Dedication

To Days for Girls International

Thank you, all of you, who understand that menstrual health management is a matter of human rights and a critical component of achieving gender equity.

About the Book

As you hold this book, The Finder, welcome to my mind. Does that sound magical or plain creepy? Read the paragraph below and then consider this concept.

Cosmologist Carl Sagan once said, A book is a proof that humans are capable of working magic. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts imprinted with lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it, and you’re inside another person’s mind, maybe somebody dead for a thousand years.

Those I meet for the first time before they discover I write about crooks, hoodlums, swindlers, murders, and assorted good-for-nothings, accept me as an ordinary woman. They probably see me as a gardener, maybe an artist, and Fifi to Gwen and Dane, two beautiful youngsters who crowned me with this grandmother’s name. Many others know me and my little Welsh terrier, the intrepid Coco Rose, as neighbors as we ramble around my village of Carlsbad, California.

Possibly once we’ve moved from acquaintances to friends, they realize I’m often overwhelmed by a body count that’s adding up. A serial killer on the loose? A kidnapping that isn’t going to have a happy ending. They might be surprised that while they’re thinking of what to have for dinner, I’m working wicked ways to off the bad guys/gals, plan intricate deceptions, range of blood splatter, and pull the entire manuscript together with a surprise or three before I have written a word.

I’m often asked, How do you find these ideas? Where do the ideas come from? They’re everywhere, from the nightly news to a conversation I’ve eavesdropped on while waiting for a barista to hand me a coffee. Besides mysteries, in every shade and color, are my jam. I keep a file of peculiar stuff that may or may not find its way into the next mystery.

More so, life is excellent for primary research, especially for a mystery writer. Life is full of broken hearts, disenchantments, regrets, sorrow, grief, and guilt; if we let it, supreme joy and possibilities. Yet, even in the worst times, the yucky stuff that hits like a blizzard of spit wads can improve our writing and give it more depth.

My husband Joe died in November 2021 of Alzheimer’s Disease. I’ve included a character wrestling with that cruel ailment in this book. Yes, primary research at work. Further, I’ve always wanted to write about my childhood hometown of Santa Barbara when it was not an enclave for the rich and famous but a small city. I wanted to shed light, also, on the autocracies committed against Indigenous people during the Spanish mission and colonial periods and racial discrimination just under the surface.

When I finished The Seer, I thought that would be the end of my time with Beatrix and Thomas. One and done, that kind of thing. So wrong. They would not stop talking to me, and while I tried not to listen, they had other ideas. Without meaning to, I concocted a plot dangerous enough to stop these two in their tracks and threw them into the middle of it.

However, both characters matured in the years between the beginning of World War II and the now, which is 1946. War does that to people. While they floundered and were frightened, they managed to stay in character. At one point, they both stared at me to get them out of some frightful situations.

If you’ve thought of writing a book or have one in progress, carve out time and make it a priority. Make some magic, as Dr. Sagan advises. I’ve done that for you, and you can do it, too.

Here’s The Finder. I hope you enjoy it.

Acknowledgments

Are you a reader of acknowledgments? If so, you’ve noted how a writer gives thanks to the team who has supported her/him/them. That’s because a book doesn’t magically appear. It takes a writer to start and doesn’t get into a reader’s hands until it’s been through a team of unsung literary heroes.

My heroes for The Finder started with the first readers, and the book you’re holding wouldn’t have been possible without them. Thank you: Ellen Hobart (bestie forever), Susan Meibaum (can’t wait to read your novel), Andy Meibaum (for NOLA tips like Club My-Oh-My), Nico Garofolo (a wise and creative friend who always listens), Celeste Mergens (for always believing) and Danielle Light Corwin (always there, no matter what or when). I’ve come to depend on each of you for truthful feedback, gracious, unwavering support of my writing, and for giving me more than my legal limit of laughs as I craft novels. Thank you for believing in me.

Huge thanks go to the staff at TorchFlame Publishing: Betty, Wally, Meghan, and the talented designers and proofers; all of you made my writing shine.

Thank you to all my former and current online writing students, booksellers, librarians, book club members, podcast providers, and bloggers. The book world is better for all your unfailing support.

Finally, I’m blessed to be surrounded by amazing friends and loving family, both chosen and bio, who encourage my creative efforts, even nutty ones, and let me talk about plots, murders, twists, and the characters who reside in my brain. If they think I’m weird, they don’t let it show.

It is an honor to support Days for Girls International; fifty percent of this book’s profits have been pledged to the organization. Days for Girls advances menstrual equity, health, dignity, and opportunity for all girls and women worldwide in the most-dire situations. Without sanitary products, they cannot go to school or work and are left in poverty simply because they are female. Days for Girls transforms periods into pathways. Please join me in furthering their message and sharing it by reading more about their work at daysforgirls.org.

