Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Read online

  Stone wrote that replacing most of the charms, if not all, would take a few weeks but shouldn't present any big problems. He'd enjoy working on the assignment as a break from his normal routine. He ended with, "Pawley's Island is just south of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in the Grand Strand area. It's not the typical island you might visualize. Have you ever had the opportunity to visit here before? I noticed that your daughter had no charms from South Carolina."

  Before signing off I sent another message of appreciation and a negative reply to his question. Although I knew it to be a beautiful state, I'd never visited Myrtle Beach or Pawley's Island or any other part of South Carolina. But someday I would make it there, I promised.

  * * *

  I spent a restless night tossing and turning, counting sheep until I was sick of them. After I crawled out of bed in the morning, I took a long, hot shower and then took even longer reading through the morning paper. I drank nearly a full pot of coffee and forced myself to pour what little remained in the carafe down the sink only when I was tempted to do cartwheels down the hallway. I was keyed up, but still procrastinating on my phone call to Wendy. I'd yet to come up with a reason to leave town that I thought she'd believe. I found myself reading a less than titillating article about future renovation plans for the building that housed the local chapter of the boilermakers union. I decided I was carrying procrastination a bit too far.

  As a more interesting stall tactic, I laid down the paper and went upstairs to check my e-mail. One message told me I was pre-approved for a platinum MasterCard and another involved spy cams and farm animals. I immediately deleted both and read the other message from Stone, the jeweler.

  "I'll get right to work on locating the replacement charms and will let you know from time to time how I'm coming along on the project. Someday, when you arrive in South Carolina, call me and I'll be happy to be your tour guide. Take care, Stone."

  His phone number was included at the end of his note. I started to delete the message but then had a twinge of guilt. For some neurotic reason, I felt as if he could see me through the computer screen and was waiting for me to record his number. I jotted his name and number down on a post-it note and stuck it to the side of my monitor. I'd ignore it for a week or so, and then discard it without remorse.

  "Thank you, Stone. Someday I might just take you up on your tour guide offer. You take care too. Sincerely, Lexie," I typed, and then clicked on "Send."

  Yeah, of course I would. And some other day, while hell was freezing over, I might just bungee jump off the Kaw River Bridge. Anything was possible, wasn't it? Stone certainly seemed like a decent, pleasant individual, but I wasn't looking for complications right now. I had enough on my plate as it was.

  Yes, anything was indeed possible, I told myself again. And then it hit me. I now had a viable excuse for leaving town. Wendy wouldn't like it, I was certain, but it was the best I could come up with at the moment. My excuse would have at least a grain of truth to it, if but a very tiny grain. I'd met a man on the Internet and was going on a trip East to get to know him better. Well, I had met Stone on the Internet. And I'm sure that in the course of communicating with him about the charms, I'd get to know him a little better. The fact that I didn't plan to be within five hundred miles of the fellow was just a minor detail.

  Chapter 5

  "Mom, I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I have a pan of biscuits that needs to come out of the oven. Can I just run by your place later?"

  No, that wouldn't do, I thought. I doubted I could fabricate as well in my own home. I'd feel more confident on foreign ground. Okay, less trapped on foreign ground. I really did dread a face-to-face confrontation with Wendy. I could leave her house whenever I wanted to, but could hardly shove her out my own front door when I wanted to end the conversation. I'd have to use at least a little tact and decorum, two admirable traits that did not come naturally to me.

  "How about if I just stop by your house in about an hour?" I asked her. "I have to go to Wal-Mart anyway. I'm going out of town, and I need a few last minute items." You know, I said to myself, a magnifying glass, DNA test strips, fingerprint kit, and other must-have travel items.

  "Where are you going?" Wendy asked.

  "I'll explain when I get there. Don't let those biscuits burn," I cautioned, and quickly replaced the handset.

  Oh boy, here goes. Suddenly the urge to pop my knuckles was intense.

  * * *

  Wendy looked tired. Her long auburn hair looked stringy and unkempt. She was a few inches taller than I, standing at about five feet, five inches or so, and she'd always been extremely thin.

