Fortune Hunter (A Miss Fortune Mystery Book 8) (2 page)

“What else did she have to send?” I asked. “Her left leg? A kidney?”

“No,” Gertie said. “I mean, Beulah’s not the only one. Myrtle said Bessy Thompson and Willa Maples were down at the sheriff’s department this morning, demanding Carter find the scoundrel and get their money back.”

“They all got taken by the same guy?” I asked.

Gertie shrugged. “The profiles were different, but really, it could be anyone, so that doesn’t mean much.”

“And all of them sent money?” Ida Belle asked, already shaking her head in anticipation of the answer she knew was forthcoming.

“Yep,” Gertie said. “I don’t know how much. Myrtle got interrupted for a bit because Old Man Marcantel’s goat ate the lock on the jail cell they were keeping him in and started eating his way through a filing cabinet.”

“Why was a goat in jail?” I asked.

Gertie waved a hand in dismissal. “The usual offenses. Anyway, my point is someone is scamming lonely Sinful women out of money.” She clapped her hands. “We have a crime to investigate.”

My automatic protest quivered on my lips, but for the first time since I’d arrived, I actually paused. In the past, I’d attempted, although somewhat halfheartedly, to avoid involvement in anything that law enforcement would be addressing because I had to be careful not to blow my cover. Since that cat had burst out of the bag, I had no reason to continue pretending to be a law-abiding librarian, as least as far as Carter was concerned. Which left me options I didn’t have before.

Ida Belle and Gertie looked at me, expectant expressions on their faces. I knew they wanted me to toss my hat in the investigative ring—mostly to help bring me out of my current funk, but also because the two of them were physically and mentally incapable of not poking their nose into things.

“Why the hell not,” I said.

“
Y
ay
!” Gertie cheered as Ida Belle broke into a grin.

Apparently, my pronouncement had scored big.

I held up one hand. “But…I have no idea where to even start. I’ve barely looked at Facebook and only have vague exposure to this whole catfish thing. You two are going to have to get all this going.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Gertie said. “I’ve got it all figured out.”

“Uh-oh,” Ida Belle said.

Gertie shot her a dirty look then looked back at me. “I’m going to go fishing.”

I frowned. “This is another metaphor, right?”

“I’m going fishing for a catfish,” Gertie said triumphantly. “Get it?”

“And just what are you proposing to use as bait?” Ida Belle asked.

“Me, of course. That should be enough for any man,” Gertie said.

Ida Belle snorted. “More than.”

Gertie ignored her. “But since this isn’t a regular romance sort of situation, I’m going to need more than my natural beauty and charm, so I figured I’d use money to make it an even better deal.”

“What money?” Ida Belle asked. “It’s not like you’re the Caesar of Sinful or something.”

“I’m not going to actually send him money,” Gertie said. “I just need to reel him in enough that he asks for money. Then maybe we can track him down.”

“But how are you going to get him to notice you in the first place?” Ida Belle asked. “We don’t know for sure that it’s the same guy scamming all the women, and even if it is, we don’t know how he’s choosing them.”

“He must live here,” I said, “or be very familiar with the area. Enough to know the people. I mean, think about it, he’s picked the perfect victims—lonely women with available cash. How could he do that if he didn’t have insider knowledge?”

“Which makes it worse, not better,” Ida Belle said. “Everyone in Sinful knows Gertie is a confirmed bachelorette, not to mention the fact that she has a decent retirement, but she’s not rolling in it.”

She had a point. Gertie already had a Facebook account. Assuming that whoever was catfishing Sinful women had prior knowledge of his victims, then chances were he already knew all about Gertie’s lifestyle and her pocketbook.

“I can fix the money thing,” Gertie said.

Ida Belle snorted. “If you know how to make money materialize, I wish you’d have let me know before now.”

“I don’t have to actually have the money,” Gertie said. “He just has to think I have it. For instance, what if I put out a rumor that my great-aunt died and left me a fortune?”

“If you had a great-aunt who was still alive,” Ida Belle said, “she’d be rich because of that alone,
and
in that Ripley’s Believe It or Not thing.”

“That could work,” I said.

They both looked at me.

“Seriously,” I said. “Louisiana is full of distant relatives and people with cash buried in their backyards, right? No one has questioned me being here and inheriting my supposed great-aunt’s stuff. Why would they question Gertie if she said she had money coming?”

“They wouldn’t,” Ida Belle said. “The money is not the real problem. It’s the part where Gertie all of a sudden decides to start man-hunting.”

