Where the Devil Lives

By Aletta Henry

G.B. Crane and Associates is an elite team of private investigators. Business is brought to an abrupt halt when the ninety-year-old mother of the head of the firm is found to be turning over large sums of money to a fake Indian holy man. It appears a fraud ring led by the bogus swami is expert at separating old ladies from their cash.

Gilbert Bishop Crane refuses to accept any new cases until his precious mother–a ghastly, ill-tempered old hag—is rescued from Alam Naresh, a smooth-as-silk conman. G.B. Crane employee Grace Forest will now go undercover as a dowager to help solve the mystery of why an actual dowager, her boss’s mother, is being swindled out of her dough.

Join the crack team from Gravers Lane as they attempt to collar a very cool character, only to land in the middle of a murderous crime spree almost too hot to handle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480896338

Aletta Henry

Aletta Henry is a member of a large, entertaining family and a lifelong resident of the Philadelphia area. She is an avid reader, has traveled extensively, and loves to work in and enjoy her gardens in Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Florida. Aletta has written five books, including A Total Eclipse and Snail’s Pace.

Book preview

ONE

When Mavis Crane said she was going in search of enlightenment, all I could say was It’s about time. If I ever met an unenlightened old battle-ax, she was it.

Mavis Crane was my boss’s mother. He thought she was the finest, warmest, most charming woman on earth, but he was a screwball, so …

When I first heard of her new interest, I figured maybe it would be good. It would keep her occupied and out of our hair. But as it turned out, she had taken up with some fake Indian holy man—some dubious swami. How he got his paws on her is a little hazy. It seemed as though it was through a patron of a beauty salon who gave Mrs. Crane a business card and touted the merits of Swami Naresh, stating that this great man had changed her life.

We (the crew at G. B. Crane and Associates, an elite firm of private investigators) all thought that she was doing some harmless meditating or something. We didn’t know that the old cow was being bilked until a call came from her banker. Now, let’s face it; most banks would never call anyone, no matter what was going on, but certain people who have a high net worth are private clients. These exalted beings get special attention, so when Mrs. Crane started withdrawing some unusual sums, they asked her tactfully what was happening, and she told them to drop dead or something like that. After that, they called my boss. At the office of Gilbert Bishop Crane, I usually answered the phone, so when I realized what the problem was, I told the boss that we needed to step in and do something. The Bishop bristled at the thought of interfering with his precious mother’s actions, but with enough pressure, he finally crumbled.

TWO

Grace, you look good in a decrepit sort of way.

Oh, Victor, you say the nicest things. You make me blush.

Victor, a large young man of Hawaiian descent, was an important part of the Crane team. He was admiring my transformation from a thirty-five-year-old woman with auburn hair and good skin to a rather tired-looking sixty-year-old.

I’ve double-checked with Mrs. Crane’s personal maid, I said, patting my gray wig. She only goes to the salon on Tuesday mornings at nine thirty. She finishes up about ten forty-five. My appointment is for eleven.

You might strike out, Victor said. That customer who gave the old lady that card might not be a shill for the swami; she might just be a salon patron and a sincere believer.

Yes, I know, but it’s got to be easier to approach it from the swami’s direction than to tangle with Mavis Crane, I said. You know something, Victor; the cleaning service is arriving soon. They know me but not intimately. Let’s see if they recognize me.

Okay. If they don’t know you, you’ll be safe, even if Mrs. Crane is late winding up her appointment and your paths cross. Oh—by the way, Grace, what are you getting done at the Bon Jour Salon?

I’m getting a manicure. I sure can’t get my hair done since it’s not my hair.

Won’t they think your hands look too young?

Don’t worry. I have an explanation all ready, I said. A bigger concern is that I haven’t responded to a couple of requests to work on some important cases. You know, Victor, this Swami Naresh situation is a minor issue, relatively speaking.

I know, Gracie, but the Bishop will never take a case as long as his mother is in the clutches of this fake Hindu holy man.

I realize that. You don’t think I enjoy going around in this matronly gear, do you? I know we have to take care of this before we can take a real paying case.

Where did you get that suit, anyway? Victor asked.