  She's one of those women other women despise solely because of their metabolism—the type you expect to whine that they have problem keeping weight on their frames. The type who'd say, "I can eat eighteen thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce," while licking chocolate frosting off their fingers.

  Actually, Wendy has never been one to boast about her ability to eat like a rhinoceros and stay stick slim. She doesn't even nag me about my weight when I start building on layers of insulation every winter. That's just one of the things I love so much about her.

  To be honest, however, as envious as I was of her metabolism, I was sure Wendy would look more attractive with about ten extra pounds. When she's worn down, she looks haggard, and the gauntness in her face is even more pronounced, as it had been recently. She looked like she'd been under a lot of pressure, and I felt bad that I was about to add to her worries.

  "Hi, Mom. Come in and have a seat in the kitchen. I've just made a fresh pot of coffee. You look like you could use a cup."

  She must not have seen me doing cartwheels down her driveway. "Yes, dear, a cup of coffee would be wonderful," I said.

  "So, tell me, where are you going?"

  "Myrtle Beach, South Carolina."

  "Whatever for?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

  "T-to—to meet a man."

  "What? What did you say?" There was disbelief is her voice, as she spewed coffee across the kitchen table.

  As Wendy eyed me suspiciously, I popped several of my knuckles before I continued. "I'm meeting a very nice gentleman who lives there."

  "Whatever for?" Wendy asked again.

  Couldn't you make it easy for me, dear, and just nod your head in acceptance? I'm doing all this for you—to protect you.

  So please don't drag me through the coals over annoying little details, I said under my breath. My knuckles were already beginning to swell.

  I checked each of my cuticles and began to ramble. "Well, dear, as you know, I've been widowed for almost twenty years. I never felt you'd accept another man in my life, either as a substitute father figure to you, or as an object of affection to me. And I didn't particularly want to throw myself back into the dating scene anyway. But now that you're grown up and married, I've met a man I'm interested in and would like to get to know better. I can almost guarantee it won't go any further than friendship, but I want to give it a chance so I won't regret it later. I'm not getting any younger, you know. And it's kind of lonely for me these days."

  I stopped to catch my breath, and to get an emery board out of my purse to smooth out a jagged fingernail I'd just noticed.

  Wendy's mouth was hanging open in shock and dismay. I could read the thoughts flashing through her mind as if she'd spoken them out loud. My mother has taken leave of her senses. Dementia has set in. And she's lying about something. That much is obvious. Wendy turned her chair to face me and attempted to look me in the eye. I was too preoccupied with that jagged nail.

  "What's his name?" Wendy asked.

  "St-st-tone Van Patten." Here we go, interrogation time. Wasn't this intense questioning routine once part of my job description as her mother?

  "Stone? Did you say Stone? What kind of name is Stone?"

  Very much like Clay, if you really think about it, I wanted to say. What did it really matter what the man's name was?

  "He's a jeweler, h
oney, a highly respected jeweler, so I'm sure that Stone is just a nickname. His real name is probably something too common like Bill or Bob," I said defensively.

  "Where'd you meet him?"

  "On the Internet."

  She slammed her hand down with a vivid expletive. I jumped back in my chair in surprise. "You've got to be kidding," she shouted. "Are you totally nuts, Mom?"

  "No, I, er, he just—"

  "Mom, this world is full of weirdoes, whackos, and perverts. Are you aware of that? How old is he?" Wendy spat out "he" like it was another word for pond scum.

  I only knew Stone to be somewhere between puberty and social security, so I opted for a generic answer. "Oh, you know, a b-b-baby-boomer like myself."

  I gulped down half my coffee in one swallow and it burnt my throat badly. I choked, I gagged, and after a prolonged coughing fit, I stood up to leave. "Listen, Wendy, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really have a lot of things I need to get done. I'm sure that once you get used to the idea you'll be okay with it."

  Wendy snorted. She actually snorted in derision. "I doubt it, Mom," she said. "And we're not through with this discussion by any means."

  I was afraid of that. I loved my daughter more than life itself, but she was sorely trying my patience.

