SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

Cheating Time

I keep having this reoccurring dream that I’m running down an empty street. It’s darker than a midnight where the dim shadow of a sliver blue moon and the intermittent blink of a couple faulty streetlights cast cruel lonely silhouettes.

All I can hear is the haunting echo of my kitten-heeled slingbacks against the pavement and the heaving sighs of my own breathless lungs trying to gasp for air. Then I wake up… every time.

For most people, it would be a terrifying nightmare that abruptly wakes you on a restless night covered in sweat from the frightening images playing like a movie right in your head. But not me.

As a newspaper reporter, curiosity is my bread and butter. If I wasn’t blindly intrigued by nearly everything, I’d be covering dog shows and penning obituaries. The newspaper game isn’t friendly to dames.

But I’m not scared. Beck’s Rule #35, If you’re chicken, you better stay on the farm. Fear is a commodity you can’t afford in my business. But the dream tells me two things. I will not live to a ripe old age. I must die young or I wouldn’t be able to run in heels. And I likely make someone so mad, they want to off me. Good. That means I’m doing my job.

Still, I have a clock on me. Beck’s Rule #42, Time is something you can’t control and can’t worry about. So I don’t worry. I just move forward.

I often feel time running out. But then, I just turn the hourglass over and cheat a few more hours, days, weeks, minutes, years… whatever I need.

Maybe Carrington is feeling the squeeze too. At least I hope so. Even though he’s a few steps ahead of me, I’m catching up. I trust my infallible instincts. I always get my story, no matter what.

My article on counterfeit money definitely ruffled his overstuffed feathers and a few others. I’ve always suspected Carrington’s deep pockets lined some corrupt police wallets and now I know it’s true.

When I reach down for another smoke from my desk drawer, I look over the paper in my faithful Smith-Corona typewriter and see blue wool and gold buttons. Only one organization is old and stale enough to sport that same combination since there was a beat to walk.

“Hello officers, how’s tricks?” I light my cigarette and relax back in my chair, showing little disregard for their imposing presence.

“May, we want to know what evidence you have to prove your counterfeit ring,” Officer Brown orders.

Brown thinks and acts like a hardass, but I know he’s really a stoolie for the Chief, who’s a flunky for the police commissioner, who’s in the mayor’s back pocket. He even looks like someone who’s dumped on. His head is flat and his nose is pushed in like it’s pressed against too many things.

“Now Officer Brown, you know the rules. My sources are none of your business, until you read them in The News Bugle,” I say coyly. I like to play with him.

He huffs and puffs like the proverbial wolf at my house door.

“If that’s the way you want it, I’ll go talk to your editor.”

“Go ahead. You’ll find him less helpful than I am. Puff, Puff Brownie,” I chuckle and he stomps away to my bosses hovel on the other side of the newsroom.

My friend, Officer Ernie, stays behind. He’s a sweet, but a very young rookie with a boyish face and red cheeks when he’s upset, like now.

“May, you shouldn’t talk to him like that. Why make enemies?” Ernie urges.

“Ernie. Trust me. I made enemies with the police in this town the minute I inked my first byline. You’re a good egg, but that guy stinks of payoff and Carrington is footing the bill,” I say.

“You need to be careful. Carrington is a powerful man,” Ernie warns.

“Yeah. They all are. Until they’re not. But Ernie, meet me tonight at the laundry on Jefferson Street and I’ll clue you in on my scheme. But don’t bring that wet blanket and don’t mention it to anyone. Stick with me and you’ll make detective before your pimples dry up,” I tease.

I make Ernie nervous. He takes off his hat to cover his flushed cheeks and walks over to the editor’s office.

Carrington would never send his goons after me, so he sent in the stooge squad to intimidate me? He obviously doesn’t know me. But he will.

Ernie will meet me. I have faith in him. I’m just not sure he’s ready to trust himself.

That night, amid a deep mist reveled by the lone bulb in back of the laundry, Erie’s waiting for me, as directed. Dressed in my sneaking-around outfit, black ballet flats and black pants and coat, I sneak up from behind and scare him.

“Stick ‘em up.” I poke him in the back and he jumps three feet in the air.

“May, cut out the clowning. What are we doing here, anyway?” Ernie uncomfortably asked.

“Carrington is using the back of this room for his illegal printing presses. I saw it myself a few days ago,” I explain and take out my lock picking set.

“Turn around so you don’t see a crime being committed,” I order and he turns his back with a disagreeable sigh.

Then I go to work on the lock. It was a one pin tumbler, easy as pie. I’ve become as adept as a locksmith at getting into places no one wants me in.

I carefully push open the door and motion Ernie to follow.

“Come on, Ernie.”

He looks around, shrugs and follows me. If I could see his face, I’d bet it was red and pink all over.

But when I turn my flashlight on, all I see is steamers and wash machines. The area in the back is vacant. The presses are gone.

“May, there’s nothing here,” Ernie says, wondering why I led him on this goose chase.

“Darn that Carrington. He’s two steps ahead of me, alright.”

I wander around the blank space in frustration, wildly moving my flashlight around, hoping for a clue, anything.

“Come on May. We need to leave. I could get busted down to meter maid for this.” Ernie edges toward the door, nervously.

I turn toward him and my light hits a glimmer of something in the corner.

“Wait a second.” I move toward the object and motion him to join me.

Leaning down, I pick up a ball of white paper. It was a partial print of a $10 bill. Then I see a splotch of hunter green ink smeared on the floor.

“See, Ernie, check this out,” I show him the paper and the ink.

He takes the paper from my hand and gazes at it suspiciously.

“I was right. They were printing phony baloney money, here. I got under their skin and tipped their hand,” I say with a satisfactory grin.

Ernie quietly examined the paper and the ink-stained floor.

“Ok. You’re on to something here. But now they know you know, so you better watch your six. I’ll make some discreet inquiries on the street. Don’t do anything else,” Ernie warns.

Grabbing the paper from his hands, I stuff it in my pocket.

“I think you know me better than that. I’ll let you know when I find our next clue. Stick with me, kid. This will be the first big arrest of your career,” I smile.

“Yeah, either that or we’ll both end up six feet under. Just be careful,” Ernie says as we exit the room.

“Careful and curious are two opposite directions, Ernie. I’ll be in touch,” I say and disappear into the midst of the dark night.

Author’s Note: This is a sneak peek from When Walls Talk: Beck’s Rules Mysteries Book 2, a prequel to Beck’s Rules.

Tales From the Back Seat

Episode 1 – We’re Off to See… A Nudist Camp?

