Eccentric Lady Read online

  Eccentric Lady

  A Lacey Summers P I Novel

  By Edna Curry

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  Copyright Edna Curry, 2012

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the author, except for short excerpts for published reviews.

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  Cover Designed By: Bev Haynes

  Old-fashioned Main Street

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  woman in black leather fashion clothes

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  Eccentric Lady

  A Lacey Summers PI Novel

  By Edna Curry

  Prologue

  Agnes Simms stared at the box of her late father’s papers in shock. When she’d climbed the pull-down ladder to her attic, she hadn’t expected to find anything like this.

  She’d promised to donate some items to the upcoming church rummage sale and decided it was long past time to clear away some of her father’s things from the attic.

  Her parents had lived in this Lander’s, Minnesota, house all the years she was growing up, so there was a lot of cast-off stuff up here. She turned on the light, and gazed around her. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that shone through the dust covered window at one end. The window at the other end was half-hidden by boxes of stuff stacked in front of it. The slanted roof wasn’t high enough to allow her to walk upright anywhere except in about ten feet of the center of the room.

  She sneezed at the musty smell of old clothes and paper. She’d have to wash any clothes or dishes she found good enough for the sale, that was for sure. After hours of sorting, she’d gathered several boxes of clothes, dishes and books she thought might sell and carried the books and knick-knacks down to her back porch. She took the clothes to the laundry room and started a load of them washing and went back to work in the attic.

  Finally tired and ready to quit, she’d decided to open one more box.

  Now she realized it was full of her father’s personal files from his desk. Odd that her mother hadn’t gone through them, but then, Henrietta had been so angry with Roscoe after their bitter divorce that she probably couldn’t deal with it all emotionally. Especially after his suicide. So everything had been relegated to the attic by the cleaning women Henrietta had hired.

  Agnes shuddered at the memory of her father’s death ten years ago. Her mother had told her about it only once. Henrietta had gone over to talk to Roscoe about something or other, a few months after she had moved to her own apartment. She was alone by then, since all three of their children were already grown before their divorce. The girls had been in college and Arnold off on some job.

  When Roscoe hadn’t answered the door, Henrietta had let herself in with her key and found he’d hung himself in the garage. His partner had claimed Roscoe was depressed over their financial troubles in the firm. Shortly afterward, Harold had closed the firm and moved out here to start a small private business with his son, Rolly.

  Henrietta had never wanted to talk about it afterward. Agnes was sure her mother had felt guilty about his death, feeling that their divorce was part of the reason for his giving up on life.

  Now Agnes carried the box of files downstairs. She’d sort through them to see if she should keep any of it, or if it was time to close the door on that part of her life.

  She made some tea and sat at her desk and began sorting stuff out. Old bills went into the waste basket, of course. No one cared about twenty year old electric and water bills. Old cases her lawyer father had dealt with went into another pile. She might want to look at those later.

  Then she found a file with photo stat copies of their financial records from the last couple of years they’d been in business. Whoa. Look at these dollar amounts!

  Roscoe had not been in any kind of financial problem, whatever he and Harold had claimed. Had her father only pretended that to get a better divorce settlement from her mother? If so, why was he depressed? Why had he hung himself? Guilt, maybe? But that was silly. If he’d felt guilty about the divorce settlement, he could have afforded to simply give Henrietta more money.

  Digging through more stuff, Agnes found a copy of an angry letter Roscoe had written. Apparently he had left the financial work to their accountants. He’d believed their claims of problems. Now he’d discovered the lies and threatened to expose them. He wanted his share of the true profits and even said he was ashamed of the small divorce settlement.

  The letter was dated three days before Roscoe’s death.

  Agnes heart thudded with anxiety and then with anger. She sipped some of her now cold tea to try to ease the dryness of her throat, pondering what to do about this. Obviously, her father felt he’d been cheated. Had he sent that letter? Had the accused men known he’d found out about their thievery?

  Her father’s letter didn’t sound like a man about to commit suicide. It sounded more like a man about to hire some lawyers of his own and go after the men he was sure had wronged him.

  Tears streaming down her face, Agnes made copies of the letter and the financial statements. She’d loved her father so much, and had been forever grateful that he’d left her this house and a trust fund. Thankfully, his will had been in order before his death. He’d apparently updated it at the time of his divorce.

  But Agnes had also harbored anger with him for killing himself and leaving her behind. While Henrietta had gotten over it and married again, no doubt because of dealing with their painful divorce already, Agnes had remained alone and emotionally reticent, afraid to open herself up to love outside her family. She’d never really moved on from the shock of her father’s death.

  Now furious and ready for revenge, Agnes drove to the next town and got a new safety deposit box in a bank where she’d never banked before. She put the copies of the letter in it, then hired a new Minneapolis lawyer, one highly recommended who she’d never used before. It was time to make some changes in her will as insurance, just in case. She wouldn’t take chances like her father had.

