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When Fuzz could get away from my singing by going someplace else in our home, he would. When he was trapped in the battered old Toyota, he rolled his eyes, emitted little groans, and attempted to bury his head in his afghan. He didn't need the ability to verbalize his distress; his expression said clearly that even his hair was in pain. Now, mind you, I once was able to sing! But as in most things, when you got it, use it -- practice, practice, and more practice -- or lose it. I did -- lose it, that is. So there eventually developed in my erstwhile rich mezzo a quaver that at increased levels of volume alerted seismometers in neighboring states. Thinking perhaps the plush sound-deadening qualities of the vehicle we were in at the moment might possibly improve my performance, I ahemed and ahawed a bit, drew in a deep diaphragmatic breath, and launched forth with the first couple of stanzas of "Voi Lo Sapete, O, Mama" as we cruised otherwise soundlessly towards Shearwater Beach, Oregon. Fuzz's head shot up to an astonishing height over the edge of his dog carseat, considering the Chihuahua's neck is only about three inches long. He looked at me with wild, staring eyes and, in one swift motion, was between the divided front seats to bury himself so far as caninely possible in the plus rear seat of our snazzy brand-new BMW850Ci. I realize it's ludicrous, but I really felt hurt and humiliated at that display; surely he could have softened it a bit, right -- for old time's sake? Or just because he loves me? Ah, well, Marilyn Horne is in no danger of being dethroned by me. So once I returned to the lush sounds of Bruckner's Fifth Symphony on a disc I bought when I discovered the CD player, Fuzz apparently approved and crept back onto the front right seat. Even if the acoustic properties in this magnificent automobile -- one must never refer to a BMW850Ci as a mere car -- did nothing to improve my acoustic properties, tooling around in it was truly delightful, particularly for friend dog. There were all sorts of corners and cubbyholes, all thoroughly padded and plushy, of course, into which he could curl his tiny self. In the hour or so we had been on the road, he had found at least six places he admired more than his own carseat. That was probably all to the good for the carseat was the only item other than my swank luggage that I had switched from my pickup to the BMW, and the upholstery of the latter visibly shrank from the contamination. If Fuzz had all these places he preferred, we would relegate the offending carseat to the trunk at the first opportunity. Why, do you ask, am I draped casually at the wheel of such a vehicle? Well you might ask. When my arm was twisted to go south into Oregon rather than east to Utah after the Fort Meriwether debacle, a mission to see if I could clear up once and for all the misgivings of a friend's sister-in-law regarding the death of her own sister twenty-five years earlier, I knew it was going to be something quite different from work I usually took on, both in content and in style. And style is really the operative word here. No gap-toothed, bleary-eyed, dimwitted inebriate this time, driving around in a spavined green Toyota pickup, blending as much as possible into the beery background of saloons and pool halls. Oh, no! This might possibly be the only time in the entire life of this investigator when I traveled absolutely Triple-A First Class, and I fully intended to luxuriate in it, indulge every whim! When I was instructed to rent a good car -- money no object! -- I asked the leasing agency in Portland for the finest, most impressive automobile they could come up with, and this was it, some $84,000 worth of car -- oops -- well, I'm used to car, so that resolution won't stand the light of day. In the trunk is a complete set of Louis Vuitton luggage lovingly loaded with DKNY outfits, Calvin -- well, clothes I never thought I would ever own -- and that is the right word, own. Pretty hard to rent, lease or borrow designer clothes unless your first name is Nancy. Let me assure you, I did not, however, have to pay for them myself; that was also part of the incentives package for this job. The luggage is mine as well, having been my "pay" from a luggage dealer for finding an errant ex-wife along with his Jaguar and his lawyer. It turned out he was overloaded with overpriced stock but had very little ready cash. When my bill came due, he paid for part of it with this set of luggage. I had stored it for several years as not precisely fitting the fashion requirements of a semi-baglady, my normal appearance when on assignment. Add to this welcome disguise a complete makeup and hair design at a salon noted for making silk purses from sows' ears, all the shoes, handbags, scarves -- the stuff it takes to present oneself as well turned out. Let me assure you, I would be a vision of sartorial -- can you use sartorial in the description of feminine attire? -- elegance. Therefore, you see before you a new Sheila Casey, this time known as Sheila Carlisle. Sounds downright toney, doesn't it? Even Fuzz, to his unmitigated disgust, is sporting a new red leather collar from which dangles a 14K medallion of a fire hydrant, and which flaps against his massive chest with every move. He keeps trying to bite it as he trots along, mumbling darkly to himself over the indignity of it all. No delight in putting on the dog for that dog. But this