Author’s Note: This is the first episode of a continuing serial about a nostalgic look back at family vacations.

Everyone has childhood vacation stories. Dads taking too many photos. Mom’s obsessively giving handy wipes to each kid after they touched anything. And siblings forever wrangling for ever-precious inches of space on long road trips.

They’re the stories everyone tells many years later at family reunions, with or without scrapbooks and slide shows, making fun of each other’s clothing and antics, often opening old wounds long forgotten or never healed.

My story is from a month’s long cross-country car trip taken by my family in 197…something. Traveling with my family that long revealed the good, bad and ugly in all of us. We saw much of our country; the interesting and even the strange. We met people. And we drove. We drove a lot. But most of all, we made memories that we’ll always remember, for better or worse.

Dad had a thirst for adventure and a love for history. Owning his own business, he worked a lot, so this long trip was designed to see the country’s history and experience its wonder with his children. He wanted to see it all, even the most unusual tourist traps in every state.

Starting from our home in the south suburbs of Chicago, we charted a course south, then west, then north and back east logging thousands of miles in our brown Oldsmobile station wagon.

The grind of the road was challenging right from the start. There were no electronic handheld games, no computers with movies on DVD, no headphones or earbuds with small private music devices, nothing. We had an AM/FM radio that everyone in the car had to listen to simultaneously when we could get a signal.

For me, passing the time was easy. I was a bookworm. I packed a library full of books in the tote bag I won in a reading challenge contest and with my lifelong superpower to quiet the noise around me, I read and read and read.

My siblings weren’t as lucky. My little sister brought some dolls to play with, but there wasn’t a lot of room in the back seat. Being the smallest, she sat on the dreaded hump seat, encroaching on the leg room of me or my brother.

And as the youngest, her favorite pastime was getting attention by annoying my brother. She picked, poked and pinched him, along with endlessly begging him to play with her.

My brother had nothing to do. He didn’t like books or puzzles. He liked sports. You can’t do that in a car. So, for hours each day, he was bored and irritated.

Our first stop was to visit some of my dad’s relatives in southern Illinois. My dad hadn’t seen his cousins since they were kids. They were once great pals, but as things go when you get older, people go different ways and move away from each other.

My dad told us stories about how they played stickball in the city streets and got into some trouble. He loved telling stories and abundantly laughing at his own tales.

I thought it was a unusual to visit relatives you hadn’t seen in forever, but he said my grandmother and her sisters were very close and always wanted family to stay connected, so my dad felt compelled to look them up.

Their house was in a rural south portion of the state and for hours, all we saw out the window was a lot of wide open spaces and farms. They weren’t farmers, but they lived in a small town among them. They lived in a white two-story a-frame house, modest but well kept, with a long gravel driveway.

As we entered the house, I could tell my mother wasn’t thrilled as the house was a little “I don’t want to stick to anything” messy with a lot of clutter.

My father and his cousin shook each other‘s hands, laughed a lot and exchanged slaps on the back with joking comments about how old and fat they both got. I guessed that was normal for grown men. Their children were mostly in their late teens and early twenties, but one daughter who still lived at home, was only two years older than me.

My father‘s cousin Michael, encouraged my brother and I to go play board games in her room while the grown-ups talked. My sister who was several years younger and shy, clung to my mother’s skirt and wouldn’t let go. As we left, I saw my mother roll her eyes. That was one of her irritated tells that I thought was amusing, but didn’t want to see if I’d done something wrong. But she went along, we really didn’t have a choice.

Most kids have to entertain or be entertained by kids who where friends or relatives of their parents on these type of visits. Rarely is it fun, but often it’s tolerable. Games are one universal way to spend time with a relative stranger. Over a game of Sorry, the conversation in the bedroom quickly became strange. Mickey, who was named after her father, was 15 years old. So when she started telling us about the plans for her wedding, at first I thought she was joshing or pretending. But as she babbled on further about the dress and the music, I realized she was serious. With no question from us, she offered that she wasn’t pregnant or anything, but that her boyfriend was 18 and they both got their parents’ permission to get married to start a family right away.

I was thoroughly confused. While I liked boys, I certainly didn’t know why any 15 year-old would want to marry one and start having babies. To me, that was crazy and I probably showed it in my notorious lack of a poker face. But at only 13 years old, who was I to judge?

After an hour, my mother entered the room with an urgent “let’s get out of here” face and gave us a reprieve. But on the way out, my father‘s cousin said he wanted to take us over to see his brother. My dad agreed and said we would follow them, despite my mother’s big-eyed look to him, miming her objection.

We traveled about 15 to 20 minutes through an even more rural area. There were no houses, very few cars and no people. My mother began to express concern that we didn’t know where we were or what we were doing, but my father just brushed it off and said we were already here and he’d like to see him again.

But when we passed a sign that said “Rundle County Nudist Camp,” my mother began to argue.

“We need to turn around. This is ridiculous. We have young children,” she said.

“I’m sure we’re not going into the nudist camp. My cousin wouldn’t be at a nudist camp,” my father said with little conviction. After all, he hadn’t seen him since he was a kid. He had no idea what he was like now.

My mother grumbled and my brother and I smiled at each other, stifling a laugh. I didn’t really know what a nudist camp was. I knew what nude was, kind of. We did get the “paper covered” Playboy magazine in our mailbox every month.

I wondered what they did at a nudist camp. My brother and I went to a day camp during the summer where we swam, played games and did arts and crafts. I was puzzled at what kinds of arts and crafts nudists did. Given the fact that we were driving right into the camp, I guessed we would find out.

When we pulled up to a small cabin area with a sign that read “Reception,” my mother’s arguments became more fervent.

“We are not going in here. If you want to see your cousin, the kids and I will stay in the car,” she insisted, folding her arms in protest.

My father looked a little perplexed. I don’t really know if he really wanted to go to a nudist camp either.

“Look I’m sure he just works here or something. I don’t think my cousin would be a nudist. But that’s fine, you guys stay here. I won’t be long,” he said and left the car.

It seemed long. According to my watch with the lemon lime wristband at least a half an hour had gone by. I could see my mother become more agitated with every minute, but she tried to keep us occupied. As usual I had my nose in my book and my mother was playing I-Spy with my brother and sister. I think she was hoping the whole time that no one without clothes would ever be spied. I was a little curious, but glad we didn’t see any people.

About 15 minutes later my father got back into the car with a strange look on his face. Maybe he saw too much of his cousin.

