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robbed them from a train or something. How many coins did Mike find?”
“An even dozen,” she said. “Mostly double eagles made after the war.”
“That’s a hard tale to swallow, Sis. Wouldn’t someone have found them before now? I mean with all the people on this lake and after the show aired on TV, that cave would have been a magnet for every treasure hunter in the state.”
“You can’t see the cave from the water because of the trees. Besides, the gold wasn’t in the cave. Maybe that’s why no one found it sooner. Mike found it when he made the trail. The coins were in a couple glass jars buried at the base of a big rock.” She stopped long enough to finish her glass of wine. She stared at her empty glass, “Not that it matters now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She seemed to lose interest in her empty glass and looked up at me. She had the faraway look of an absentminded daydreamer. “The coins were stolen,” she answered when she came back from wherever her mind had been. “Whoever took them must have killed Mike. If you help me prove it, I can collect the insurance and save the house.”
I suppressed an urge to laugh – not so much at the story of Jesse James and his gold, but at Megan’s naivety to think I could solve a murder mystery. Even Fred must have thought it was funny; he started to bark at me. But all he really wanted was another sip of beer. “What do you think, Freddie?” I asked, pouring the last of my beer on the deck. “Should I grow a wax mustache so I can look like Hercule Poirot?”
Meg got up to leave, “I’m serious, Jake. Wait here and I’ll show you.” Fred saw Meg leave and followed her into the house. He must have thought she was going after more beer. I decided to follow the leader, too. I had seen a guest bathroom by the great-room on my earlier tour.
By the time I returned to the deck, Meg and Fred were waiting. She had a printout in her hands of a digital picture. Mike was grinning like a school boy who had won a spelling bee. “What do you say now, Hercule?” she said, handing me the printout.
“Is this from your printer?” I asked. The print was made by a defective printer. There was a line running through it exactly like the mysterious article someone had sent me.
She ignored my question. “So will you help me now? I need you to hack into Mike’s computer and see who he was chatting with. He said he found a buyer for the coins online, and two days later, Mike is dead and the coins are gone. Whoever the buyer was must have killed him for the coins.” She began to cry.
I never knew what to say or do when confronted with female emotions, so I didn’t push for an answer to the printer and waited for her to regain her composure. It only took six beers and two bottles of wine later to hear the rest of the story.
After Bill took off with the business loan and the dock business went belly up, Mike began working on a demolition site to make a few bucks. The county had hired a firm from Kansas City to tear down the old museum after a wall had collapsed. It was the only job in town that paid anything because the construction firm was a union shop and paid union wages to any local help they hired. The wages didn’t come close to making the mortgage, but it did put food on the table.
Mike started to come home later every night. He would hang out with the crew and its security guard at a local bar after work. Ron Nixon, the security guard, was an old friend of Mike’s. Ron had been bad news back in high school and had been in and out of trouble ever since. It wasn’t anything serious, at least he never got caught doing anything to put him in jail.
“That place they hung out at should have been named the Pig’s Bed instead of the Pig’s Roast,” she said, opening another bottle of wine. “Almost every night, I could smell that pig Linda on him when he came home drunk.”
“The waitress from the restaurant?” I asked.
“Yeah. She works at
“An even dozen,” she said. “Mostly double eagles made after the war.”
“That’s a hard tale to swallow, Sis. Wouldn’t someone have found them before now? I mean with all the people on this lake and after the show aired on TV, that cave would have been a magnet for every treasure hunter in the state.”
“You can’t see the cave from the water because of the trees. Besides, the gold wasn’t in the cave. Maybe that’s why no one found it sooner. Mike found it when he made the trail. The coins were in a couple glass jars buried at the base of a big rock.” She stopped long enough to finish her glass of wine. She stared at her empty glass, “Not that it matters now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She seemed to lose interest in her empty glass and looked up at me. She had the faraway look of an absentminded daydreamer. “The coins were stolen,” she answered when she came back from wherever her mind had been. “Whoever took them must have killed Mike. If you help me prove it, I can collect the insurance and save the house.”
I suppressed an urge to laugh – not so much at the story of Jesse James and his gold, but at Megan’s naivety to think I could solve a murder mystery. Even Fred must have thought it was funny; he started to bark at me. But all he really wanted was another sip of beer. “What do you think, Freddie?” I asked, pouring the last of my beer on the deck. “Should I grow a wax mustache so I can look like Hercule Poirot?”
Meg got up to leave, “I’m serious, Jake. Wait here and I’ll show you.” Fred saw Meg leave and followed her into the house. He must have thought she was going after more beer. I decided to follow the leader, too. I had seen a guest bathroom by the great-room on my earlier tour.
By the time I returned to the deck, Meg and Fred were waiting. She had a printout in her hands of a digital picture. Mike was grinning like a school boy who had won a spelling bee. “What do you say now, Hercule?” she said, handing me the printout.
“Is this from your printer?” I asked. The print was made by a defective printer. There was a line running through it exactly like the mysterious article someone had sent me.
She ignored my question. “So will you help me now? I need you to hack into Mike’s computer and see who he was chatting with. He said he found a buyer for the coins online, and two days later, Mike is dead and the coins are gone. Whoever the buyer was must have killed him for the coins.” She began to cry.
I never knew what to say or do when confronted with female emotions, so I didn’t push for an answer to the printer and waited for her to regain her composure. It only took six beers and two bottles of wine later to hear the rest of the story.
After Bill took off with the business loan and the dock business went belly up, Mike began working on a demolition site to make a few bucks. The county had hired a firm from Kansas City to tear down the old museum after a wall had collapsed. It was the only job in town that paid anything because the construction firm was a union shop and paid union wages to any local help they hired. The wages didn’t come close to making the mortgage, but it did put food on the table.
Mike started to come home later every night. He would hang out with the crew and its security guard at a local bar after work. Ron Nixon, the security guard, was an old friend of Mike’s. Ron had been bad news back in high school and had been in and out of trouble ever since. It wasn’t anything serious, at least he never got caught doing anything to put him in jail.
“That place they hung out at should have been named the Pig’s Bed instead of the Pig’s Roast,” she said, opening another bottle of wine. “Almost every night, I could smell that pig Linda on him when he came home drunk.”
“The waitress from the restaurant?” I asked.
“Yeah. She works at
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