“I could pull it off,” Gertie said. “I could do that whole thing where my spinster aunt’s death made me look at my own life and rethink my choices. And one of those choices is men. So now I want to have a great romance before I die.”

I sighed. It wasn’t voluntary, but I may as well have screamed. Gertie and Ida Belle both went silent, staring at me with those concerned looks I’d seen so much lately. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to derail the festivities.”

“You can’t keep holding everything in,” Gertie said. “It’s not healthy.”

“She cried at a coffee commercial,” Ida Belle said. “It’s not all in.”

“Oh, honey!” Gertie reached over and squeezed my hand. “It’s going to be okay. You’ll see. And something to take your mind off things is just what you need.”

“I know you’re right,” I said. “It just doesn’t feel like it at the moment.”

That’s what I said, but I wasn’t sure if the words were to convince Ida Belle and Gertie that I would be fine or to convince myself.

* * *

I
popped
another cookie in my mouth and watched as Ida Belle stalked to the stairs and yelled up at Gertie for the fifth time in the past thirty minutes.

“If you don’t hurry up,” Ida Belle said, “all of us and the catfish are going to be dead and it’s going to be a moot point.”

“Hold your horses!” Gertie yelled back. “It takes time to look this sexy.”

“Unless that time is the time-machine sort, you’re wasting it.”

I grinned. We’d been parked in Gertie’s house for two hours now, first creating the perfect backdrops for her new Facebook profile picture and then settings for some casual shots that she wanted to post different days. The last hour, Ida Belle and I had been mooning around the kitchen while Gertie was upstairs, rendering herself into catfish bait. I couldn’t wait to see what she came up with because I already knew it wouldn’t be normal or even remotely age-appropriate.

Ida Belle stalked back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. “If she comes down in lingerie, I’m leaving. There are limits to what you should ask a best friend to help with.”

I was just about to pop another cookie in my mouth, but I paused. Lingerie was something that hadn’t crossed my mind, and now I was silently cursing Ida Belle for putting the image there.

“I thought she was supposed to look lonely, not desperate,” I said, praying that if nightwear was involved, it was fuzzy pj’s with cats on them.

Ida Belle sighed. “I’m convinced she has a funhouse mirror up there—you know, the kind where you see something completely different than everyone else unless they’re standing behind you.”

“It could be worse,” I said. “She could be wearing flowered dresses with lace trim like Celia. Nothing could be less character-appropriate.”

Ida Belle and Gertie’s archenemy was a particularly loathsome woman who had taken an instant disliking to me and was constantly trying to get me arrested for whatever crime had just transpired in Sinful. Any minute, I expected a knock on my door and Carter to be standing there accusing me of being the catfish. Unfortunately, as Celia was currently the mayor—although contested—she had the ability to wreak more havoc than before. We were praying the election audit overturned the results and she would be ousted soon, replaced by the other candidate, Ida Belle and Gertie’s friend, Marie. Until then, however, Celia would continue her campaign to make life difficult for all three of us.

“There are no clothes that are character-appropriate for Celia,” Ida Belle said, “unless you count those demon costumes at Halloween.”

“We could get her some T-shirts made. They could say something like ‘Butthole’ and have an arrow pointing up.”

Ida Belle stared at me for a couple seconds. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“We’d have to drug her to wear it, but it might be worth sacrificing an Ambien for.”

Ida Belle glanced back at the stairs. “Not so loud. If you-know-who overhears, she’ll be plotting a way to make it happen. Celia is enough trouble when we’re not poking at her. I’d prefer to keep her at arm’s length, at least until the election recount is over.”

“If that recount doesn’t come out in Marie’s favor, you’re in for four years of hell.”

“If that happens, I predict an exodus bigger than the one Katrina caused,” Ida Belle said. “People are very unhappy, including people who voted for her.”

“Serves them right, but then as you always say, ‘you can’t fix stupid.’”

Ida Belle nodded. “If I could, I’d be the richest woman in the world.”

“Ta-da!” Gertie sounded off behind us, and we both turned to look.

As Gertie’s costumes went, it wasn’t the worst I’d seen, but then I’d seen a lot. Her pants were fake black leather, fitted tight on the legs and low-slung on the hips. The hot-pink tank with gold-glittered skull and crossbones on it cut off just below her rib cage, leaving a strip of soft, undesirable white flesh in between. Her hair was teased out like an eighties stripper and her makeup was more suited to a heavy metal music video or Goth party than a senior lady supposedly lounging around her house. Red cowboy boots completed the look…because nothing says relaxing at home like footwear you need help taking off.