You’re all the best. Thank you, big time.

Chapter 1

Santa Barbara, California, November 1945

Excuse me, you’re Beatrix Patterson. This was a statement, not a question. The speaker towered over the sidewalk café table and Beatrix. The accent was as smooth as honey on a warm biscuit.

Pure New Orleans, she thought.

Every morning since moving back to her hometown, Beatrix walked to downtown Santa Barbara for coffee and to buy the newspaper. She chose one of three cafés each day and relished the time alone to organize her thoughts and memories. If she didn’t process them, as she called this period of reflection, it was hard to concentrate. She was afflicted or fortunate, depending on the situation, to have a gift of hypermnesia, a condition that allows one to retain details with great precision. Forever.

Right then, the person staring down at her stepped back and looked around, scrutinizing, evaluating, and surveying the area, as if expecting evil to jump from the mellow surroundings. They looked at Beatrix in the same way. Cloying, treacly Tabu perfume grabbed the sea breeze as the tall individual in a hip-length black and white tweed jacket, a crisp white shirt with a frilly lace collar, and shiny black gabardine pants stared down at Beatrix. Waiting for an invitation to sit? Waiting to be recognized?

I believe we’ve met. Beatrix could not remember a time when she’d forgotten anything, a detail, or a person. Everything once seen, heard, smelled, or tasted was engraved in her mind. However, there was a niggling feeling that this glamorous and oversized female butterfly in front of her was someone she’d met, but she was even more dazzling when they’d first been introduced. Beatrix looked more closely at the chocolate brown eyes and prominent nose and knew the truth.

The Santa Barbara News Press was open on the little table before her, and her finger still lingered on a story about the despicable Manzanar Internment Camp that housed innocent Japanese Americans during the war. Beatrix knew the Owens Valley area of California and remembered the constant, piercing winds and desolation. So isolated, so other worldly. Brutal. It was as if these blameless people were responsible because their ancestors happened to have immigrated from Japan decades before. It was a shameful black mark for America, and she hoped now that the war was over, kindness to all people would be achieved.

Supposedly the final detainee would be released in a few days, said the article. And how will they get their lives and livelihoods back now that the government has stripped them of their rights as citizens, their honor, and their pride? These scars will last this lifetime, and into the future of their children and grandchildren. These thoughts were stuffed into a compartment of her brain to ponder later as she waited for the looming figure in front of her to reveal their identity and reason for finding her. It was obviously not by chance.

The stranger tapped the table with a long index finger. Are you the psychic? The voice was deep, throaty, and not at all matching the curvy figure in front of Beatrix.

Definitely not. Not anymore, she thought. Why are you asking? She recognized the person, but she had no idea about the reason for the visit.

The visitor pulled out a wrought iron chair, its legs screeching on the cement, and maneuvered carefully to join Beatrix at the tiny cafe table, one of a half-dozen outside the coffee house that would soon become a popular lunch spot and trendy Santa Barbara tourists’ eatery. The morning fog, perpetually clinging to the central coastline in the fall, had just receded, and yet, Beatrix saw dots of sweat on her companion’s overly made-up face.

You were a psychic when you lived in New Orleans, right?

Yes, for a time. I tried to help people, but that’s been years. Who are you and why are you asking? If you’re looking for a fortune teller, you’re mistaken to come to me. Beatrix’s auburn hair, now in a long page boy style like fabulously successful actress Lauren Bacall, inched her chair back. Feeling the body heat from this stranger made her feel ill at ease, which was unusual since Beatrix thrived on meeting new people and diving into mysteries. She crossed her legs in the other direction and the seconds ticked by as she waited for the stranger’s response.

Dressed in fashionable high-waisted gray slacks, a thin black belt, and a red gingham shirt, complete with trendy western stitching, Beatrix could have passed for an actress. Perhaps not the leading lady, but one with a memorable face. She would have been the strong-willed sister or a supporting player. Maybe even the murderer in a detective film. Resolve and strength were etched on her young face. Since the central coast city of Santa Barbara was just becoming an enclave for the rich and famous, as it was close to Hollywood and Bel Air, no one would have been surprised if she were in films. Even locals took a second look at the striking woman whenever she was out in public, proven as a couple slowed on the sidewalk when they spied Beatrix and the tall individual across from her.

The visitor said, John Brockman sent me.

One mystery solved¸ thought Beatrix. Now onto the next. Yes, John and I are old friends. She thought of the decent man she’d become close to during her time in New Orleans. He wasn’t good to everyone, but then again, who really was?

