the train tonight. Wish me luck.”
“Do you one better. I’ll offer my guest room when you need a place to hide.”
I went around the desk and gave her another hug. Her perfume, smelling like spring rain and sweet magnolias, reminded me of my late mother. “I might take you up on your offer. What’re your plans for Christmas?”
“Got about twenty people coming for a potluck supper. Not an in-law in the bunch, though there’re a few that might qualify as outlaws.” She winked at me. “Friends of Eli’s.”
“I’m not even going to ask.” Eli was her housekeeper and, for some time now, as she liked to put it, her gentleman caller.
“Best you don’t,” she agreed.
After tracking Sam down in front of the Tastee-Freez, where a bevy of females was spoiling my foster puppy, I asked him to stay put while I ran across the street to Longs drugstore to buy a notebook and tape recorder. Soon I was on my way back toward the folk art museum, Boo exhausted and snoozing in his car seat.
I stopped off at All Paws, told Suann my story of being Boo’s foster puppy mama for the next two weeks and asked them to watch him for me.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I promised. Then it dawned on me. “Darn, I’ll have to take him with me to pick up Gabe’s mom.” All Paws closed at seven p.m.
“He’s still a little guy,” Suann said. “You could carry him into the station. Usually no one will say anything. Or I can let you borrow this carrier.” She pointed to a leopard-print dog carrier that resembled a piece of luggage.
“I think I’ll just carry him. Or I’ll wait in the car with him.”
After temporarily relieving myself of my little charge, I went back to the museum, where the docent manning the gift shop gave me a large manila envelope left by a messenger. It was, of course, from Constance.
“Dear Benni,” read the letter on top of the thick sheaf of papers. “Here are the backgrounds on the ladies who are applying for the open spot in the 49 Club. Please keep me informed on your progress. Also enclosed is your retainer fee. Sincerely, Constance Sinclair.” Attached to the letter was her personal check for five hundred dollars. Under the memo part of the check she’d written “consulting fee.”
“Well, well,” I murmured as I walked back to my office. “My first money as a private detective. Maybe I should frame it.” I stuck the check in my wallet, not certain if I would cash it or not. It seemed deceitful of me to accept money for what was essentially a fake investigation. Then again, I could donate the money to the co-op’s Art for Kids program.
Once inside my office, I sat down and looked through the other papers. She had three women listed, all with, it appeared to me, impeccable society credentials. I couldn’t imagine one of them killing to gain membership to some lame society club.
First was Dorothea St. James. Nickname was Dot. I had seen her photos frequently on the society pages of the San Celina Tribune. She was sixty-eight years old and the widow of a local podiatrist. She had one daughter who owned a jewelry boutique in Cambria. She’d been involved with just about every San Celina society club in her twenty-eight years living in this county. The committees she chaired and charity events she hosted at her huge house in Cambria filled three pages. Her list was neatly typed with detailed explanations of each event. She’d been on the 49 Club waiting list for twenty years, passed over twice for women who hadn’t lived here as long as she. That, I thought, had to cause some resentment. What had kept her from being accepted by the 49 Club before?
Second was Frances McDonald. Called Francie by her friends. She was applying to the 49 Club for the first time. She’d only lived in San Celina County for five years since her husband, a retired federal judge, decided he wanted to spend their golden years in the Golden State. They’d lived and raised their family in
“Do you one better. I’ll offer my guest room when you need a place to hide.”
I went around the desk and gave her another hug. Her perfume, smelling like spring rain and sweet magnolias, reminded me of my late mother. “I might take you up on your offer. What’re your plans for Christmas?”
“Got about twenty people coming for a potluck supper. Not an in-law in the bunch, though there’re a few that might qualify as outlaws.” She winked at me. “Friends of Eli’s.”
“I’m not even going to ask.” Eli was her housekeeper and, for some time now, as she liked to put it, her gentleman caller.
“Best you don’t,” she agreed.
After tracking Sam down in front of the Tastee-Freez, where a bevy of females was spoiling my foster puppy, I asked him to stay put while I ran across the street to Longs drugstore to buy a notebook and tape recorder. Soon I was on my way back toward the folk art museum, Boo exhausted and snoozing in his car seat.
I stopped off at All Paws, told Suann my story of being Boo’s foster puppy mama for the next two weeks and asked them to watch him for me.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I promised. Then it dawned on me. “Darn, I’ll have to take him with me to pick up Gabe’s mom.” All Paws closed at seven p.m.
“He’s still a little guy,” Suann said. “You could carry him into the station. Usually no one will say anything. Or I can let you borrow this carrier.” She pointed to a leopard-print dog carrier that resembled a piece of luggage.
“I think I’ll just carry him. Or I’ll wait in the car with him.”
After temporarily relieving myself of my little charge, I went back to the museum, where the docent manning the gift shop gave me a large manila envelope left by a messenger. It was, of course, from Constance.
“Dear Benni,” read the letter on top of the thick sheaf of papers. “Here are the backgrounds on the ladies who are applying for the open spot in the 49 Club. Please keep me informed on your progress. Also enclosed is your retainer fee. Sincerely, Constance Sinclair.” Attached to the letter was her personal check for five hundred dollars. Under the memo part of the check she’d written “consulting fee.”
“Well, well,” I murmured as I walked back to my office. “My first money as a private detective. Maybe I should frame it.” I stuck the check in my wallet, not certain if I would cash it or not. It seemed deceitful of me to accept money for what was essentially a fake investigation. Then again, I could donate the money to the co-op’s Art for Kids program.
Once inside my office, I sat down and looked through the other papers. She had three women listed, all with, it appeared to me, impeccable society credentials. I couldn’t imagine one of them killing to gain membership to some lame society club.
First was Dorothea St. James. Nickname was Dot. I had seen her photos frequently on the society pages of the San Celina Tribune. She was sixty-eight years old and the widow of a local podiatrist. She had one daughter who owned a jewelry boutique in Cambria. She’d been involved with just about every San Celina society club in her twenty-eight years living in this county. The committees she chaired and charity events she hosted at her huge house in Cambria filled three pages. Her list was neatly typed with detailed explanations of each event. She’d been on the 49 Club waiting list for twenty years, passed over twice for women who hadn’t lived here as long as she. That, I thought, had to cause some resentment. What had kept her from being accepted by the 49 Club before?
Second was Frances McDonald. Called Francie by her friends. She was applying to the 49 Club for the first time. She’d only lived in San Celina County for five years since her husband, a retired federal judge, decided he wanted to spend their golden years in the Golden State. They’d lived and raised their family in
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