  Wendy continued, "And I expect you to stop by here to talk to me again before you leave town. I want to know more about this Rock guy!"

  "It's Stone."

  "Rock, Stone, whatever..."

  I walked out her front door with my chin resting against my chest, lower lip protruding and quivering slightly. Exactly when had our roles become reversed? I wondered. I felt like I'd just been chastised and sent to my room, my punishment to be meted out at a later time. Oh well, at least I'd been granted a small reprieve.

  * * *

  Early Thursday morning I stopped by the dental clinic to have my teeth cleaned and x-rayed. The dental hygienist used a new tool that employed a powerful and painful jet of cold water to sandblast the plaque off my teeth. It was like a Waterpik on steroids. I lay back in the chair, grasping, like a lifeline, the tube that was suctioning gallons of water, blood, and saliva from the back of my throat. I was counting the ceiling tiles in an attempt not to scream in agony and bolt from the room. It was then I remembered why I subjected myself to this modern form of water torture only every few years instead of biannually, as recommended. I felt immense relief when the cleaning was completed even though my gums were throbbing, and, no doubt, red and puffy.

  I nodded absentmindedly as the hygienist chided me on my poor flossing habits and warned me of my potential for gingivitis, due to the deep pockets between my teeth and gums. My mind was already on the other tasks I needed to accomplish before the day was over. It wasn't like I hadn't heard it all before anyway.

  After leaving the dental clinic, I took my Jeep Wrangler to the Dodge dealer to have it serviced. It'd been running a little rough and was due for an oil change anyway. Kenny, the service manager, promised to give it a thorough checkup. He'd change the oil and check the tires, brakes, fluid levels, spark plugs, filters, and belts. He thought the carburetor sounded as if it was running a little rich and that the air filter was probably clogged. The Jeep was only two years old and still had less than 15,000 miles on it, so Kenny didn't anticipate any major repairs. It was a slow day at the garage, and he assured me he'd have it ready to pick up in a couple of hours.

  During the long drive to New York from Kansas, I didn't want to experience any car trouble. Breaking down on the interstate is a terrifying ordeal these days. Whenever my vehicle breaks down, and somebody stops to assist me, I immediately question his motives. Why would he want to help me? Is he really a molester, a carjacker, a drug addict, or some other kind of dangerous thug? As I stand on the shoulder, hood up on my car, looking helplessly down at a motor that is refusing to cooperate, I sense that motorists are speeding by looking at me, wondering what kind of thug I am too. It's a scary situation for both sides. I raise the hood and stare at the motor only to make it obvious that the car has broken down, not because I can tell the difference between a manifold and a shoebox.

  So far this Jeep has never stranded me. It's the perfect low profile, inconspicuous vehicle for a Sherlock Holmes wannabe to go amateur sleuthing in—canary yellow, with lots of chrome and lights. I've always been big on accessories, so the Jeep is equipped with a roof rack, running boards, taillight covers, chrome grip handles, brush guard with lights, roll bar with lights, and of course, a spare tire cover with a painting of Tweety Bird bending over and mooning the vehicle behind me. To complete the package, it sports off-road tires the size of those you'd see on an earthmover or a Caterpillar D9. This vehicle had never been off the pavement, nor did I expect it ever would be, but a Jeep cries out for oversized tires just so it won't look wimpy like a Ford Taurus or a Mercury Sable.

  I sat down in the waiting room and sifted through fourteen issues of Car and Driver while I drank three cups of vending machine coffee that looked thicker than the motor oil Kenny was draining out of my Jeep. I glanced at my watch and noticed that exactly seven minutes had passed since I turned the keys over to the mechanic.

  I walked to the pay phone and called Wendy to come pick me up. She wasn't scheduled to begin her new job at the county coroner's office for two more weeks. I decided to bite the bullet and get round two of the inquisition over.

  Wendy was in high spirits when she picked me up. As we headed back toward her neighborhood, she told me Clay had been offered a detective position with the KCK Homicide Division. It was the position he'd most wanted to land when he'd distributed his resume and applications, Wendy declared, with a great deal of pride evident in her voice.