At a consignment shop. I looked at Gladys’s wardrobe, but nothing looked upscale enough.

Where did that ring come from?

The Bishop’s paternal grandmother gave it to him to use as an engagement ring. Since he’s never married, it’s been in his safe-deposit box. Look—these earrings match the ring.

I gazed at the enormous square-cut emerald on my hand. The emeralds on my ears were smaller but still impressive. These pieces are extremely valuable. That’s why Sam is going with me, posing as my driver.

Sam was a freelance investigator we used as needed; he was here quite often. Sam was forty-five; had nice, even features; kept his brown hair short and neat; and was of average height and weight. With a blue blazer and chauffeur’s cap, he looked the part.

You do understand why I had to use Sam for this caper and not you, I said.

Sure. I stand out like a Great Dane in a herd of Pekingese. Victor laughed, looking down at his imposing mass.

Yep, God sure didn’t skimp when He was assembling you. That’s why you’re just not cut out for sneaking around and fading into the background.

Gracie, I came to terms with that fact a long time ago. When I was a kid back in Oahu, if I ever did anything wrong, I got nailed right away. I could never just disappear into the crowd.

Is that why you’re so virtuous as an adult? I had to laugh when that came out.

I’m not trying to be that virtuous. It’s just that you block all my passes.

Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like to kiss me now?

I never thought I’d turn you down, Gracie, but it would be like putting a move on my grandmother.

Well, in the future, big guy, don’t ever say you haven’t been given a chance.

THREE

The doorbell rang, and Sam and three employees from Perfect Maid were let in at the same time by Gladys Gates, our housekeeper. When I realized who it was, I stepped into Victor’s office, which adjoined the main office, and shut the door. Victor was to ask one of the employees to begin by straightening up his office; this would give me a chance to test my disguise.

The office door opened, and Victor came in with a middle-aged woman wearing a Perfect Maid uniform.

Oh, Mrs. Van Dine, Victor said to me, come with me. This room is going to be cleaned now.

I got to my feet slowly and walked up to the Perfect Maid, whom I had seen at least ten or fifteen times before. Excuse me. I’ll get out of your way, I said in what I imagined to be the voice of a sixty-something woman.

No hurry, ma’am. I still have to bring in the vacuum cleaner.

Mr. Crane will be able to see you soon, Mrs. Van Dine. Why don’t we go across to the living room. It’ll be quieter.

Victor and I left through the door that led directly into the main hallway, closing the door behind us.

I guess you’re good to go, Gracie. She didn’t know you from the man on the moon.

Wasn’t it funny at breakfast when the boss just walked in and said, ‘Hi, Gracie. Good morning, Victor,’ and took his seat?

Yeah, he’s peculiar, but we’ve always known that, Victor answered, shaking his head and smiling.

Just when I thought he didn’t even notice how I was rigged up, he started talking about how his venerated grandmama used to gush about these jewels, I said, gazing at my emerald ring, and how they’d been passed along to her from her ancient forebears.

Well, Gracie, my girl, I guess you and Sam had better shove off. It’ll take you maybe forty-five minutes to get over to Haverford for your appointment. And keep an eye on that jewelry.

Don’t worry. The Crane family heirlooms are safe with me. And if I lose them, Sam will be the second line of defense. If we both let the jewels slip away, you’ll find us living in Belarus under the names of Fred and Myrtle Snively.

FOUR

Sam brought the dark blue Infiniti sedan out to the front. I climbed into the rear seat.

Oh, Flint, I said, using the chauffeur’s name selected for Sam for this job, drive me to my appointment, and I don’t wish to be jarred.

Take it easy, Grace.

Mrs. Van Dine to you, young man. I’m just getting into character. And it’s customary for one to call one’s chauffeur by his last name, or so I’ve been told.

You sound good, Grace. I’d never know you. If I’m not being too personal, where did your figure go? Sam gave a quick glance into the back seat at my expanded waistline.

I folded a bath towel lengthwise and pinned it around my midriff. Pretty good, huh?

You look just like a well-heeled widow named Charlotte Van Dine.

Thank you, I said, looking down at my dark green linen suit. I’ll be happy to ditch these glad rags, though.