My mother’s annoyed, daggered eyes glared at him. She didn’t like to fight in front of us, so she said nothing. Dad just looked at her and turned the car around without explanation. And just like that, we were back on the road.

Our first night in a motel was an interesting one. My mother had a strict rule about only patronizing certain of the few franchise motels and restaurants to ensure clean and reputable places to lay our heads each night and restaurants that would not give us food poisoning or the unfortunate bathroom call when on the road.

Without internet in the 1970s, she wrote to the corporate headquarters of motels, chain restaurants and fast-food outlets who would send guidebooks in the mail, listing their various locations, addresses and sometimes directions from a main highway or state route.

Armed with a dozen or so books at her feet in the passenger side of the car, she spent most of our road time studying the guidebooks and dog-tagging the places we’d eat, sleep and see a few days in advance.

The problem was these roadside motels charged extra for each kid and my dad knew the value of a dollar. His biggest pet peeve was being a sucker for people who overcharged.

“The room is exactly the same whether there’s five people or two people in it. There’s no way I’m paying more money just cause I have three kids,” he announced.

So we began what became routine for the rest of the trip. The three of us hid on the floor in the back of the station wagon, lying down surrounded by luggage with jackets and blankets over the top of us. We were told to be quiet and sit still while my dad went into the motel office to get the keys. It wasn’t long and it wasn’t that big a deal, but I remember thinking it was really cheap. As an adult, I can see his point and years later those motels got rid of that rule, because it was ridiculous.

The rooms all had two queen-size beds and since we were three children, one boy and two girls, my mother brought some blowup rafts to put on the box spring bed for my sister and I, while took my brother would sleep on the mattress on the floor.

When we were little, all three of us would sleep side by side on the width of the bed, instead of head to foot, for more room. But we were too old for that now. The rafts smelled like rubber, but the odor dissipated as the trip went on.

Unfortunately, I was always a difficult sleeper and with only one light for all five of us, I wasn’t able to read myself to sleep, so I lied awake listening to the sounds of cars going by on the nearby road, hoping to fall asleep, when I heard my parents whisper-fighting in the bathroom with the door closed. They were talking about the nudist camp.

“So, did you see any naked people?” my mother asked sarcastically.

“It wasn’t what you think. It wasn’t like we were at the Playboy mansion,” he laughed. “Quite frankly, the site of my skinny cousin and his wife was enough to put me off the whole thing forever. I had a hard time finding places to divert my eyes.”

“Well, we shouldn’t have been in that kind of situation. It could’ve been a terrifying experience for the kids if they had seen a bunch of naked people walking around,” she argued.

“Look, I didn’t ask to be there. I was put an awkward spot and I did the best I could with it. Let’s just move on,” he said firmly.

I heard my mother grumbling and grousing some more, but it was the end of the discussion.

I thought the whole idea of having to talk to people with no clothes on was a little funny, but it must’ve been very awkward for him. As an adult, when I visited nude beaches in the Caribbean and Europe, I understood what he meant. You don’t know where to look. While I don’t begrudge people their freedom, I’m glad I didn’t have to see a bunch of skinny naked people at 13 years old.

When we got into the car the next morning, nothing more was said. What was the point? I was sure there would be more rifts before the trip was finished. It was going to be a long month. We were moving on.

“Kids, are you excited to go to an amusement park?” my dad asked. We all cheered. I was excited. An amusement park sounded good and I looked forward to our arrival at “Silver Dollar City” in Missouri. We would be there in only two days.

Grateful For…

With the leftovers finally gone, we can reflect on the Thanksgiving holiday and the tradition of giving thanks.

As we all learned in grade school, the first Thanksgiving feast was celebrated by the Pilgrims with the Native American Wampanoag people after their initial harvest in the New World in November 1621. The feast lasted three days and was repeated in 1623 at another time of year, but afterward was held sporadically at different times during the harvest.

President George Washington was the first to proclaim the first public Thanksgiving in celebration of the new constitution on Thursday, November 26, 1789. But after that, Thanksgiving was only observed regionally and periodically. It still wasn’t an annual tradition, until in 1837, a ladies magazine called “Godey’s Lady’s Book” began publishing Thanksgiving menus and recipes, which sparked interest in the meal as an annual family tradition.

Finally on October 8 1863, in an effort to remind Americans of family gathering and tradition in the midst of the horrific American Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation, passed by Congress, declaring… “I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States…to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving.”

In the century and a half since, Thanksgiving has meant many things to many people, from family traditions and religious praise to football and parades. But all three historical milestones created Thanksgiving as an act of gratitude, giving thanks.

Gratitude is an interesting concept. It is the idea of being grateful for what has been bestowed on you. But can you be gracious for what you have and yet not satisfied?

You can be grateful for health and all the wonderful things in life and yet lament the ill health of those you love and hope for their swift improvement.

Thankfulness for warm sunshine and a beautiful place to live does not diminish or erase a desire for improvements to be encouraged.

And with a world in turmoil, those not in danger can appreciate immediate safety and in the same breath be outraged at the strife of others and demand change.

Some say true peace is being content with what you have, but others inspire you to strive for more. If you keep wanting more from life, will you achieve more? Where would we be if inventors were satisfied with the status quo? Not on this device, that is certain.

And isn’t it our responsibility as citizens to participate in our government and embolden our representatives to promote prosperity for all?

If the goal of humankind is to continue to evolve, we must improve, change and move forward. Can we do that if gratitude prevents us from craving more?

I think the answer is left to each individual person. No one fits into your shoes and shouldn’t try. So, maybe the goal of gratitude is to be grateful for what we have and the ability and desire to grow.

Mira filled another empty cardboard box, labeled it clothes and heaped it on the lowest pile among a forest of stacks.

For a week, she had been cleaning out the home of a lonely woman who passed away without any family or friends.

Boxing up the kitchenware, clothing and personal belongings of this mystery woman, Mira felt a strange sense of loss for someone she never met. The loose items of life meaningless without the person they belong to.

“It’s so sad to leave this world without making even a footprint or leaving a fingerprint,” she thought.

Curious about the woman, Mira talked to a few neighbors when she saw them walking down the street. The answers were always the same.

“She was nice enough, but she really kept to herself,” one said.

“I didn’t know her very well; she never came out. I don’t think she had any family or friends,” another echoed.

“Without anybody who knew her, how will she be remembered? It’s as if she just passed through time?” Mira thought and continued with her work.

Coming from a large family, Mira could barely think of a time she was alone and treasured her family memories. She and her family often reminisced about their loved ones, past and present. Funny things they said, quirky personality traits and even the way they hugged. She recalled everything about them and knew they would do the same for her.

