Granny Bares It All Page 5

  No friendly reason, anyway.

  I checked my phone. My house was equipped with a state-of-the-art burglar alarm that sent a notification to my phone if it got set off. I’d installed it after being visited by a professional assassin. I’d clubbed him with a can of hairspray and sent him on his way.

  But that’s another story.

  My phone informed me that I hadn’t received a notification. So someone had come onto my porch but hadn’t broken in, or had broken in and was enough of a pro to disable the alarm. I was either safe or in a whole mess of danger.

  I used the flashlight app on my phone to examine the door. It hadn’t been broken open. There were no telltale marks near the lock. Had it been picked?

  Gently I tried the door and found it still locked. Then a gleam in the flashlight beam caught my eye. Something was stuck in my lock.

  I took a closer look and saw only a fuzzy haze. I’d left my reading glasses in the car. Frustrated, I took a photo of the lock and zoomed in on the image.

  The end of a metal wire, what looked like part of a paperclip, stuck out of my lock. I tried to pull it out with my fingertips and found it was too lodged in there to budge.

  So I was dealing with an amateur. Opening a lock with a paperclip only works in the movies. Feeling more confident, I moved to my back door and unlocked it, keeping my pepper spray at the ready. Amateurs could be deadly too.

  Getting through the back door, I left the lights off and hurried to the bedroom, eyes sharp for any movement in the shadows. The burglar alarm sensed the door opening and started beeping, warning me I had sixty seconds to punch in the code before it sent a warning to the company. I ignored it. As soon as I got to my bedside table, I pulled out my 9mm, flicked off the safety, and felt much better.

  Just then something moved in the hallway. I brought my gun level, ready to fire, and then relaxed. Dandelion scurried out of the darkness and attached herself to my leg. Nothing like four sets of tiny claws digging into your flesh to tell you that you’re home.

  The alarm started beeping louder and at shorter intervals, warning me my time was running out.

  Shaking Dandelion off my leg and ruining my pantyhose in the process, I made a thorough search of the house and found no sign that anyone had broken in. I was just about finished with my search when my alarm gave a long, sustained beep. My time had run out. I continued to ignore it until I finished my search. Then I went to the alarm, punched in the code, and stopped its annoying noise.

  My cell phone started ringing, its sound muffled inside my purse, which I had left on the back porch. I went over and answered.

  It was the alarm company.

  “Mrs. Gold? This is Sentinel Alarm,” a concerned woman’s voice told me. “We detected your burglar alarm going off in your house two minutes ago.”

  I put on my sweet little old lady voice. “Oh, I do apologize. I’m here, and everything’s fine. It was my cat.”

  “Your cat set off the burglar alarm?”

  “Um, well, not exactly. You see, Dandelion grabbed at my leg when I came through the door and distracted me. Cats can be such a distraction, can’t they?”

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Gold. Would you like us to set the timer for longer than sixty seconds to give you more time when coming through the door? We do that with many of our customers who have mobility issues.”

  It’s amazing how quickly people become condescending when they notice you’re old.

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. By the way, was the alarm turned off at any time between one in the afternoon and now?”

  I could hear her tapping the keyboard on the other end of the line.

  “No, ma’am. Did you expect someone to come into your house?” The poor woman on the other end of the phone sounded confused. “If you have memory issues, we can assign a customer service representative to help you with your security needs.”

  We’d moved from mobility issues to memory issues? She’d also started speaking more loudly and slowly.

  Time for a counterattack.

  “Oh, no memory issues. I was just wondering if my grandson stopped by to visit while I was at the nudist colony.”

  Dead silence. I grinned.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “thank you for calling. Most kind of you.”

  I hung up.

  My next call was to Arnold Grimal, who was just about to leave the office after a hard day of paperwork and Chinese takeaway. I told him about the attempted break-in, and he said he’d send over an officer.

  “Find out anything interesting today?” I asked.

  “I spoke with the IRS again. No trouble with any of the tax returns for the resort. At my request, they had one of their experts take a look at their returns going back several years and found nothing suspicious.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Yeah, and I had a look at her will. She gave everything to several different environmental charities, except for a few family heirlooms that went to her sister. I also spoke with her physician. No history of mental illness or any serious physical problems. She was in good health for someone her age.”

  Unlike you, I thought. Yes, I can be catty at times.

  “The doctor did tell me one interesting thing, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “He prescribed her sleeping pills. She said she was under stress and couldn’t sleep at night.”

  “Did she give a reason why?”

  “No. Said it was personal.”

  “Hm.”

  “Hm, indeed. Oh, the autopsy didn’t show drugs in her system beyond a trace amount of the sleeping pill, perfectly normal for someone the next morning after taking the prescribed dose. She was not abusing them. Didn’t find any diseases or chronic conditions either.”

  And that was that. He had nothing more for me except a couple of pieces of a puzzle that still wasn’t showing a coherent picture.

