Survival Can Be Deadly: A Discount Detective Mystery

By Charlotte Stuart

When single mom and recent widow Cameron Chandler takes a much-needed job at Penny-wise Investigations, a detective agency conveniently located in a suburban shopping mall, she grabs the chance to reinvent herself. Her first case is to locate a runaway girl, something her predecessor had been pursuing before he disappeared. Following in his footsteps, the trail leads to a survivalist camp on a remote island in northern Puget Sound. Armed with only a Swiss Army Knife and her quirky on-the-job training as a suburban sleuth, Cameron uncovers more than she bargained for. She soon finds herself in a fight for her own survival in this lighthearted mystery set in Seattle and the San Juan Islands to the north.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walrus Publishing
• Release date: Sep 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781940442273

Charlotte Stuart

Through the years, Charlotte Stuart has taught college courses in communication, left a tenured faculty position to go commercial fishing in Alaska, spent a frustrating year as a political speech writer, enjoyed time as a management consultant, and survived several years as a VP of HR and training. She started her writing career with a PhD thesis that had the distinction of being stolen from the University of Washington library. After getting a number of serious academic articles published, she turned to penning humorous stories about boating. Her current passion is for writing lighthearted mysteries that are grounded in real situations and relationships. Charlotte lives on Vashon Island and appreciates its rural atmosphere while being only a 20-minute ferry ride from Seattle. She is the president of the Puget Sound Chapter of Sisters in Crime and a member of the Mystery Writers of America.

Book preview

Wilde

CHAPTER 1

EMPLOYED AT LAST!

IT WAS THE ONLY STORE in the mall that didn’t invite shoppers to take a look inside. Sandwiched between Ye Olde Candle Shoppe and Sew What?, its mirrored storefront looked impenetrable. Images rebounded off the mirrors, challenging passers-by to guess what went on inside. I slowed down to guess.

It was then I saw the Help Wanted sign to the right of the pale oak door. Although I had never bothered to check out the place before, the sign drew me like a powerful magnet.

Hey, watch it, an angry voice said. An elderly woman in a hot pink sweat suit pushed past me, leaving no doubt that I had violated one of the mall’s unwritten traffic rules. You don’t cut across the wave of bodies, you go with the flow. I mumbled an apology and stepped out of the mainstream.

The name of the shop was painted in a cobalt blue arc that spanned three quarters of the mirror: Penny-wise Investigations. Within the arc in smaller, straight line print was: Discount Detection. Lower down and to the right was a tiny griffin emblazoned in gold next to P.W. Griffin & Associates. Vigilance you can afford.

A detective agency in a shopping mall? Suburban sleuthing for the middle-class consumer? No way, I said to myself. This isn’t for me.

I backed away, sidestepped around a strolling shopper, and found a seat on a glossy faux wood bench next to a long blue planter full of green plants apparently sustained by the fluorescent rays of overhead lighting. I reached out and fingered one of the plants. Artificial. I tapped the heavy looking planter. Plastic, and hollow. Everything fake and empty, like my life.

The bench faced the shopping mall detective agency. I found myself staring at the mirrored storefront wondering how many of the ordinary people rushing about intent on their shopping ever considered hiring a private investigator. That older woman in the black checked polyester slacks with the gray cardigan, for example. Would she go into the agency and ask them to check on her grandchildren to see which one deserved to inherit her house and all of her personal belongings? And what about that woman in the tight jeans and jaunty sweater who looked as though she had just stepped out of a beauty shop—suppose she wants to know whether her husband is cheating with his executive assistant? Or the pregnant woman riding herd on the little girl who was pulling at her tights to keep them up, might she be lured by a conveniently located discount detective agency if her husband ran off with their child?

I sat there, resting my feet, trying not to feel depressed. Sale signs and Specials leapt out at me like accusing fingers. If YOU had a job, they seemed to say, then you too could be part of the great American consumer phenomenon.