Saddened by the idea of this lonesome soul drifting from the world without anyone to remember her, Mira diligently tried to conjure a picture of this unknown woman in her mind.

Her clothing was modest and a little old-fashioned, but then again she was old. So was the furniture. It wasn’t thread born and the house generally was neat as a pin. So, Mira assumed she was a fastidious person. Everything had its place. She didn’t have to be Miss Marple to deduce the obvious, but other things were a true mystery.

Little doilies on the furniture in varying stages of cream and amber hues showed their march through time. And the many folded knit blankets lying around, along with the knitting needles and yarn placed next to the chair by the window clearly revealed she enjoyed knitting and crocheting.

But who were the blankets for and why so many? If she had no friends and family, did she make them for a worthy cause, like wheelchair-bound disabled veterans?

Mira assembled and packed the drab white plates and cups in the cupboard. But in one cabinet she found a small and delicate China tea set adorned with dainty pink and yellow roses. There was a kettle dressed in a yellow doilie with two small cups and plates similarly wrapped. They were obviously special as they were covered and treated with care. But the wear on the pattern exposed its age.

She carefully took each piece from its covering and marveled at its quaint beauty, recalling her own toy tea set as a child where she would pretend to serve high tea to her dolls. Mira wondered what special meaning it had.

The living room left no clues as to the interests of the woman of the house. A few record albums from the 40s and 50s, but no books, except for a couple of cookbooks in the kitchen. It was all very average.

Although there was a lone porcelain statuette of women in turn-of-the-century garb, sitting precariously on a wooden chair, gazing into the distance.

Mira searched for other figurines, as usually people don’t collect just one. But it was the only one. Mira stared at the detail of the gilded age porcelain woman, pondering why this meant something. Did it remind her of herself or someone else or did she just take a shine to it? It didn’t look like anything of intrinsic value, just a keepsake.

Her mother and grandmother both collected figurines, almost encompassing a ceramic village, so she didn’t understand why someone would only have just one. But there was a lone statue of the woman perched atop the credenza.

Even in her bedroom, Mira found typical clothing and several more doilies. However, on the dresser this small wooden heart-shaped music caught her eye. It was beautifully etched with small inter-tangled ribbons. Inside was a petite gold cross necklace, a slender gold watch and a tarnished gold necklace that said Gladys.

“At least now I know her name,” Mira thought.

She dug deeper to find out about Gladys. As she cleared each drawer and closet, room after room, she found no important papers. Birth certificates, marriage certificates… nothing. But then again, maybe the estate people already retrieved them, she thought.

Amid her vanilla world, it was very difficult to piece together who Gladys was.

Now Mira was on a quest. With these couple of hints, she thirsted for more information, refusing to believe that anyone’s life could be so devoid of flavor. Was she married? Did she have children? Maybe she outlived them? It was a puzzle.

Yearning for answers, Mira felt compelled to attend the funeral. She heard about it from one of the neighbors in town.

When she entered the small village chapel, she saw a few neighbors she had spoken to and recognized a couple people from the village. They all said they didn’t know Gladys, but Mira appreciated they came out of respect or obligation.

As she sat down in one of the pews, the minister went up to the podium. He spoke of how frail and fragile life was, but nothing specifically about Gladys. Mira doubted he even knew her or anything about her.

Then the minister asked for anyone close to Gladys to come up and talk about her. Mira darted her eyes left and right, but everyone sat there in silence. Indignant that no one would say a word about her in this her final departure, she proudly raised her hand.

“I’d like to say something,” she said and walked up to the podium.

“I didn’t know Gladys but I’ve spent the last few days in her world. She was a simple woman who lived a modest life, not making much of a ripple. Yet the things that were important to her glared like a beacon in the night.

She only had a few pieces of jewelry, but they spoke volumes. Her faith was evident with her cross. Her pride was clear with the tarnished necklace, which bore her name. And the slender gold watch engraved with congratulations on her retirement some years ago showed she was appreciated. The jewelry was encased in an embossed heart music box, which played an unfamiliar, lovely and sweet melody. I don’t know, but I’ll believe it was treasured by her as a gift from someone she loved.

The carefully wrapped delicate bone China tea service with kettle and two little tea cups told me she must’ve cared greatly about this item. Everything else in her pantry was quite stark and white but this item of color and pattern obviously meant something to her. I imagine she had tea every day and delighted at her pretty cups.

And then there was the solitary statue of the woman staring longingly into the distance. I envision this was Gladys, looking out at the world each day, even though the world didn’t see her.

Maybe no one else will remember Gladys but I will. Everyone needs someone to tell their story. So many souls are forgotten, lost in the void of time where the impact of their lives is forgotten to the centuries.

To me, life is not about the things you owned, what you did or how successful you were, but it’s about how those around you remember you and who you were.”

The gathered group applauded Mira as she sat down, satisfied that she did the right thing by Gladys and hoping those in attendance would remember her too.

After the service she went back to her car. Sitting next to her was a small cardboard box containing the embossed heart music box, the statue of the lady and the tea set that Mira traded to the estate company in exchange for her services. Mira would remember Gladys through her most prized possessions and give them a home, so she could always tell Gladys’ tale. True or fiction, Gladys would not be forgotten.
(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton 2023

Day at the Beach

The beach is my favorite place to relax, breathe the fresh sea air in the warming comfort of the sun’s rays and hear a choir of sea birds underscored by the hum of boat engines.

I sit with my toes blanketed in cozy sand, clad in my protective straw hat and sunscreen and read a good book. But between my pages, I admit; I like to people watch. I find human nature interesting. Sweet and sometimes funny and strange, but never dull.

Seeing kids build sandcastles with such forethought and precision, I wonder if they have a future engineering skyscrapers.

Older kids surfing or bogey boarding astonishes me. They seem to pick it up so fast. But then again, watching adults try their hand is fodder for comic relief. I hate to snicker or laugh, but it’s hard to hold back when they spectacularly wipe out. I see one man walk backwards off the surfboard as if he thought it was longer and then fall backwards wielding his arms like a windmill until he splashes into the water.

Witnessing the strangest collection of characters on the beach, I marvel at the families with a big tent set up, like they’re camping for days.

And then I notice the bronze gods who worship the sun laying out and sweating all day. Until some mischievous kids wait for the girls to remove their straps or pose concealed in the sand without a top, to avoid tan lines, only to be revealed when purposefully sprayed with water or sand. I glimpse some boys unobtrusively walking back and forth in the surf watching with eagle eyes for the moment when the pretty girls get exposed.

