Family Jewels (Dix Dodd Mystery #2)

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