But I didn’t have a job. And in the last few months I’d heard nothing but reasons why I wasn’t a good fit for this job or that. Sorry, but since you don’t have administrative skills… Sorry, but since you aren’t experienced creating Excel spreadsheets and graphs… Sorry, you’re overqualified. Sorry, you’re under-qualified. Sorry. My PhD in liberal arts wasn’t a springboard to any of the jobs that were out there. I had reached a professional dead-end that was threatening to make a cul-de-sac out of my entire life.

My eyes went back to the Help Wanted sign just an Olympics broad jump leap away. I didn’t know anything about being a private detective. But maybe they wanted a receptionist. The sign didn’t say. I looked away, then remembered the article that had appeared on my refrigerator that morning, held in place by a magnet shaped like a goose wearing a bonnet. The headline read: Lower standard of living for single mothers.

It hadn’t taken a genius to figure out that my mother was hinting that I should either get a job or a husband, preferably the latter, from her point of view. Since my husband Dan’s death, Mom was always lecturing me about how I was becoming a statistic, leaving the warnings in the form of articles where I would be certain to see them: Unemployed PhDs on the increase. Women still making less than men. Older women less likely to remarry. Children of single parent households have more emotional problems. Etcetera. Sometimes I felt as though every journalist in the country was trying to meddle in my private affairs.

While I had been sitting there, a number of shoppers had stopped briefly in front of the small display window to the left of the detective agency entrance. Finally I got curious enough to go over and take a look. Hanging from the light brown wall was a single shelf about three feet long. On it was a stuffed bear wearing a beige raincoat and a miniature red plaid Sherlock Holmes cap. Attached to his right paw was a magnifying glass pointed in the general direction of a footprint cut out of black paper. Above the toy sleuth was a flier that read: For the man or woman who has everything—give them the gift of vigilance. Special rates for gift certificate detection services.

They had to be kidding. Didn’t they?

Further down on the window was a sign that listed their services:

ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION, RECOVERY ASSISTANCE, EVIDENCE GATHERING, DOMESTIC AND OTHER SURVEILLANCE, MISSING PERSONS, BACKGROUND REPORTS, INDUSTRIAL INVESTIGATION, INVESTIGATIVE DUE DILIGENCE, CHILD CUSTODY, PHOTOGRAPHY, COURIER SERVICE, AND PRIVATE MATTERS.

At the bottom it said:

INITIAL INTERVIEW FREE

I found myself shaking my head. No way. No way. Had I said that out loud?

The mirror on the other side of the door caught my reflection at an angle, distorting my figure like a fun house mirror image. I made a face and turned sideways, slowly moving closer to shorten and expand my reflection. When I was right in front of the mirror I impulsively leaned forward and pressed my forehead against the cold surface to see if it was possible to get a glimpse of what was inside. All I could make out were a few indistinguishable blobs in varying shades of gray-black, like an old photograph that has started to fade. I straightened up and rejoined the masses moving clockwise through the mall.

I didn’t remember making the decision to turn back, but all of a sudden, there I was, standing in front of the door to Penny-wise Investigations. It was a crazy idea. Ridiculous. My expertise on detectives began and ended with the Maltese Falcon and reruns of Miss Marple. I was supposed to become a university professor. That’s why I had gone back to school. But supposed to be was the operative phrase. And that was a Help Wanted sign taped to the mirror, and I definitely needed help.

Fully prepared to beat a hasty retreat at the first sign of anything sleazy, seedy, or squalid, I put my hand on the doorknob and gave it a turn. As I stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was a musty yet sweet aroma that I couldn’t place. Then, before my eyes had fully adjusted to the dim interior after the glare of mall lighting, a voice said, May I help you?

I blinked and a young man seated behind a large wood desk came into focus. In my opinion, he was all wrong for a detective agency—crisp and efficient looking, like someone in middle management on his way up. The room was all wrong, too. There wasn’t a single battered metal filing cabinet and no dusty Venetian blinds. Instead of being spare and unsavory, everything was rich and plush, like a lawyer’s office or the foyer in a funeral parlor. Thick carpet. Tasteful artwork. Leather chair with matching couch under … the one-way mirror! Oh my god, he must have seen me trying to look in.

May I help you? he repeated.