But the most shocking set are the northern Europeans with faint and pale skin. They come out the first day with their transparent outer coating and soak in all the sun, unseen in their homeland for months at a time.

Then on day two, the bright and cruel pinkish-red hue crawls all over them and they cover every body part from head to toe and awkwardly walk around seething in pain. And yet they continually seem surprised. I feel for them, but after all, they are self-inflicted wounds.

Tourists are often easy to spot. Besides the obvious burn routines, they either look lost and confused or deliberately ignorant. Disregarding signs that say “Private Beach,” they plop their belongings down and set up their station, until someone kicks them out and they claim they didn’t “see” the signs.

On rainy, windy or cooler weather days, when Floridians, whether native or transplanted, duck and cover, I observe from my beach condo balcony and notice the vacationers frolicking in the surf, regardless. Even sometimes ignoring the red and more dubious colored warning flags as if nothing bad can happen to them while they’re on holiday.

Leaving the beach, I’m rendered hostage by the looky-loos that are a constant source of frustration for drivers as they roam coastal highways in slow motion to take in all the scenery and subsequently block the roads.

And often, my neighbors and I tussle with these beach seekers illegally parked in our private parking lots, regularly overlooking the parking lot signs and despite the large public beach parking lot signage. Although, those who sleep too late will find another sign on those parking lots- Lot Full. Those encounters can be uncomfortable, but overhearing the seemingly genuine spur-of-the-moment excuses can be worth a chuckle or two.

Yes, the beach never disappoints. It’s a combination of a soap opera with a never-ending revolving door of characters and Jackass the Movie. I never know what will happen next. Turn the page.

Press for Human

I love online shopping. A world of goods are right at my fingertips and delivered to my door. But there’s another sharper side to that coin I discovered when I ordered a small futon online.

It arrived on schedule and I eagerly opened it up, read the directions and looked for the pieces to assemble. Except they were not included. So I looked all over the directions and finally found a customer service number.

“Hello this is URF Furniture, how can I help you?” the friendly voice said.

“Yes, I have a question…” I asked, thinking it was a real person. Until I was cut off by the voice.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales. Para Espanol precino numero nueve.”

“No, I need to talk to someone about missing…”

Again, I the voice in the vacuum void demanded.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. But I need to talk to someone…”

“Ok. Press 0 for operator.”

I pressed zero and finally thought I’d get to speak with a human being.

“This is the operator,” a different friendly voice said.

“Great, finally, a person. I have a question…”

But I was interrupted by that ominous, faceless voice.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales. Para Espanol precino numero nueve.”

So I pressed zero again, thinking maybe it didn’t take the first time.

“That menu is not available. Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales.”

In a desperate attempt to change my circumstances and reach a real person, I selected three for sales. Sales would have to be a real person, right?

“Hello Sales,” said a friendly male voice this time.

“Yes, wonderful. I need some help with a missing….” I said confident that I was making progress, but then the same taunting voice resounded the same options.

“You have reached our sales department. Press 1 for customer service, 2 for billing.”

“Ugh!!” I cried in frustration.

“Are you still there? I did not get your selection.” It mocked.

This was too much. I felt like I was pushing buttons that would lead me down the long and winding electronic road to madness. Didn’t Einstein say doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome was the sign of insanity. So I pressed a different number—one.

“Hello, customer service, billing.” Another friendly voice lulled me into a sense of hope.

“Great. Hi, I need some help…” I said, until…

“You have reached customer service. Your wait time is approximately 15 minutes. You are number 350 in our cue. If you can’t wait, press star to go back to the previous menu.”

“350! That will not take 15 minutes.”

So in a vain attempt, I pressed the star button and the voice said.

“If you would like customer service to call you back as soon as we are free, press 4.

“Yeah, you’ll get back to me when hell freezes over,” I said in frustration and pressed star again to go back to the previous menu.

“Hello this is URF Furniture, how can I help you?” a pleasant voice answered.

“Yes, finally a human!” I said, but was thwarted again.

“Press or say 1 for customer service, 2 for billing and 3 for sales.”

“Urgh!! What number do I press for human?” I screamed.

So I played my last card and pressed four for the call back.

“Thank you. You will receive a call back in the next 48 to 72 hours. Goodbye.”

NO!!! That’s it. I tried to play fair, but I would not let the machine win. So I picked up the phone and dialed my credit card company.

“Hello, I want to report a fraudulent charge to my account.” I said.

That was my ace card. Let them try to collect their money from the mighty Visa. And I’ll hold their useless futon hostage until they finally call me back.

White Picket Fence

Sandy was tired of her world. Drudging to the overworked menial office job she hated left her little time for a life. And more and more her friends peeled off after getting married and having kids, leaving her alone on her hellish daily treadmill.

The nightmare of dating became an endless game of Duck, Duck, Goose. She’d meet someone at work, in line at Starbucks or through a friend and continue on an endless cycle of first dates without a goose to chase. Only ducks in a bad rerun of one continuous bad date with interchangeable men boring her with their doldrum personalities.

Repetitive explanation of job…blah, blah, blah. Read that book… blah, blah, blah. Watched this movie… blah, blah, blah. Live with mother… blah, blah, blah.

Miserably sitting at yet another bridal shower, she confided in her friend Gail.

“I’ve been dating for two decades. I figured it out. It’s been nearly 2,100 dates. At this rate, my chances of winning the lottery are better than finding a husband. Where is he? Where’s my happy ending?”

“You should try this new website. That’s where she found her husband,” Gail said showing the website on her phone.

“Whitepicketfence.com? Is this for real?” Sandy shot her a sideways glance.

“Yes. It’s specifically designed for singles who want to settle down and not just hookup. She was only on it 1 month and look where we are now,” Gail nodded.

“I hate these online matchmakers, but I guess it’s worth a try. Nothing else has worked.”

That night Sandy spent hours perfecting her profile pictures in photoshop to show a happy, well-adjusted, well-rounded women looking for a home, family and white picket fence.

By the next morning, her DM’s were filled with potential prospects waiting to connect.

“Wow, I must have done a bang-up job on this profile. This can’t be real. It’s too good. There are some really good-looking guys on here with good jobs. And not one mother roommate in the bunch!” Sandy said elated.

It was a whirlwind. For three weeks, Sandy went on a series of first dates until she met Bryan and immediately fell in love with his wit, humor and superhero good looks.