  "He's so glad he's going to work with the Kansas City Kansas Police Department," Wendy said. She seemed unusually excited and bubbly. "Clay said that there are a lot more murders in Kansas City than in Shawnee, Lenexa, or any of these smaller, suburban, metropolitan areas."

  "Yes," I agreed. "Lots of murders—I'm sure that's a wonderful thing. Nothing like job security, right? I know Clay must be thrilled."

  I wanted to tell Wendy that her new husband was a menace to society. If it took one to know one, he'd probably be an expert at weeding out killers. "Oh, yes, Mom," Wendy said. "We both are. He starts this Monday. I'll have over a week to myself—during the days at least—before I start my job."

  "That will be nice, I'm sure," I said, sincerely.

  "So, Mom, you're still determined to go through with this, huh?"

  "Yes, honey, I am."

  "You're going to drive twelve hundred miles to go see some man you only know from chatting with him over the Internet, and you don't think that's a bit insane, and maybe just a touch impulsive and dangerous? Mom, you don't know this guy from Adam!"

  Gosh, I don't even know Adam. I wasn't going to drive twelve hundred miles to see Stone. I said I was going to get to know him better, not "see" him. I am not a liar. I am not a liar, I repeated over and over to myself. "Wendy, that's just part of the reason I'm going back East. I've always heard the fall colors back in that area are fantastic, and I thought while I was back there enjoying the sights, I might as well meet Stone somewhere for dinner and a drink. That's all I have in mind. I'll be staying in a little bed and breakfast by myself, not at his place. There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about. I'll be f-f-fine."

  I looked over at Wendy as she drove, rather erratically, down Seventy-Fifth Street. She looked unconvinced. "R-r-really," I added lamely.

  Suddenly the thought of being tortured by the dental hygienist again seemed preferable to conversing with my own child. My gums throbbed in an involuntary reaction to the recollection of my hour from hell at the dental clinic.

  I changed the subject then and began talking about a three-day sale at the JCPenney outlet. The ploy worked. We even stopped at the outlet, and I picked up a Minolta Maxxum camera outfit that had been marked down thirty percent. My old camera had become unreliable, and I'd hav
e to take pictures of the fall colors back East, if nothing else. I, of course, would have to return to Kansas with an album full of tree photos to validate my newly revised story.

  We entered Wendy's house through the garage, loaded down with several sacks full of household items she'd purchased for her new home. It was the first time I'd been in their basement rec room since Wendy and Clay had moved in. The furniture was grouped in front of a wood-burning stove. Against the far wall was a TV with a screen the size of a garage door, and there was a bull moose head hanging over a brown leather couch.

  "Wow, that was quick!" I said.

  "Huh?"

  "Your taxidermist's motto should be 'You bang 'em, we'll hang 'em—fast!"

  Wendy looked flustered for a second, and then it dawned on her I was talking about the moose head. "That's a different mount, Mom. Clay brought this one from New York. He bagged it somewhere back East."

  "Oh, I see." I didn't really have a clue why anyone would want one dead moose head in his home, much less two. The next couple of hours were enjoyable. Clay was out somewhere with his weight-lifting buddies, probably drinking beer and smashing the cans against his forehead. Wendy and I visited, laughed, and drank espresso until Kenny called Wendy's number to let me know my Jeep was ready to pick up.

  Wendy was still upset with me, but she'd resigned herself to the fact I was going to South Carolina to meet the psychotic pervert with the ridiculous name, and nothing she said or did was going to stop me. For the moment, that was good enough for me.

  Chapter 6

  The sun was just peeking up over the horizon as I approached the Columbus, Ohio, city limits. I'd spent the first night of the trip in a little budget motel near Indianapolis. It had offered reasonable rates, and had a nearby diner and gas station. More importantly, I didn't see any bugs in my room large enough to cart off my suitcase.

  I'd awoken early, too excited to sleep, so I'd taken off again before sunrise. I filled up with gas at the all-night station down the street, and purchased an Indiana Hoosiers travel mug full of hot, but tasteless, coffee.