dog, the two-legged one -- yes, indeedy! We are on our way to the elegant and posh resort hotel at Shearwater Beach called "The Jaeger Inn." I somehow doubt if the bird for which this establishment was named is ever seen in these climes, but the name is certainly euphonious -- "Come and stay with us at The Jaeger at Shearwater" does fall off the end of the tongue nicely. From The Jaeger we will let it be known that we are in the market for a simple, to be sure, home on the beach to lease while we ponder the wisdom of bringing our vast resources and position into this . . . blah, blah, blah. The local yokels are to be thereby duped into thinking they are to treat this slightly chubby newcomer like the Princess Royal at each and every opportunity, allowing her to win at bridge, wining and dining her, and mostly responding happily to her every little request, even for old gossip. In return for this deserved care and attention, she may possibly drop a lot of tax dollars into the public coffers should she decide to make it her summer residence. Got it? Okay. In case you doubt my ability to pull this off considering my background and experience as former policewoman and portrayer of a homeless crone, don't; I assure you, Hollywood and Broadway lost another Duse when I decided to devote my life instead to catching crooks of all types. When sufficiently motivated, I can exert enough mental elbow-grease that this cubic zirconia shines like a blue-white flawless. After establishing myself in my reserved suite at The Jaeger, I am to call one Dorothy Fox, sister-in-law of Barbara Fox, the retired court reporter who helped me -- and nearly got me killed in the process -- during my stay in Fort Meriwether earlier this year. She apparently thinks I can walk on water, and I didn't have the heart to disabuse her of that notion. Mrs. Fox, the wife of Barbara's late brother, has spent many of her years haranguing police and anybody else who would listen to her about the apparent accidental death of her sister one night on Shearwater Beach about twenty-five years ago. The investigation was at best cursory, the known facts of the death seeming to argue persuasively for the "death by misadventure" coroner's ruling handed down at the time. Mrs. Fox didn't believe it for a minute then, and all the years in between have failed to dim her frustration and rage, convinced as she is that this beautiful and adored older sister was murdered by her despicable husband and/or one of his steady stream of extracurricular women. There being no evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, to sustain such a premise at that time, to say nothing of the position and standing of said husband's family in the community, the case was closed and put away by everyone -- everyone, that is, except Dorothy Fox. The one thing which had changed in this scenario was the sum of money Mrs. Fox now had to spend -- some might say blow -- on her obsession. Her husband had owned some four-hundred acres of land farther down the coast which came to the attention of a developer in dire need of coastal property on which to sink foundations and raise criminally expensive view condominiums, a golf course, tennis courts, Olympic-sized indoor pool, marina -- all the trappings of a carefully planned and perfect gem of a residential community. While Mr. Fox was alive, he steadfastly refused to even consider selling the land to anyone, and the offering price for the land grew year upon year while he continued to refuse to sell so much as a single residential site. After his death, however, which was protracted and costly, when Mrs. Fox was approached and apprised of the amount of money to be had from this land, she held out for only about six months. Then when the offered amount became truly astonishing, after a "Sorry, dear," or two, she signed a pound or so of paper and accepted a cashier's check for enough money to keep her quite comfortable, thank you, for as long as she would live, given the ownership of her home on Shearwater Beach, the payment of considerable life insurance monies, a retirement annuity of her own, and the fact that she was normally penny-pinchingly frugal. Part of the windfall, however, she mentally put aside at that very moment to hire somebody to find out after all this time if she hadn't been right all along, that Judy Akers, her sister, had been murdered. And even better, to find out who did it. And best of all, see whoever it was pay for it. Barbara Fox had known how Dorothy felt about her sister's death for many years, of course, since the two women were quite close for in-laws. After the culmination of the Edlin affair in Fort Meriwether, Barbara started in on Dorothy, telling her she had just the person to solve all her problems and put her mind to rest, only to learn that was already in the cards, thanks to a previous happy client. At times coincidence has a remarkably long arm! To make a long story not quite so exhaustive, when I got as far as Portland I called Mrs. Fox. She explained to me the gist of her reasoning and offered me quite a change in my usual druggie or robber chases, to say nothing of the romance in finding deadbeat dads, rent dodgers, and other such exotica. In about three more miles, Fuzz and I will sweep grandly into the reception area of The Jaeger, expecting and receiving the best this ostentatious monument to conspicuous consumption has to offer, which is considerable, assuming one can believe the hype. Tally-ho! |