  Then she’d confront the perps and get justice for her father. It was long past time for them to pay for his death.

  Chapter 1

  My doorbell rang just as I and my fiance, Paul Menns, were finishing breakfast.

  Scamp, my golden lab, jumped up from his favorite spot beside Paul and barked. I got up to follow Scamp to the door.

  Paul, an over the road, long-distance trucker, rose, too, and stopped me by putting his arm around me and hugging me, his tall body towering over me. “I have to go.”

  “So soon?” I paused and went into his arms for a kiss. There’s no point in arguing with Paul when he decides to leave. I’d learned a long time ago to accept him the way he is and enjoy what time we have together.

  “I have to get on the road anyway, sweetheart. I’ll call you, okay?” I nodded and he gave me another quick kiss.

  We walked to the door to answer the doorbell. He nodded t
o my visitor and waved to me, then strode past her and on out to his car. He keeps his rig at his apartment where there’s lots of room to park it and drives his car to come over to see me.

  Beside Paul’s Buick sat an obviously new blue Honda Accord, and on my doorstep stood a tall, lovely blonde woman. I didn’t like the way her gaze followed Paul striding to his car, so my tone may have been a bit sharp. “Hello. May I help you?”

  Her head swung back around and she eyed me from clear, blue eyes. “You’re Landers’ Lady PI?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’m Lacey Summers, a private investigator. People do call me that.” Most people didn’t think of ‘Lady PI’ as a derogative term. Just a local nickname they’d adopted for me. So I try not to be offended by it.

  She held out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Patti Jones, Agnes Simms’ niece.”

  Her tone said that should explain everything to me. Well, it didn’t, though that name was familiar. Where had I heard it before? I wondered as I shook her hand. I couldn’t remember. But I assumed she was a potential client, since she’d asked if I was the PI, so I invited her in. “My office is down here,” I said, leading the way down the wooden stairs. “Watch your step.”

  I saw her eye my Golden Labrador dog, so added, “Down, Scamp. Don’t worry, he’s friendly, unless he thinks I need protecting.”

  Scamp sniffed her and followed us down to my office, then lay on the floor beside me, keeping the stranger in his sight. From the tension in his body, I knew he’d be ready to pounce if she gave him any excuse.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I’d already had my morning caffeine, but I wanted to put her at ease and offering coffee usually does that. Instead of taking the chair I’d indicated, she wandered over to the large window overlooking Long Lake and stared out, her arms folded over her chest. At my question, she turned, eyed me and nodded. “Coffee would be nice.”

  I moved to the side table and plugged in the coffeemaker.

  “You do know Agnes Simms?” Her voice was a bit skeptical. Oh, oh. Was she going to change her mind about coming here?

  As I added water and grounds to the coffeemaker, I wracked my memory for that name. Landers only has a thousand people, so I know most of them. But some work in the cities and only use our little burg as a bedroom town, doing all their shopping and business elsewhere. So those I’ve had little opportunity to meet. “I think I’ve heard the name, but can’t recall meeting her right now. Could you tell me a bit about her? And what your problem is?”

  Patti stood at my office window staring out over Long Lake while I stood at the side table making coffee. She was a perfectly groomed, slim woman with long blonde hair. She wore a navy blue business suit with matching high heels and carried a matching leather purse. Her lips and fingertips were bright red. But she wore a worried look on her face instead of a smile.

  “My problem is that you have a stupid sheriff!” she burst out, bitterness dripping from her voice.

  My head jerked up and I stared at her. She ambled over to the chair by my desk and sat. I thought of Ben, the tall, gangly, middle-aged man who was our county sheriff. He’d also been my late Uncle Henry’s card playing buddy and thus was almost a part of my family. On weekends when I’d visited my uncle during college, I’d fixed that bunch of men more sandwiches and cookies than I could count.

  Upset now, I counted to ten to control my temper and said carefully, “I’ve heard Ben called a lot of things, but stupid is a first. Why do you say that?” I flipped the switch to start the coffee dripping and got out coffee mugs, then returned to my desk and sat opposite her.

  Patti’s red lips trembled, but I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or if she was about to cry. “My aunt is missing and he won’t do anything about it. I went to see him this morning to file a missing person’s report on her. He said she leaves town fairly often and to just wait until she comes back on her own.”

  I drew a deep breath to calm myself as I moved over to sit at my desk. I pulled my tape recorder and notepad toward me. “Do you mind if I record this? It helps me remember the details later. Also, may I explain my fees, to be sure you’re interested in hiring me, before we start?”

  She nodded, so I went through my usual spiel for the tape: “It’s Monday morning, April 18th. New client Patti Jones is about to explain her problem. State your name, address and phone numbers slowly and clearly for the tape, please.”