Flying on air, she met Gail for happy hour to tell her over drinks.

“He looks like he was crafted from a superhero mold. Wavy blond hair, square jaw, sparkling blue eyes and six-foot worth of muscles and abs. He sings, dances and the best part… he’s a veterinarian who believes in being at the dinner table every night. Oh and he cooks. It’s insane,” Sandy explained in glee.

“That does good. Lock that down as soon as you can,” Gail urged.

Fast forward 10 years. Sandy and Gail meet again at Saturday brunch.

“You look wonderful Sandy,” Gail said. “Seems like I never get to see you anymore. It’s been years.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But Gail, I’m so happy I can hardly stand it. I’m a busy mom taxi and I love it. Jaden is in soccer and band and Maya is playing basketball and joined a dance troupe. And Bryan took on a partner, so he’s home with us a lot. And here’s a picture of our house.” She held her phone to Gail showing pictures.

“I see you opted for the traditional white picket fence,” Gail smiled.

“Yes, it’s really a wonderful life,” Sandy said.

“Too bad your time is up,” Gail said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“What are you talking about silly. I feel great,” Sandy laughed.

“Huh, you did sign up for the ten-year plan, didn’t you?” Gailsaid.

“What?” Sandy asked.

“On whitepicketfence.com. They had five- and ten-year family plan options. You get your perfect family for ten years and then they go back,” Gail explained.

“You’re putting me on. Where would they go back to?” Sandy laughed.

Gail’s face turned sullen and she abruptly grabbed Sandy’s hand.

“Sandy, didn’t you read the terms and conditions on the site?”

“Of course not. It’s just a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo – they all are,” Sandy said and her eyes grew big. “Right?”

Gail stared directly at Sandy.

“I thought you understood. The deal is a decade of pure happiness in exchange for your soul.”

“Oh, you almost had me going. You bad girl. That only happens in movies,” Sandy laughed.

Gail grabbed both her hands.

“No. It’s real. Look at the website. Natas is the name of the company. N.A.T.A.S is the reverse of SATAN!”

Sandy panicked, grabbing her phone to quickly bring up the website and began furiously reading.

“Oh my God! How is this possible? I bore those children. They’re mine. I have the stretch marks to prove it.”

“The family plan. Ten years of happiness,” Gail said.

“No. I’m not going to do it! I don’t care,” Sandy said running out of the restaurant.

As Gail’s words echoed in her head, Sandy raced back to her home to find her children and husband in their home.

“Oh good. You’re still here. That Gail is a cutup.” She sighed in relief.

“Hi honey. We’ve been waiting for you. Here’s the receipt for the 10-year family plan. We have to go now,” Bryan kissed her on the cheek as he, Jaden and Maya walked past Sandy toward the door waving goodbye.

“No, you can’t leave. No!” Sandy cried out and closed her eyes. Then she opened her eyes and lifted her head from her cubicle desk and saw her boss standing above her.

“Sandy. I’m not going anywhere, I’m just looking for that report on fence prices,” her boss asked. “Are you ok?”

“No. I’m definitely not ok. I was, but not anymore.” She plopped her head back on the desk.

Pineapple Means Welcome

I was in the bar in the new adult community I recently move to nursing my Jack Daniels and watching the game when I overheard the strangest conversation.

“Are you a pineapple?” the man said.

“I’m a green pineapple,” the lady smiled.

My interest piqued, I couldn’t help but glance in their direction.

“Green aye. Nice.” The man grinned and moved closer to her.

“I used to be a white pineapple, but now I’m green,” she said and shot him a come-hither look.

Trying to figure out what they were talking about, I listened intently, without giving away my interest.

“Do you fly the flag?” he asked.

“Proudly!” She stuck out her chest.

“Good, see ya tonight.” He handed her a card and left with a big grin.

I leaned over and looked at the card. It had a red pineapple on it that said “Welcome.”

Curious, I was tempted to ask her about the card, but couldn’t think of a way to approach it without giving my eavesdropping away. Then she put the card in her purse and left, so I lost my chance.

I don’t know why, but it bothered me for the rest of the day. What were they talking about? So I looked up “pineapple welcome.” One search said pineapples are used in decorating to make guests feel welcome because of their association with warmth and friendliness. But then I scrolled down and another entry said the pineapple emoji is used as a substitute for the word sex.

Then in the sunny daylight of the next morning, I noticed a few golf carts in the parking lot with a red pineapple flag. I’d never noticed one before and yet now there were several in the parking lot, as they discussed in the bar. Given my minimal research, my fascination was bubbling over. Which did it mean? And when I saw a lady flying a red pineapple flag, I blurted it out.

“Does your pineapple flag mean welcome?”

She paused and gazed at me for a very uncomfortable minute and smiled, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes it does.” She handed me a card from her purse and left.

The card had a red pineapple with “welcome” on it, just like the other card. And when I flipped it over, it said 7pm tonight with an address.

All day I contemplated. Should I go? What will I find? It could be a game of canasta or an orgy. I’d heard of these swingers’ clubs in adult communities, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t think “adult community” meant the same thing as an “adult film or bookstore.” But I just had to know.

So I went in completely blind, hoping curiosity didn’t kill me. When I reached the front door to the address on the card, a handwritten sign on the door says Come In. I grabbed the door handle and then hesitated a bit. What if I opened to the door to a bunch of wrinkly old naked people? I closed my eyes to be ready for anything and opened the door. I walked inside and was immediately confused. It looked like a normal cocktail party with people sitting around holding small plates of food and drinks. I scanned the room and found nothing suspicious.

Seeing the woman who gave me the card, I approached her.

“Thanks for the invite, just sit anywhere?”

“Yes, help yourself to a drink, we’re waiting for a couple more and then we’ll begin,” she smiled coyly at me, again making me uncomfortable.

Still bathed in curiosity, I took some food, poured a much needed drink and sat down. The conversation around me was casual and ordinary, considering the circumstances. I was beginning to think this was some kind of mistaken Mahjong club. Then I saw my next-door neighbor. I met her after I moved in and she immediately caught my eye.

She was beautiful with long blonde hair and milk white skin… exactly my type. And a week after I moved in, I accidentally caught her moonlight skinny dipping in her pool. She was definitely a looker. I didn’t know if she was married or not as I never saw a husband or anything.

She walked in the door with a man, but I wasn’t sure they were together. When I made eye contact with her, I thought she’d be surprised, but she just shot me a knowing smile and took a seat across the room when a woman started speaking.