Where did those shoes come from, anyhow?

They’re good, aren’t they? That would have been a tip-off if I hadn’t been able to get the right footwear. I found them at the same consignment shop. I gazed at the nice, neat, sensible shoes, with just a slight hint of the orthopedic about them. The things I do for my employer. I should be canonized.

How do you plan to handle things at the salon, madam?

You’ll see when I do it. You’ll be hovering solicitously nearby. That’s the only way you’ll know who to follow if the shill, or whoever, shows up. Just take off your chauffeur’s cap and stick like glue to anyone I show an unusual interest in.

It shall be as you wish, Mrs. Van Dine. Now just sit back and take your ease until we arrive at our destination.

FIVE

Charlotte Van Dine for Dorette, I said to the receptionist.

The Bon Jour Salon and Spa was one of those luxurious bowers devoted to the breathless pursuit of eternal youth. One’s skin could be revivified, one’s tresses transformed into voluptuous waves of satin. The lady’s contours could be forced into more youthful lines. I decided to glance around before my hands were made as soft as a baby’s.

Sam sat near the front door in the reception area, his chauffeur’s hat pulled down over his eyes. What you could see of his face wore the resigned expression of a man whose life was one long wait for an extremely self-indulgent widow.

I worked my way toward the ladies’ room, looking from left to right and taking in employees and clients alike. It was a choice lot: the patrons looked highly privileged, but the employees looked like royalty. The message of the elegantly appointed surroundings and regal staff seemed to be that anyone able to get an appointment here was very, very fortunate indeed. I stepped briefly into the ladies’ room. I patted my gray waves, surprised at my appearance even though I was the one who had put the grayish circles beneath my eyes and did the other little things to age myself. Leaving the ladies’ room, I slowly moved back the other way, being sure that any and all had a chance to study my glowing green, obviously expensive jewelry. I almost hoped to see my ancient nemesis, Mavis Crane. If it wasn’t for her imbecilic gullibility, I would be working on an interesting and remunerative case right now.

I was signaled by the receptionist that my manicurist was ready for me.

I was taken to Dorette’s area. She was waiting for me, smiling radiantly—falsely.

I sat down and wiggled my rump to a comfortable position (something I had seen my grandmother do).

I’m very slightly hard of hearing, I said loudly. If I was going to go fishing, I would spread my nets wide.

Dorette discussed my color choice. We settled on a soft pale rose, similar to the color I had put on especially for the occasion. I had consulted a manicurist at a salon in Chestnut Hill (where G. B. Crane is located), who said many of her clients preferred that shade.

As she removed my polish, Dorette commented on how youthful my hands were.

I’ve always had everything done for me, I said a little too loudly. I guess I’ve been awfully pampered.

I hated the words that were coming out of my mouth. I don’t make it a crime to be rich, only rich and useless—and that was the person Charlotte Van Dine wanted everyone to see.

I continued. My driver had a close call on the way here. It’s dreadful. Everyone is in such a rush these days. N’est ce pas?

I talked on, proclaiming my boredom with life and mentioning how all my truly fascinating friends had died or moved to warmer climates. I was trying to portray a wealthy, lonely, bored, and susceptible female.

I glanced around me and over toward the hair salon area.

I’m glad to see that most of the hairstyles done here are sensible—attractive but sensible. Not these outré looks you see sometimes out in restaurants and so forth. I was pulling out all the stops. No con man on earth could have resisted such a tempting mark. My jaded conversation sprinkled with French phrases would be like catnip to anyone with larceny in his heart.

While my nails were being finished, I studied the decor of the place. It was a little overdone, but all in all, it was tasteful, obviously the work of a professional design firm. The predominant color was teal.

When my nails were done, I was led to a seat in front of an ultraviolet nail-drying machine. I was told to stay there for ten minutes. I sat seemingly lost in thought. I was waiting, the vapid, self-absorbed, and vulnerable widow.

I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. Four minutes had passed. I was just beginning to think I had gotten rigged up like Lady Astor for nothing when a well-dressed woman came and parked herself next to me.

Hello. Do you mind if I sit here? I’m early for my appointment.