He told me how you helped him and provided information. He told me I could trust you. John said if I had trouble to look you up.

Beatrix watched as the stranger took a cigarette from a pale white snake-skin clutch purse and placed it into a theatrically long holder that telescoped out, then fumbled with a matchbook. The match cover read The Nightingale Club. It was a strip joint near the navy base at Port Hueneme, a gritty flipside of the more gentile Santa Barbara. Beatrix hadn’t been there, but had read in the paper, perhaps a week before, of a scuffle between police and a rowdy crowd.

The visitor took a long drag, blowing smoke high above Beatrix’s head, watching it disappear into the vapors. What details do you need to know to help me? If, in fact, you help people? John said you were a finder, could find anything.

Would you like some coffee? It’s quite good here, Beatrix offered as she scrutinized her companion, picking up clues from the pricey purse, finely pressed outfit, the fire engine red painted fingernails, and the eye-catching diamond brooch, in the shape of a fleur de lis, that took up most of the jacket’s broad lapel. Long raven locks cascaded over the jacket’s shoulders. A wig? She wondered why, but there were numerous reasons.

The hands were large, but the movements were graceful. Beatrix realized she’d misjudged the visitor’s age. No more than thirty. However, weariness pulled down the person’s shoulders and felt as heavy as the thick layer of facial foundation that didn’t quite conceal a pebbly surface. But the little black hat, complete with peek-a-boo veil, shielded more from inspection, and that seemed to be the reason for wearing it.

Yes, thanks. John and I have known one another for a while, too. He’s been a faithful friend. Yes, I’m good at discovering the truth and no, there are no guarantees.

John Brockman, fixer, loan shark, tycoon, opportunist, among other things, including being the owner of an antiquated bookshop, which was a façade for a gaming hall, had been Beatrix’s neighbor in her tiny office on Royal Street in the French Quarter in New Orleans. He had most of the politicians in Louisiana in his pocket and rumor had it that this was also true throughout the South. Yet, this slight man with immense power had single-handedly attempted to save Beatrix’s life when two misguided women kidnapped her. Even more, he’d helped discover the original and misfiled adoption records, proving that the Patterson’s had officially adopted her as a toddler, hence their fortune went to her. Finally, when the dust settled, he became a friend, one she could trust with her life.

John is in Louisiana, or that’s what I understand. Are you from New Orleans too, Miss…?

Ramsey. Frankie Ramsey. The smile that started on the generous lips never made a full appearance. Just to clear the air, you’re not the first clairvoyant I’ve talked with about the issues. However, you are the first here in California. I’m at a loss of what to do. The police ignore me. The FBI refuses to let me make an appointment. John said to find you. That Asian guy working on your house said you’d be here, at this café, or sitting outside one of these others here on State Street. John told me you’d know what to do.

One moment. To clarify your statement, I am not a clairvoyant, so I need to ask you questions. You live in New Orleans, then? That is quite a train ride, two or three days straight, to get here. Or did you fly? Did you come to Santa Barbara for other reasons than to talk with me? What do you want? Beatrix knew this was a time to be blunt because she no longer wanted to pretend to read minds. In fact, she’d left that life behind, forever giving up faking to be a seer. She no longer pretended to get her knowledge from the ethers or the dearly departed. She had stopped after British scientist Dr. Thomas Ling turned her world and heart upside down. The earth continued to revolve on its axis, and without the weight of being a fake, Beatrix could now pass a mirror without cringing at her unscrupulous image.

Yes. I need your help because of what happened in this backwater. I’d have friends in New Orleans, people who could find answers, but I’m lost in this hick town. I much prefer city life and feel like a fish out of water in this sleepy little berg. That’s what makes it even more difficult.

A waiter came hovering with the coffee pot, but the visitor flicked a hand and sent the man away. You are willing to talk with me? If you’re not comfortable I’ll understand, but honestly, I’m a person just like you. I need help.

Being blunt works both ways, Beatrix thought. Sure, but why seek me out?

Like I said, if you were listening to me, Miss Patterson, I need answers. The tone was condescending and put Beatrix on guard. Forgive me, I’ve been through an ordeal. Do you want me to spill the entire, sorted story right here? This is a confidential matter. My future depends on what happens. Shall we talk a walk along the beach where there’s more privacy?

Beatrix’s eyes followed the legs of the shiny black slacks right down to large, open-toedshiny black snakeskin stilettoes. Thinking of this person walking on the beach in those shoes, digging into the golden-colored sand was ludicrous. She placed a napkin to her lips, so the final sound was more like she was clearing her throat.