“We’re all adults here for the same reason, so no need to be nervous. We have some new people and some who are former players. The game is simple. There are colored cards in front of you. White is for beginners. Purple is for people who just want to watch. Pink is for those who want to do it with others in the room. So, purple and pink people go together. Blue is for those who are open to playing with anyone, but have limits. Black is for those who are open to anything and anyone, but only one partner of the opposite sex. Green is for those who are not specific about the gender or number of partners. So feel free to take the card that meets your needs and gather with others with the same card.”

I couldn’t believe her frank tone. She said it like she was explaining the rules of Monopoly, not an carnal ping pong. Afterward, everyone stood and took cards as casually as if they were picking scratch-off lottery cards. I got back in the line and observed. It’s a rainbow of colors all mixed up. I’m floored that there are so many adventurous people here.

Then I saw my neighbor take a black card and I took one too and gathered with the few with black cards. She walked up to me and took the card from my hand and pointed her finger to follow me out the door. From that moment, my interest in the group completely diminished. My focus was completely on her as she led me out the door and into her car.

Without a word, she drove down a couple streets and parked along the side of the road. I didn’t know what we were doing. Did she have a thing for doing it in a car. I was willing, but lamented that I didn’t have any time to stretch. I didn’t know how bendy I was anymore.

“What were you doing there?” she accused, catching me off guard.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I reply.

“If you’re here to swing, no judgement,” she said.

Now I was really confused. “Isn’t that was the group is about?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m not one of them. I’m an undercover cop trying to bust senior sex rings,” she said.

“Let me get this straight. You’re undercover?” I said surprised. “Then why did you take the black card? I picked it because you did. Confidentially, I’m attracted to you too.”

“Thanks. I’m flattered and I admit interested, but let’s table that. I have no intention of partaking in this group, but I thought you may know something, so I picked the black card to be alone and keep up appearances. I don’t really know if I can trust you, but I could use some help.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“OK… I just want to know how far you have to go. I’m no prude, but I’m not looking for the Florida version of Gomorrah either.”

She laughed and lightly punched me in the arm.

“No, silly. Usually I try to talk to them at the getting to know you cocktail portion and then take the purple card and excuse myself with an emergency or conveniently get lost on the way. I could use some fresh eyes and ears. The stories and lines are pretty funny. It could be laughs.”

I can’t resist a mystery, so I nodded and she took me back to my car.

“I’ll be in touch.” She smiled and drove off.

Oh, the things you do when you’re in “like” with someone. I have no idea what I just got myself into.

Authors Note – This is based on a preview of Pandemonium at Peacock Perch, the latest in the Secret Senior Sleuth’s Society Mysteries available November 15th.

The Rule of Three

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the story last week, Rule 30 from the sequel to Beck’s Rules, When Walls Talk.

With ideas of green ink, government paper and presidential profiles swirling in my head, I’m ready to get to work uncovering Carrington’s plot.

I rush through the newsroom ignoring the wail of police and fire scanners and the tik tik tik sound of a dozen typewriters clicking their keys in melodious sequence. Normally, that sound is music to my ears. But today, all I can hear are three little words, Carrington, crime, and counterfeit.

With anticipation nearly foaming from my mouth, I plop down on my wooded wheeled seat and nearly whirl all the way around from sheer momentum. But as soon as I place my fingers on the keyboard, I pause and catch my breath. Then I remember; I don’t have any evidence and then I notice my poor nails. I’m way overdue for a manicure.

My hunch combined with the muted tone of a poor perceived loon in the nuthouse would promptly get me booted out of my newsroom to the unemployment line or even the clink. The law frowns on accusing people in the press without a crime. But where would I get proof? And a quick nail appointment?

My dad always taught me motive, means and opportunity are the three elements of a crime. The motive is easy—money. And Carrington certainly has the means to do anything he wants and can easily use his “legitimate” dry cleaners and restaurant businesses to distribute the phony presidential flashcards of Washington and Lincoln. But the how eludes me. To pull off a counterfeit scheme, he would need the government paper, the printing press and the plates to ensure his bills didn’t reveal themselves as Monopoly money.

As my dad’s ink blood runs through my veins, I know I can solve this, catch them in the act, and then nab him. But how? Then I saw Scully out of the corner of my eye. He’s an old timer and always has his ear to the pavement for federal crimes. Maybe he caught a counterfeiter before or heard something now?

“Sully, I got a lead that there’s a counterfeit ring in the city. Have you heard anything about it?” I ask.

“Nah, I wish. I’d really like to sink my teeth into a funny money operation. I haven’t seen one in years,” he says.

“So you caught a counterfeiter in the past?” I ask.

“Oh that was years ago, probably before you were born,” he dismisses.

“Really, I’d like to hear about it.” I hold my breath waiting for the answer.

His eyes brighten like a new penny as he weaves a tale of intrigue and corruption narrating his path of tracking the theft of the plates and the paper from the mint to the local card maker who tried to reverse his fortunes by turning his press into a money making machine… literally.

“How did you catch him?” I ask impatiently.

He laughs and pulls a newspaper clipping from his bottom drawer, then looks around to see if anyone was listening.

“To be honest, I fell into it backwards. I got an anonymous lead, followed up and boom—there it was—easy pickins,” he laughs.

I know I won’t be as lucky. Unfortunately, my informant could only spit out one word at a time, not lead me to X marks the spot.

“Tell me this, where did they get the paper, ink and plates to make the bills?” I ask.

“They knocked over a few loot limos as it transported everything to the mint. It was a highly coordinated operation,” he says.

I thank him and slump back to my desk defeated. I doubt I’ll be able to track those types of armored truck heists. At that level, everything’s strictly hush hush.

Sitting at my desk, I grab my nail file out of the top drawer. Mindless tasks help me think better.

Let’s just say for argument sake, Carrington did get all the parts to make his money machine go. He’d keep it close to the vest for security. And to avoid suspiciously moving the money around, he’d have the presses where he distributes the money—so the dry cleaners, the Irish pub or the Italian restaurant. Carrington has his pot filled all over town. But they’re all in different locations around town. Which one can produce more money exchanges?

With my nails back up to par, I dash out to each place. The only way to know which one is passing funny money is to case the joints.

First, I went back to my house to grab a couple blouses. I don’t want to risk one of my Chanels in case they do a crappy job. But I could sacrifice two of my Marshall Fields’ tops for the greater good. My best friend Kate works there. If they get ruined, I can replace them with her discount.