  The officer arrived and checked the house and dusted for prints on the door. I didn’t hold out much hope of finding prints since our murderer had been so careful with the stolen Lexus. The officer was very kind and said his chief had told him to stay to watch the house if I wanted him to. I declined. I’d probably be safer without the attentions of Cheerville’s finest. Just to be on the safe side, I asked for a patrol car to pass by my house at regular intervals during the night. The officer assented to this request without a murmur, having no doubt been ordered by his police chief to do just that. Grimal knew if something happened to me, the CIA would have his head on a platter.

  The policeman left, and I double-checked the house was secure, that all doors and windows were locked and the porch lights both in front and out back were on.

  So the murderer had found my address. That gave me another clue about him or her. They had obviously noted my license plate number while I was noting the one on the Lexus and had access to the Department of Motor Vehicle files.

  That meant either a DMV worker, a cop, or someone who knew a DMV worker or cop and could get them to look up my license plate.

  I suspected it wasn’t a cop who had come to my house. Even Cheerville’s bumbling officers could pick a lock with more finesse than the person who had broken a paperclip in my front door. Plus, they would have noted the burglar alarm. So more likely a state employee. Perhaps someone at Parks and Rec? I didn’t have any excuse to go over there, though.

  I’d have to leave that part of the investigation to Grimal. I sent him a text outlining my suspicions and asking him to get a warrant to check the membership list and crosscheck it against anyone who could access the DMV files. Getting the warrant from the judge could be handled quickly enough, but I asked him to hold off on serving the warrant for the moment. I wanted another chance to tease out the truth myself. This murderer was an amateur but clever. If cops showed up at the nudist colony and started rifling through files, the murderer would be on their guard and could start thinking up an alibi and hiding evidence. It was better to catch them by surprise before that
happened.

  Grimal texted back that he’d “take care of everything.” That did not make me feel better.

  What made me feel even worse was the prickly feeling I was getting under my clothing. Had I sat down on any poison ivy at the nudist colony? Actually, it felt like I’d rolled in a whole patch of it.

  I took off my clothes, out of sight of any crowd of strangers this time, and examined myself.

  Oh dear. I had a sunburn in all the wrong places.

  I glopped on a liberal amount of moisturizer and put on my nightgown. The material clung to me and made me even itchier, so I caved in to the inevitable, removed my nightie, and got into bed nude. It felt more comfortable.

  Despite the attempted break-in, I slept well, secure in the knowledge that I had a good alarm system and anyone breaking in would be faced with a naked senior citizen with a gun in one hand, a can of pepper spray in the other, and a really bad temper after what she’d been through that day.

  It was doubtful the intruder would come back in any case. This person was not stupid, just inexperienced. They knew I’d discover that bit of paperclip in my front door. Even if I hadn’t seen it, I’d have noticed it when I tried to put my key in the lock. They would try to find another way to get me. Whoever it was, they were cold-blooded and methodical. I’d have to ask Grimal to keep an eye out for any more stolen cars in the area. Since the first murder had worked so well, the killer might try the same method on me.

  What really worried me was the possibility that the killer was also a member of the nudist colony and had learned what I looked like. If they had seen the DMV scan of my driver’s license, they’d know my face. My precaution with the rental car had achieved nothing. If they really did know what I looked like, they could come at me when I was vulnerable. There was no way to hide my 9mm in my towel, and carrying my purse around with me everywhere I went at Sunnydale would look suspicious.

  Whatever happened at the nudist colony the next day, I would have to make sure that I was never out of sight of other people. I’d have to stick with the crowd. The killer wouldn’t dare try anything against me then.

  Not unless there was a grand conspiracy of nudists to take out Clarissa and all other opposition.

  But that would be too weird even for Cheerville.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Eight

  The next day, I arrived at Sunnydale Nature Resort bright and early. I needed time to get to know people before the memorial service, which would be at seven that night. The air was muggy and carried the heat of early summer.

  I still drove the rental, figuring that while I was on the road, it might keep the killer from recognizing me. Of course, if the killer really was at the nudist colony, they would know it was my car if they saw me getting out of it. So it wasn’t much of an extra precaution, but in my line of work, I’d learned that even tiny added layers of safety could make a vital difference.

  I had taken another precaution as well. This time I came armed with a large bottle of sunscreen with an SPF of a hundred. I hadn’t known it came that high. It was called Sun Shield but should have been called Nudist’s Necessity. I parked in front of the office and undressed in the car.

  Adrian came out. He was nude this time, and from his appearance, I could tell the air conditioning was on inside. Adrian didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by this natural reaction of male anatomy, proving that he practiced what he preached about body positivity.

  As I came out of the car, he stared at my body. No one had done that here before. In fact, no one had done that since my husband passed. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to slap him, run away screaming, or curl up and die.

  “Oh dear, I see you’ve made the first mistake of a new nudist,” Adrian said.

  “I look like a lobster whose face and hands somehow escaped the pot,” I replied, somewhat relieved that he was looking at my body for a valid reason.

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry, sunburns are an occupational hazard in our lifestyle. Your skin will soon adjust, and you’ll have a beautiful all-body tan.”

  He spoke the truth. Everyone else here was universally golden.