  “Sure. I’m Patti Jones. I’m 25 and have my own interior design business in Chicago.” She rattled off her address, the address of her business and various phone numbers.

  I explained my rates and she waved them aside as though money details were of no importance to her. “I can pay you, don’t worry about that.” Pulling out a checkbook, she wrote a check for my retainer and laid it on my desk, saying, “I just need someone to believe me and help me find Agnes. She just has to be okay!”

  I tucked her check in my purse. “What makes you think she isn’t?”

  Again her lip trembled and she bit down on it to control it. “She told me to meet her for dinner Saturday night at a hotel in the Twin Cities. We were going shopping at Maplewood Mall afterward. We often do that, meet somewhere, I mean. She likes to get away from this little burg and spend a weekend in a hotel once in a while. Sometimes we go shopping, sometimes we see a play or a movie, or go to the symphony.”

  “I see. But this time she didn’t meet you there?”

  Patti shook her head. “No. And she never showed up at her hotel, either. She’d made reservations for both of us. I kept calling her cell phone, but she didn’t answer. Nor did she cancel her reservation or answer my emails. Something is very wrong, I just know it.”

  “I see. Has she ever done this before? Not answered her phone or emails?”

  “Never.” She ran her long fingers through her hair, shoving it impatiently back away from her face. I noticed her long nails were painted the exact same shade of red that her lips were. Though the way she kept chewing her lips, not much of her lipstick remained. She fidgeted in her chair and glanced at the coffeemaker.

  I followed her glance. The light was on, indicating it was ready, so I got up and filled the mugs. “Do you take sugar or creamer?”

  “Just black, please. Thanks.” She gratefully took the coffee and sipped from the mug. “I needed this.”

  “You’re welcome. You say Agnes lives in Landers?”

  She nodded. “On the edge of town, out on highway 37.”

  I knew most of the houses out that way were fairly new. The area had been nothing but farms a decade ago. “Did you check her house?”

  “Of course. I stayed at the hotel all day yesterday, thinking she’d surely show up with some explanation or other. But she didn’t. So I drove out first thing this morning. She’s not at her house. Nor is her car or her purse, suitcase or cell phone.”

  I frowned. “How do you know that? Were you inside her house?”

  “Yes. I have a key. She gave it to me back in my college days, so I could go ahead in if she wasn’t home from a meeting or something. I used to stay with her on weekends sometimes.”

  “You are close?”

  “Yes. Very close. My parents are dead so she’s the only family Corey and I have left. Well, except for an uncle and our grandparents, but we hardly ever see them.”

  “And Corey is?”

  “Corey Jones. My younger brother.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “California. But he’s um…traveling right now, I think. I’m not sure where at the moment. He does international sales for a big company and is always flying off somewhere or other.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “Um, I can’t remember the name of the company. International something or other.”

  “I see. And are the grandparents Agnes’ parents, too?”

  “Just her mother, Henrietta, who was my dad’s sister. Agnes’ father, Roscoe, died many years ago and then she married Orland Jans.”

  I wrote
down the info and asked, “Where do they live?”

  “In an assisted living place in the Twin Cities. They’re pretty forgetful now, but I call them occasionally. It’s hard talking to them. They don’t understand a lot of stuff I talk about and they repeat stuff over and over, you know?”

  “So Agnes wouldn’t be with them?”

  “Oh, no. We just stop in at the home to have a meal with them or visit for an hour or so, you know? No one can stay there with them.”

  “Oh. Do you have their address?”

  She nodded, dug out her cell phone and read it off to me and also their phone number.

  I wrote it all down and asked. “And Agnes’ name and address?”

  “Agnes Simms. She’s 57, tall and blonde like me, but her hair is going gray. She refuses to color it. I think she just doesn’t want to spend the money.”

  I wrote down the address she gave me and the phone numbers. “What does she do? For a living, I mean.”

  “Nothing. I mean, her father was a big shot lawyer in the Twin Cities and he left her an income. She does a lot of church stuff and charity work. You know, serves on various committees that try to help people, like the food shelf and Meals on Wheels. And she goes to book clubs, garden club, that sort of thing. She keeps busy.”

  Aha. That’s probably where I’d heard her name. Paul’s mother, Nora Munson, did that sort of thing also and often talks about it and all the people she works with when we have lunch together. Nora is one of my favorite people, but I don’t always know all the people she goes on and on about. She loves to talk and I usually just smile and listen. “I see. Then she has an adequate income?”

  “I don’t really know.” Patti frowned and chewed her lip again. “I think so. She inherited her house from her father. She drives an almost new Acura and she always seems to have plenty of money to travel and shop. And she insisted on paying for both my and Corey’s college.”