Ida Belle stared silently at her, and I wasn’t sure if she didn’t know what to say or was afraid that if she started, she wouldn’t run out of things to say.

“What happened to the rest of your shirt?” she finally asked, apparently deciding to tackle one problem at a time.

“Nothing. This is how it’s supposed to fit,” Gertie said.

“Maybe if you’re eighteen and built like an athlete,” Ida Belle said.

“If I put on a longer shirt, then I won’t be able to show off my tattoo,” Gertie explained.

“Oh God,” I mumbled. I
had
been locked up in my house for several days. Gertie could have gotten up to most anything in that amount of time.

Gertie spun around and pointed to a crooked set of swirling disk things on her lower back. “It’s one of those temporary jobs—like Fortune and I used that time at the Swamp Bar.”

Ida Belle stared in dismay. “Lord help. A tramp stamp.”

“Don’t worry,” Gertie said. “It will wash off.”

I grimaced. The tattoo that Gertie had provided me for our Swamp Bar excursion hadn’t been nearly as temporary as she’d claimed it would be. At least this one wasn’t on my body, and under normal circumstances, it would be covered up on Gertie’s. That was, of course, assuming that the lovely town of Sinful got back around to normal any time soon.

“Let’s get this over with,” Ida Belle said. “I’ve got some work on my motorcycle to do. And some drinking. Definitely some drinking.”

“Okay,” Gertie said. “For the first shots, I want to be lounging in the living room. I’ll put on some mood music.”

She headed out of the kitchen, the tramp stamp tilting and swaying on her backside. A couple seconds later, the stereo fired up Metallica. Ida Belle shook her head and grabbed the camera then we both trailed into the living room. Ida Belle drew up short at the entry and I almost ran into her. I started to ask what was wrong, but then I peered around her and saw what had caused the quick stop. Gertie was in the recliner, but she wasn’t sitting normally. She was cocked to one side, with one leg slung over the armrest and one arm thrown back over her head.

It was
Gone with the Wind
—the inappropriate senior version. I was just waiting for the “woe is me.”

“I’m not taking a picture with you sitting like that,” Ida Belle said, practically yelling to be heard over the music. “You look ridiculous.”

“I do not,” Gertie protested.

“This is supposed to be casual,” Ida Belle said. “No one watches television that way except in the movies. Sit up right or slouch like a normal person, but this whole sex-kitten thing is not going to fly. Not only that, the outfit already goes against that lonely-old-woman thing. That pose might get your Facebook account banned for soliciting.”

Gertie looked over at me, apparently wanting me to weigh in. Damn.

“I agree with most of what Ida Belle said,” I said. I happened to watch television with my legs hanging over the side of the recliner, but I didn’t see a good reason to mention that now.

Gertie slung her leg off the recliner and moved into a normal sitting position. “Party poopers.”

Ida Belle lifted the camera and took a picture.

“I wasn’t ready!” Gertie protested.

“I know,” Ida Belle said. “That’s why I took it. I don’t want you posing.”

Ida Belle took a couple more shots of Gertie sitting in the chair, some with her holding the remote and making an attempt to look forlorn. Then Gertie popped up from the chair.

“Now, let’s take some girlfriend shots,” Gertie said.

“What?” Ida Belle said. “No.”

Panic coursed through me. “I can’t.” And then my automatic out hit me. “I can’t risk having an image of me online. Ahmad’s facial recognition software is as good as the CIA’s. Maybe even better.”

“Then it’s me and you,” Gertie said to Ida Belle. “Hand Fortune the camera.”

Ida Belle glared at both of us and I motioned to the camera. “Come on. It’s for a good cause.”

Finally, Ida Belle relented and sat on the couch. I passed her the bowl of popcorn that we’d made for a prop earlier and popped the top on two beers.

“Let’s see some smiles, ladies,” I said and started snapping some shots.

Gertie gave me a big grin and held up her beer as if giving a toast. Ida Belle managed to almost not grimace, then downed half of her beer in a single swig. I took about ten shots, then Gertie called it done and declared we were moving into the kitchen for the next round.

“I thought we were done,” Ida Belle groused to me on the way back to the kitchen.

I handed her the camera. “Apparently not.”

“I heard that,” Gertie said. “These pictures are that final hook that will snag the catfish. Everyone knows men love to eat, so pictures of me preparing baked goods should seal the deal.”