Ah, I said, trying to get my embarrassment under control. I … I want to apply for that job. Great, I hadn’t even asked what the job was.

He looked me over carefully, his blue eyes sharp, and, I was certain, critical. I was suddenly self-conscious about my battered walking shoes and wondered whether I should have put on make-up.

If you’d like to take a seat. He pointed toward the couch. I’ll see if Ms. Griffin is available.

Thank you, I managed in my pre-puberty voice. Sinking gratefully onto the couch in front of that damned one-way mirror, I watched as W. Blaine Watkins—or so the nameplate on his desk said—disappeared into another room. Was he a receptionist? Detective? Man Friday? And what did the W stand for? Wonderful? Weird? Window-dressing?

What was with all of the initials, anyway? P.W. Griffin. W. Blaine Watkins. Didn’t detectives have short, onomatopoetic names that sounded tough and ready for action, like Sam and Mike and Fletch? Maybe I should introduce myself as Cam. Or maybe go the initials route with C.T. Chandler, MA, PhD and S.O.L. Then again, maybe I was applying for a job as a custodian so it wouldn’t matter.

When W. Blaine Watkins returned and motioned me to follow him, I obediently stood up, squared my shoulders and resolutely strode into the griffin’s den. There were no windows in the room, but it was brightly lit by whimsical track lighting with art glass shades. Bookshelves crammed with books lined two walls from floor to ceiling. The wall to my right was bare, except for two paintings, eighteenth century Dutch was my guess. The last thing I noticed before coming to a halt in front of the antique desk that dominated the room was an ornate clothes tree in the corner. A single hat hung from one of the brass hooks, a wide-brimmed affair with a pointed feather jutting out of the hatband.

At 5’10" I consider myself tall for a woman, but when Ms. Griffin came out from behind her desk, I felt like a runt. It wasn’t that I had to tilt my head up to look her in the eyes, but somehow she seemed larger than life, like she had stepped out of the pages of a book on Norse mythology. Her startling white hair was parted in the middle and brushed back from her face, rivaling large, dark eyes for attention. There was no way she was going to blend into a crowd when tailing someone, but then, since her name was on the letterhead, she probably didn’t need to.

I was so busy taking it all in that it took me a moment to realize she was holding out her hand. Belatedly, I thrust out my own hand, remembering to grip firmly, but not as firmly as she did. I’m P.W. Griffin, she said in an unusually low, hoarse voice. I understand you are looking for a job.

I remember the rest of the interview as a collection of disjointed images: Ms. Griffin’s black eyes penetrating and probing; a long, skinny unlit cigarette in an antique ashtray on her desk; W. Blaine Watkins bringing in two cups of coffee on a black enamel tray; a pin in the shape of a ceramic window with the blinds closed fastened to the front of Ms. Griffin’s dress; and the sound of my own voice, hollow and remote.

It became clear fairly quickly that I really was applying for a position as an investigator. It didn’t seem to bother her that I didn’t have a resume with me or that I didn’t have a license or experience. She said they liked to train their own people and emphasized that what she was looking for was someone assertive and independent who could relate to the problems of their clientele. Although it seemed to me that my credentials were as inappropriate as my shoes, I tried to put my best foot forward. She asked questions about how I interacted with people, what I considered my strengths, how I went about solving problems, and how I would describe my work style. One thing she didn’t ask was why I had applied for the position. I was very grateful for that because I didn’t want to talk about how desperate I was to leave the ranks of the long-term unemployed.

As the interview progressed, she asked fewer questions and began telling me about the kinds of cases they handled. There were parents with run-away children, companies with personnel problems, and accident victims who needed evidence to substantiate their claims. There were also bitter divorce and custody battles, partnership disputes and missing or philandering spouses. She stressed that the private investigation business, at least in the suburbs, was not particularly glamorous and rarely dealt with major crimes like many people assumed. Rather, it was a service industry aimed at meeting the needs of its customers, ordinary people with a wide variety of problems.

Finally, she paused a moment, then asked: Well, what do you think?