The time it took the line of three people to get to me gave me a few minutes to unobtrusively look around. The dry cleaners is so small, just me and the other two customers nearly pack the room. And as the serpentine track of clothes moved for each person in front of me, I garnered a look in the back. It’s steamy and small, barely room for the laundry, presses and few workers I saw.

“You have a nice little operation here,” I ask, trying to snoop.

“It’s small alright. We can hardly breath,” he offers, pins a number to my blouse and gives me a receipt. The line’s forming in back of me, so I have to move along.

I leave and walk around the building to see if there could be a back room, but peeking through the open door, I see a mirror of what I noticed from the front. That’s it. There’s no place to put a printing press and stacks of cash.

That day and night I frequent the Italian restaurant and Irish pub and found the same conclusion. No space.

But the next day as I paid for a bagel and schmeer at the truck outside my office, I notice something on George Washington’s head, as I took the bill from my suit pocket. It was nearly invisible, but I see a small detail. The half bow in the back of George Washington’s collar is missing on one bill. I remember because I’ve always wondered what that was. It’s weird. I take out another dollar bill from my purse and it’s there. The one without the bow has to be counterfeit. Scully said the plates could be manufactured by a craftsman, instead of stolen. Maybe there’s little imperfections that most people won’t notice. But May Beck is not most people.

Gobbling up my bagel, I run inside and sit down at my typewriter again. But I froze, realizing I still have no evidence. But at least I know this time I’m right. I got the phony George from one of Carrington’s haunts. I change my purse everyday, but I’m wearing the same Chanel I had on yesterday. It’s new and I need to break it in. So the bill in my pocket is from yesterday.

This is infuriating. How can I get enough to nail him to the wall? He’s clever. I haven’t caught him yet. But this time, a young girl’s life hangs in the balance. This is more than just me or a story and time is of the essence.

Sitting there I think of the steamy dry cleaners and it hits me. I’ll smoke him out. It’s not incredibly ethical, but I’ll put a fake story about counterfeit bills surfacing in the city and cite some sources where they think they got them. It’s partially true and it’ll cover my tracks, but it may be enough to make them slip up. And then I’ll have him—game, set and match to me. And Meg can go free.

I may have to add the rule of three to Beck’s Rules. It came in handy this time.

Rule 30

Author’s Note: This is a sneak peek of the prequel to the cozy mystery novel Beck’s Rules where we discover the origin of hard-nosed reporter May Beck as she cuts her newspaper teeth and develops her skills on the streets of her urban city.

Sometimes being right is an overwhelming burden to bear. But I knew something about this case stunk like a bad fish and Limberger cheese sandwich. They sell those at the food cart down the block from my newspaper, the News Bugle. We call it the Bug for short.

My beat and some would say my obsession is the crusty under belly of the inner city. Gangsters have taken over and it’s my job to flush them out into the daylight of the black and white newspaper. My name is May Beck and I’m a reporter.

I follow the mob’s web of deceit like a black widow spider waiting for the kill. When they make a mistake, I draw it out in ink for my readers.

But one web constantly slips through my fingers, baffling me for years.

Then one of my less than scrupulous informants crawled out of the shadows to give me a hot tip on a crime family I’ve been investigating, the Carringtons.

Their filthy fingers are in every pot and bucket in my city. They own everything from dry cleaners and restaurants to the mayor’s office and I can trace their ill-gotten gains to every lowlife and scum bag who toil in the gutter to make the Carrington mansion in the clouds squeaky clean. That’s why it’s so hard to nail them. They weave their crime syndicate so tight like a loom, it’s impossible to break. Unless… I cut a strand. That’s what I was hoping for when I went to visit an anonymous lady in the nuthouse.

Darkness hung low all over the place in spite of the shiny white linoleum floors and sparkling milky metal cabinets that gleamed in reflection of blinding fluorescent lights. And a bleak sadness filled the air as thick as a London fog, making it hard to see reality.

My tip said this woman named, Meg worked for Carrington’s office and had some information that could give me a piece for my jigsaw puzzle on the big boss. That’s all he could tell me, so I went in blind.

I regrettably turned in my signature smart hat, Chanel suit and slingback heels for a the boring frock and sensible shoes. Add a pair of black hornrimmed glasses and with my hair tied in a bun and my masquerade was complete, perfect for a dowdy do gooder trying to spread a Little sunshine on their dreary day. A lame disguise, but it got me passed the stiffnosed nurses at the front desk.

The recreation room was full of white terry cloth robes and white pajamas so they almost blended with the background. I guess that was the point…if nobody sees them, nobody cares for them.

I carried a basket of little soft chew candies, and roamed around the room handing them out, smiling at the blank faces. Staring back at me were stone, looking through me as if I was a ghost, not even there.

My stool pigeon said Meg was petite and young with black hair and black glasses. Finally there, I saw her sitting in the corner with her head down. At first I thought she was asleep; she was still is a statue. But when I called her name, she looked up.

“Meg, a friend of yours sent me to see how you were doing,” I sat next to her and touched her hand. It was cold as ice.

She barely acknowledged me. I’m sure they had her hocked up on some cocktail of medication that numbed her scrambled brains. So I had to up the ante.

He’s wondering if there’s anything you need. You know him, Michael Carrington, I said, and she pulled her hand away quickly. She knew him all right.

He doesn’t care she mumbled.

So I guess our mutual friend is not on your Christmas list, but I can help you. Did he put you in here?

She paused a minute and moved her head in a slight nod.

Why? I asked not knowing if I was going to get an answer or anything for that matter.

Without looking at me, she took the candy I gave her before, and checked in in her mouth, then she took my hand and put the paper in it.

Paper she muttered.

She knew something, but it was locked tight in her mixed up noggin and I didn’t have the key to get it out.

As I looked down at the sticky paper in my hand, I realized that this was a her way of telling me something but I didn’t understand.

Walking into the midday sun back to the newspaper, I thought about the clue.

Meg worked in his office so she could’ve had access to files that’s paper.

Then I saw some poor sucker trading some George Washington’s for that stinky cheese sandwich and it hit me.

Money is made of paper. Counterfeit money. I suspected the Carrington’s of having a counterfeit operation for years, but had no evidence. Maybe Meg was the key. I needed to find out more of what she did for them.

In the years I followed this family I’ve seen them stomp over people and leave them in their wake for less, but to throw a young woman’s life away to cover misdeeds, that’s the true meaning of collateral damage. And I wasn’t gonna stand for it. I’m gonna get them and I’m gonna save her.

I live by a strict rule of conduct. Beck’s Rule 30, never leave anyone behind.

Click here to read the first/last installment Beck’s Rules