Right here will do. Beatrix looked around. It’s quiet. The tables aren’t close. You can talk freely. The years she spent pretending she had supernatural powers were over, but she was still curious about people, as everyone was fascinating with their own joys and heartbreaks, including the person in front of her.

Because of her incredible memory, she’d never forget anything at all about that moment or any other in time. For instance, there was a couple in Navy uniforms at the next table. The WAVE was older than the young sailor, but her face glowed with lust or love. They whispered and Beatrix caught the words Biltmore Hotel. They were planning a few hours of intimacy for later, perhaps. A smiling young mom pushed a baby stroller, bouncing along as she sang Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree, a favorite war-time song. Across the street, two lanky boys shoved one another, probably brothers or best friends on their way to the high school on Anapamu Street, near the Victorian house that Beatrix and Thomas were renovating at the pace of a sleeping snail.

The war had been over for three months now, and there was a feeling of freedom, optimism, and untapped possibilities hanging in the air. America and her allies had vanquished the enemy, although it would take patience for life to return to normal, if it ever could. That included getting everyday things accomplished, from finding building supplies like lumber and nails, to water pipes and bath fixtures. The future didn’t look bright for things to speed up anytime soon. Electricians, plumbers, wood finishers, and carpenters were impossible to hire, as most men had not yet returned from active duty, even though reports in the newspaper said the troop ships were leaving the ravished combat zones.

Beatrix was currently resigned to living in a moldy, dilapidated house for a good long time unless a miracle happened, and in life, miracles were silly to hope for. The once opulent dwelling deserved to be restored, and if she and Thomas did not do it, who would bring the grand lady back to life? This was not her childhood home, as that had been sold years back before a fire destroyed it. However, it was on the same street, with the same quiet memories whenever she walked the tree-lined lane.

Beatrix had dreams of the house being a place to raise a family. Thomas, her soon-to-be husband, had nuzzled her neck the evening before, after they’d spent the day hauling rotten banisters out to a pile in the yard. Thomas’s lithe body belied his strength, from years of practicing martial arts and his hands became toughened from the hard work. He was no taller than Beatrix, yet his personality seemed to fill a room whenever they were together and they worked hard, and laughed hard, about the ruined old mansion, as neither had any carpentry experience.

Early that morning, he’d kissed her hand and then smoothed his now work-calloused fingers over her cheek. I am learning a great deal in my attempts at carpentry, my darling Bea, but I don’t think I will ever want to give up being a scientist. As for this house, I wish the work was coming along faster. Imagine what a good time we’ll have filling up all these bedrooms.

Thomas Ling, excuse me, but there are eleven bedrooms in this house, she pushed him back, chuckled, and then snuggled more deeply into his arms. As an only child, she’d longed for a large family, but it seemed that she and Thomas must have the talk about how large would be large enough.

I see your point. He cocked his head and winked at her.

Thank you. She sighed.

We need to keep one at least for guests. Beatrix laughed, shaking her head.

We’re going to revisit this discussion, Dr. Ling, you can be certain of that.

They’d been engaged for four years, most of which they’d spent apart. During that time, Beatrix studied psychology and passed her state board exam to be a therapist, although she wasn’t ready to set up a practice.

By the grace of God, Thomas returned to his home outside London and to his work in Britain. With each of his daily letters, he’d vowed to button things up so he could return to his future wife. Because of the ferocious bombing and battles in war-torn Europe, one year moved into the next, and it was only in the middle of 1945 when it was somewhat safe to cross the Atlantic that Thomas planned his trip. He’d made it without incident along with the first travelers who dared to cross the waters once patrolled by Nazi U-boats. While apart, Beatrix left New Orleans and came back to her childhood hometown. She rented a studio near the harbor. The home she’d purchased about three months prior, was just barely repaired enough to live in and the kitchen remained in pieces.

Let’s try to focus on the immediate, Thomas. We must get this house done, or at least get it off of the Health Department’s watch list. Plus, we have a wedding to attend, that would be ours. After that, I’m all for getting started on those babies. You are aware, Thomas, that babies turn into toddlers and then suddenly they’re surly teenagers, right? She shoved him, more playful this time, only to pull him closer. The wedding was to be on New Year’s Day, in London, in Thomas’ family home, which had managed to escape the decimation of the city.

Their plans were simple. The wedding would be an intimate affair. None of her family would be attending. Beatrix’s adoptive parents had passed years before, her biological mother preferred not to travel, and her birth father, General Charles de Gaulle, now head of the French government in exile, was organizing relief plans in Europe for France. Besides, de Gaulle had never publicly acknowledged to his wife or adult children that Beatrix was his offspring. Now, Beatrix forced thoughts of the wedding out of her mind. She focused on the person across