I think it sounds like what I’ve been looking for, I replied. It was the truth, in a way. It was a job, and I wanted a job. Furthermore, in spite of everything she had said to the contrary, I was still intrigued by the image of becoming a private investigator. So when she offered me a trial position starting the very next Monday, I didn’t have to feign excitement. I just hoped my surprise wasn’t evident. Thank you, I said. That’s great.

But what I was thinking was: wait until I tell the kids!

On the way home I stopped to pick up a couple of steaks to celebrate. I couldn’t afford it, but what the heck. I was employed!

Home is a two-story former carriage house nestled in the trees at the back of a large lot. The main house had been remodeled to accommodate four spacious apartments, but it retains that elegant look of another, more prosperous era. I entered through a tall wood gate and followed the winding brick path to the house I share with my mother and two children. The children and I live downstairs and Mom upstairs, a satisfactory arrangement for the most part, although sometimes I wish my mother had a little more trouble sprinting up and down the stairs. If she had to use one of those internal stair lifts, we would at least hear her coming.

I burst into the living room with a loud Ta da! only to find it empty. The kitchen was also empty. I put the steaks in the refrigerator and went to see if the kids were upstairs with Mom. I had been looking forward to telling them my news, but I wasn’t too sure how she would respond.

There you are, Cameron, Mom said from her small kitchen. She was wearing a fuchsia silk tunic over dark gray pants with a gray striped apron tied around her waist. With her rich chestnut colored hair, tinted to hide the gray, and her artfully applied make-up, she looked youthful and stylish. I was proud of her, but sometimes I wished she was less elegant and more, I don’t know, traditional. The kind of mom who wears an apron while she bakes pies and sings happy songs while washing the dishes in a cheery kitchen with yellow walls and a window that overlooks a carefully tended garden. Maybe I had watched too many Leave It to Beaver reruns as a kid.

That you, Mom? Jason called from the other room. I could hear the television in the background.

With a smile for my mother, I went past her into the other room. Both kids were there. Hi, Jason, Mara. Guess what?

Wait until after this commercial, okay? Jason said, laughing in anticipation of the guy selling his hair to a wig shop as a result of depression caused by having cable instead of Direct TV. It WAS a funny ad, so I waited patiently, well almost patiently.

Mara stood up and raised her full eyebrows in question. She has a perfect oval face and will someday be a beauty, but she hates her eyebrows, and at times she hates me because I won’t let her pluck them. I was always telling her there would be time enough for all that later, an argument that is seldom successful with preteens.

I got a job. I mouthed the words for Mara so as not to interrupt Jason’s concentration.

Oh, Mom! She rushed over and hugged me.

Jason couldn’t stand it. He hit the pause button and turned to us with a look of irritation mixed with curiosity. Something happen?

I got a job. This time I said it out loud. It felt good.

That’s great. He turned back to the television and pressed the play button. The commercial ended and Anderson Cooper appeared. Jason’s eleven and a news junkie. He reads the local newspaper every day, scans the online headlines for the New York Times, The Huffington Post, and Fox News—to get a balanced perspective—and faithfully watches the evening news, flipping from channel to channel. Mom is always telling me that this is unnatural for someone his age, but she never complains to him. Doing what? he asked temporarily muting Anderson Cooper.

This was the moment I had been waiting for. With a calm, firm voice, I said, As a detective.

A what? Mara shook her head as though she hadn’t heard properly.

A detective, I repeated with a smile.

At long last I had Jason’s full attention as he turned to look at me. What kind of detective?

How many kinds are there?

Well.… He gave it some thought. "You can’t mean a real detective."

Why not?

Because … because … well, you’re not the type.

I wasn’t sure this was an avenue I wanted to explore too carefully. The name of the agency is Penny-wise Investigations.

Penny-wise Investigations? Come off it, Mom.

Really. They have an office in the mall.

You mean where the Sherlock Holmes bear is? Mara asked. She had done most of her school shopping at that mall, but I was surprised she had noticed the agency. Then again, a lot of people stopped to look at that stuffed bear.

That’s the place.

She turned toward her brother. They’re for real, Jason.

