who didn’t like to drive, a recreation room (and I hear a pretty competitive cribbage gang gathers there) and a tennis court. There was even a driving range set over a man-made lake, complete with little floating islands for distance markers. Mother didn’t play golf, but from her frequent emails, I know that the range was a pretty popular place.

“Surprised to see me, Mom? Well, I bet you’re not nearly as surprised as I was when I got the fax from Deputy—”

“And you can be no one other than Mrs. Presley,” Mother said, turning to Mrs. P and effectively shutting me up. “Dix has told me so much about you.”

“Call me Jane. I like your lipstick.”

“Do you?” Mother smacked her lips. “Why thank you. It’s Pinch-me Pink.”

I rolled my eyes. If there was one opening line that could seal a friendship between the two, that was it. They’d bond like schoolgirls now.

“What am I thinking, keeping you on the doorstep?” Mother stepped back. “Come on in.”

We followed her into the foyer of her tiny apartment.

“What a great place you have here.” Mrs. P left her bags by the door (don’t worry, Mrs. P I’ll get those later), and strolled into my mother’s living room.

“Thank you, Jane! I like it too. Please make yourself at home.”

She would.

Mrs. P sat on the sofa, kicked off her shoes and put her feet up. “You get the wrestling here, Katt? I just love those wrestling boys. All slicked up and broad-chested and stuff.”

I cleared my throat. “You know it’s staged, eh, Mrs. P?”

Mrs. P and my mother looked at each other then looked at me as if I were an alien. “And that matters because…?”

Great, two hormonally elevated little old ladies to contend with over the next few days. I felt like the mother of two teenagers. Except I couldn’t ground these two.

Mother glanced at her watch. It was a new one, I noticed — delicate and thin gold band, dainty safety chain, and I swear those were real diamonds glittering around the outside. And by ‘swear’ I mean I said, “Holy shit! Mother where’d you get the watch?”

She looked at the watch as if just noticing it for the first time. A little shocked at seeing it, perhaps. She pulled her sleeve down and covered it quickly. The Pinch-Me Pink disappeared for a moment as she sucked in her breath. “The watch was … it was a present from Frankie. Before he … before I….”

Mother recovered. She straightened, and said. “Try channel 137, Jane. I think wrestling is on in ten minutes.”

Mrs. Presley began flicking.

“Let me get you a drink,” she said to Mrs. P. “You must be parched after such a long trip.”

“Well, yes, it was tiring.”

I stifled a snort. Mrs. P was tired?

“Mother, I really think we should talk about—”

“Not now, Dix, we have company.” She turned back to Mrs. P. This was getting frustrating as hell. “Can I get you a beer? Iced tea?”