I looked at her like she was an insect and nodded assent.

She was clever. She didn’t push. What she didn’t know was that I had, out of the corner of my eye, seen her come rushing in when Dorette was nearly done with my nails.

She knew what to say. She parroted many of the sentiments I had expressed prior to her arrival. She’d been briefed by someone in the salon—that was crystal clear.

I reluctantly allowed myself to be drawn into conversation. After a while, I looked at her very directly, as though I had just met a kindred spirit. The rest was easy.

I admired her dress, and she murmured the name of a small and exclusive clothing store in nearby Rosemont. I dropped the name of the Philadelphia Cricket Club.

At last, she mentioned a wonderful and brilliant man whom she was sure I would enjoy meeting and slipped me a business card. Bingo! I couldn’t just jump up and rush out, though; I had to play the game.

I dropped my lids and slid my eyes in the direction of Sam. He was holding his cell phone to his ear and heading out the door. His chauffeur’s cap was well pulled down. He was positioning himself to tail my new acquaintance, Pearl Trent—surely not her name.

I turned to Mrs. Trent and announced that I was going to consult about my skin and line up a facial for another day.

Mrs. Trent said that she suddenly had a dreadful headache and was going to cancel her hair appointment.

I bid her a regal farewell and moved, with nose held high, in the direction of the scheduling desk.

SIX

I dawdled around a bit, gave Dorette an exorbitant tip, and left the Bon Jour Salon. Out on the street, seeing that driver and car were gone, I went into a nearby gift shop and made a small purchase. I went into a pharmacy down the street, stepped into a quiet corner, and phoned Sam Underwood.

Can you talk? I blurted anxiously.

Yes, I can. I’m sitting in the car outside of an apartment house on Montgomery Avenue. I followed Pearl Trent to the location. She got out of the car, walked to the entrance, and was immediately admitted by the doorman.

So she’s well known there, I answered.

It certainly looked like it. Well, right after she went in, I walked up to the doorman and started asking him some questions about the building. I told him I had a friend who was looking for something in the area. I kind of moved inside the door, ostensibly to get out of the sun. I continued to chat for another minute, all the while scanning the names on the mailboxes. Because of the sunglasses I was wearing, the doorman couldn’t see where my eyes were when I was checking out the mailboxes. Naresh is in unit 407.

Good work, Sam. I’ll head in your direction.

Should I wait for you?

If you can. Of course, if Pearl Trent comes out, follow her—we can’t miss a chance to find out where she is going, I told him.

Sam gave me the address, and I promised to head in his direction immediately.

As soon as I hung up, I phoned for a taxi. I then made a couple of purchases—a small pack of moist towelettes and a reusable laminated cloth bag.

I went out the side door of the drugstore and stood in the doorway as I stuffed my wig, suit jacket, and the towel from around my waist into the bag; cleaned the grayish makeup from my face with a towelette; combed my hair down; and applied some lipstick.

When the cab appeared, a young woman with reddish brown shoulder-length hair, wearing a tailored white shirt, a dark green skirt, black shoes, and handbag and carrying a colorful bag with a modern geometric design, hopped in.

I don’t think anyone saw my metamorphosis—certainly no one from the salon.

The driver was a chatty sort, and I conversed with him absentmindedly, my brain racing ahead. We knew where the swami was. If we could get a line on his sidekick (if Indian swamis have sidekicks), we could really nail this guy.

I had the cabbie drop me off a half block from my destination. I walked along a little and slowed down near where Sam was parked. I started rooting around in my newly purchased tote bag.

Get in, Grace. Nobody’s looking.

I opened the passenger door and slid in beside Flint.

She’s still up there. It’s been about twenty-five minutes. She’s probably telling that phony how slick she was reeling you in.

She was pretty smooth. And if I was the person I was pretending to be, I might have fallen for her line. Oh, look. Here is the swami’s card.

__________________________

Swami Naresh

Live on a higher plane

Know the Unknowable

Be at Peace

[phone]

__________________________

Sam took the card and read it out loud. Oh brother. What a load of bull. I wonder what this guy is like.

"He must be pretty polished. He’s making a good living from knowing