  “I brought some suntan lotion this time,” I said.

  “Good. There’s a brand called Sun Shield that has an SPF of a hundred.”

  “That’s what I got.”

  “Smart woman. So what did you do before you retired?”

  The suddenness and direct tone of the question took me aback. My cover story came out quickly enough, though. I’d had decades of practice.

  “I was in the Foreign Service, working on development projects in the Middle East and Latin America.”

  “Government work, eh?” He did not look happy. “Well, enjoy your day.”

  He went back inside. I decided to head to the lake. As I ambled down the slope, I felt like I was being watched, like eyes were boring into my back. I peeked over my shoulder.

  Adrian stood inside the open door to the office building, half obscured and no doubt thinking the relative shadow hid him from view.

  He was looking right at me.

  I pretended I hadn’t noticed and continued my walk down to the lake.

  Several people lay on the grass by the water or waded around in the shallows, thankfully all women. Most were of retirement age, except for one lovely girl who looked like she was in college. She had a model’s body and flawless skin. She stood waist deep in the water and was playfully splashing an older woman who resembled her enough that I guessed she was her mother.

  Everyone greeted me in a friendly way, and I put my towel down next to the oldest woman there, someone about my age. I didn’t notice my choice in companions until I had actually lain down. I’d chosen her automatically. Somehow I felt better sitting next to her.

  That feeling disappeared as the young woman came out of the water toward me. The words Zoe had said came back to me.

  I bet if I were a gorgeous twenty-something, you’d feel uncomfortable.

  “Hi!” she said. “I’m Angie.”

  “Hello. I’m Barbara…” My voice trailed off as I noticed an ugly scar on her hip, several furrows that ran from the top of her hip to her thigh. Her right arm had some too. I hadn’t noticed those at first because she had been partially turned away from me.

  “Motorcycle accident,” she said.

  “Oh dear! I didn’t mean to stare. I’m ever so sorry.” What was the matter with me?

  “It’s all right. Our scars show our history. It’s part of who we are.”

  She recited that line like some people recite the Scriptures.

  “Well, I have plenty of scars too,” I said, “although you probably can’t tell through all the wrinkles.”

  “Wrinkles show our history too. They show someone has survived in the world and learned wisdom on the way.”

  “I’m not sure how much wisdom I have, but I certainly have the wrinkles.”

  I’ve never liked proselytizers. I respect people who have faith, and I have my own, but flaunting it has always struck me as going against the spirit of faith. It appeared that nudism was a religion with this girl, and she wanted to preach to a new convert.

  She smiled. “You have the wisdom to try something new at your age.”

  “New? Oh yes, the sunburn. My grandson would call that a n00b move.”

  That means “newbie” and yes, it’s spelled with two zeroes. Don’t ask me why.

  “You should bring him here,” she said with a serene smile lighting up her face.

  I don’t think so, I thought. Seeing you might bring on early puberty.

  She studied my body as if reading a textbook. I tensed under the scrutiny.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing. I looked at where she indicated and couldn’t help but let out a little gasp. On my side, a couple of inches to the left of and a little below my belly button, was a bullet wound I’d received in the Sinai.

  I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d had it for more than thirty years, and since it was
always covered with clothing or a bathing suit, I’d never paid it much mind. Now it was visible for all to see.

  “Oh, that was from an operation. Laparoscopic surgery,” I said.

  The young woman’s brow furrowed. “And it left so much scar tissue?”

  Don’t tell me I’m talking to a medical student here, I thought.

  “Oh, it was a long time ago when the procedure was still experimental.”

  Her eyes moved down to my upper thigh, where I had a second bullet wound, this one earned in El Salvador in that incident with the canoe. Sank my canoe and nearly sank me.

  I fell silent, a lame explanation caught on my tongue, and waited for her to say something.

  Instead she smiled at me, said, “Welcome to Sunnydale,” and sat down by her mother.

  If anyone else thought our conversation had been strange or my scars suspicious, they didn’t give any indication. Everyone introduced themselves and made small talk.

  Eventually the conversation turned to Clarissa’s death.

  Angie seemed the most upset by it.

  “She was a true believer in what we’re doing here,” she said. “Some people just come here for fun or to get away from the stress in their lives. That’s all right, I guess, but she really tried to help the movement.”

  “How so?” I asked, remembering that comment about helping with the taxes.

  Actually, it had been Zoe who had first mentioned it and then got angry when her husband said Clarissa had been a great help. Strange.

  “She did everything,” a middle-aged woman named Kim said. “Whatever needed doing, whenever there was a call for volunteers, she was the first in line.”

  “Adrian really came to rely on her,” Angie said. The way she said it, a bit pointedly, seemed to imply something. The slightest of frowns from a couple of the others hinted at that too.

  “She was a good woman,” Kim stated as if to cut off the conversation that might have come. “Such a shame she should be cut off from life by some drunk driver.”

  There was a pause. Angie nodded.

  “If more people lived like us, things like that wouldn’t happen,” another woman stated. “Unhealthy living leads to unhealthy choices. You’d never catch one of us driving drunk.”