Then why’d they hire Mom? He asked the question as if that was all the proof he needed.

My mother came into the room sans apron. Well, what’s going on in here?

Mom thinks she’s James Bond, Jason said.

What?

I got a job with a detective agency, I said as casually as I could manage. I had to tell her some time.

Doing what?

As a detective. They call them investigators.

The look she gave me was familiar. It encompassed all the incredulity of someone whose patience is often tested by those around her, especially me. What kind of detective? she asked.

How many kinds are there? Jason mimicked.

I think it sounds like fun, Mara said. If Jason had been supportive she might have been more circumspect, but she and her brother made it a point to disagree on as much as possible.

Just a regular detective, Mom.

A ‘regular’ detective. And what does a ‘regular’ detective do?

You know, I said, my enthusiasm and confidence slowly ebbing, leaving me feeling vulnerable and defensive.

You mean like Poirot? Or Miss Fisher? I couldn’t tell if she was trying to be funny.

Is it dangerous? Mara interjected.

No, it’s not dangerous. They handle routine stuff like … surveillance and missing persons … that sort of thing. I didn’t want it to sound too mundane. After all, part of the fun of announcing I had a job was the fact that it was something with a slightly romantic image. At least in my mind.

Oh, surveillance and missing persons, that sort of thing. My mother’s tone was neutral, the kind of neutrality that masked a postponed argument. She would have plenty to say later, after the kids went to bed.

Anyway, I have some steaks downstairs, so let’s celebrate, okay?

Dinner is already on the table, Mom said.

Oh. Mom is always watching her weight, so we usually only eat together on weekends, but it’s a loose arrangement. Apparently tonight she had cooked for all of us.

Come on, she said. Jason, you can watch the rest of the news on a smaller screen in the dining room. Now I knew for certain just how upset she was; she normally didn’t approve of having the television on when we ate together.

We all trooped into the alcove that she called a dining room and took our usual places. Dinner was some exotic Cornish hen recipe from Bon Appetit. Jason scraped off the plum glaze and pushed the vegetable medley around on his plate after carefully picking out the peas, which he likes. I’m not sure how he managed that with his eyes glued to the television, but he did. Mara took a tentative bite and started to ask about what was in the sauce, then apparently thought better of it and resigned herself to eating whatever it was.

We ate in relative silence, the news washing over us like the sound of freeway traffic. It wasn’t at all the festive reception I’d envisioned, but then I should have realized it wouldn’t be. The kids took little things like jobs and money for granted, and Mom saw my desire for a career as a temporary stop-gap measure to tide me over between husbands.

It wasn’t as if I’d had an ideal marriage. Dan and I had argued all the time, and if he hadn’t dropped dead from a heart attack, our relationship probably would have ended in divorce. Although Mom had been sure that we would work things out. For the children. And because it was what she wanted. That was two years ago. Now, despite her opinion on the matter, I was starting a new life with a job rather than a husband at its center. I intended to put past failures behind me and concentrate on the future. But if I wanted to celebrate, I was apparently going to have to do it on my own.

CHAPTER 2

DAY ONE ON THE JOB

I SPENT THE WEEKEND worrying about what to wear for my first day on the job. I assumed that the ever popular Burberry with notched collar, leather belt buckle and signature plaid lining was a bit much. But what did the well-dressed detective wear these days? My only contemporary models were W. Blaine Watkins and P.W. Griffin, and my lowly status within the agency didn’t seem to justify their fashion-plate attire. After considerable thought I chose a pair of dark corduroy slacks with a matching waist length jacket and a beige blouse. Medium heels, discreet earrings, and light make-up. Conservative and a bit blah. The safe approach.

When I arrived at Penny-wise on Monday morning I experienced a tingle of anticipation. This was it: Day one as a detective. I pushed open the door and again noticed that sweet, musty smell. What on earth was it?

Good morning, Ms. Chandler. W. Blaine Watkins glanced up briefly from the work on his desk. His dark

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[Cyril Albar · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“Best Books I’ve Read. ... If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star, just submit your story to [e-mail] or [e-mail]