Beach Tale: "Lucky Sevens" a short romance by Sandra Rarey

I'm very happy to welcome back short story teller extraordinaire Sandra Rarey and another tale of finding love.

Cherie Singleton pulled into the Showboat’s self-park garage. She hefted a borrowed travel bag from her borrowed car and wrangled it to the elevators. She had two days and two hundred dollars--barely enough to stay in the casino, where, according to her best friend, she was about to meet Mr. Right.

“Charlie said you can use our car,” Gina had told her.

Cherie had rolled her eyes. “You’ll do anything to persuade me to take that trip. How did you get Charlie to agree to that?”

“It was his idea.”

“You have the best husband in the world.”

“There’s a man out there as wonderful as Charlie just waiting for you. Didn’t that fortune teller say so?”

“I don’t believe in fortune tellers.”

“Well I do. She said you should gamble on love on the seventh day of the seventh month in the city by the sea. You have to go to Atlantic City next week.”

“Hogwash. There are hundreds of cities by the sea.”

“Not where you can gamble--she specifically said, ‘gamble’.”

“I’m not going.”

“What about the seven dollars you found on the sidewalk? You can’t ignore a coincidence like that. You know Coco Chanel started her business on the fifth day of the fifth month.”

“I have nothing to wear.” Cherie pictured glamorous women in fancy dresses and sparkling jewelry.

“I do. You’re going to have a great time, Cher.”

Beach Tale: "Show Me the Money", a self-sleuthing short story

            I’d taken the introductory class in Forensic Accounting at the local university, not because I was looking for a career switch, but because I thought it would help me add an element of expertise to the suspense novel I was secretly writing.  When Uncle Bud had problems at The Beach Buggy, his gas station/convenience store, he called me for professional advice and I jumped at the chance to put my new skills to work. 

            “Dory, honey,” Uncle Bud said. “I can’t figure it out.  Just about every day, the cash in the drawer is about a hundred dollars less than it should be, according to the daily sales reports.  Someone is stealing from me.  I’ve added an extra person to the shift to keep an eye on things, and have even made employees lock their purses and wallets in their cars then I made them empty their pockets at the end of their shift.  Nobody is carrying cash out of the station. I hope you can help me figure out not only who is stealing, but how they manage to do it.”

            I hoped I could figure it out, too.  Uncle Bud and Aunt Lucy were good people who were struggling financially after a bad car accident left Aunt Lucy unable to work.  They couldn’t afford to lose $3,000 a month.           

            That night I went to their house and we went over the books, looking at them from every angle, creating spreadsheets to analyze the data to see if we could spot trends, maybe isolate an employee who worked every day the drawer came up short.  Then we watched security tapes until our vision blurred.  Guess what we came up with?  A great big fat nothing.

            “I have an idea,” I offered.  “How about I take your inventory next week and I’ll watch what’s going on and see if I can figure out how somebody is stealing from you.” 

            Uncle Bud agreed. 

            First thing Monday morning I set myself up to count the inventory of The Beach Buggy’s beach necessitates, which gave me a clear view of the raised platform where the cashiers stood.  I sorted through suntan lotions and beach towles while customers clad in little more than beach cover ups and flip flops came and went in a steady stream. Needless to say, there were a lot of distractions, but I did my best to keep an eagle eye on the employees and the gas pumps. 

            “Give me five dolla’s worth,” an elderly man with stained yellow teeth asked, sliding a dog-eared five-dollar bill across the counter.

            “That won’t get you more than a gallon,” Timmy, the cashier, said.

            “Ain’t that the truth!  But I only need to get to the dialysis place and back.  I don’t run all over creation like I used to.”

            The man went out to pump his gas and Timmy logged the sale in the computer terminal, tucked the money in the cash drawer and set the pump to cut off when it reached the sales limit.

            As the day went on, I concluded most people paid for their gas at the pump with a credit card.  Only a few came in to pay cash, mostly elderly people.  And when they paid cash, it was often only $5 worth, a sad reflection on the tough economy. 

            By the end of the day, my back ached, my feet hurt and my eyes were tired from staring at the tiny print on the inventory sheet.  I was no closer to figuring out how someone could steal from Uncle Bud.  Prepared to admit defeat, I gathered my things.  As I stood on the platform next to Timmy, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the elderly woman toddling back to her large, gas-guzzling vehicle.  She, too, had only purchased $5 worth, just enough to get her to visit her husband’s grave, since today was his birthday.  He would have been eighty-three. 

            I continued to watch her while until she got in the car and drove off.   It took me a moment to process what I’d seen, and as I did, I realized how Timmy was taking Uncle Bud for a ride. 

           Can you figure it out?  Click read more to see the solution. 

Beach Tale: "A Thief Amongst Us" a self-sleuthing short story

          Sand soccer.  Summer doesn’t get any better than that, with teams of three field players (no goalies) running and kicking the ball through the rutted sand while parents cheered wildly from the sidelines.  It was a whole different game than that played on the pitch where the ball would roll across the sloping field.  In sand soccer, you had to lift the ball into the air and send it towards the goal, then struggle after it, the soft, rutted sand giving very little purchase.  It was hard work, and not just for players, but spectators too.  Everyone sweated under the hot, midday sun.  But the advantage sand soccer had over traditional was the venue.  The Atlantic Ocean crashed just yards from where the kids played.     

          We had 100 teams from 15 states in attendance, all of them hot and sweaty and whiney and hungry and flocking to the concession stands, where it was my job to keep everyone happy.  Only with three volunteers MIA (word is they couldn’t find parking anywhere within 10 miles), we were short staffed.  With eleven us working in a stifling hot 20x20 tent, we were also short-tempered.

          I had six volunteers taking orders and handling the cash drawers, and four more volunteers manning the food stations, handing up the hot dogs, cold wraps, fresh fruit, water, sports drinks and the ever popular lemon ices as the orders were called back.  The frenetic activity could be described as pandemonium.  As volunteer coordinator (a thankless task, to be sure) there was no other option than for me to roll up the sleeves of my beach cover up and help out. 

          Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that my position as league board member puts me above grilling hotdogs or digging wraps out of the cooler until I’m ready to keel over from heat exhaustion, but I was supposed to be observing today. You see, over the past few months of running concessions at the field, the cash deposit at the end of the day had sometimes been short. Hundreds of dollars short. The sad truth was, someone was stealing from the soccer league concession stand, and I was determined to collar the thief.   I figured someone was stuffing cash into their pockets, and my plan had been to observe the suspects today. 

          By virtue of an intricate spreadsheet prepared by my 4^th-grade daughter, I’d been able to cross reference which volunteers had worked on all of the occasions that money had been missing. I had narrowed the pool down to four regular volunteers. Three of them were volunteering this shift. The fourth was enjoying a spur-of-the-moment vacation to the Bahamas.

          “Changing a hundred,” Gemma Anderson called from cash drawer one. It was the policy to announce whenever big bills were coming in so that the supervisor--today that would be me--would know to check the cash drawer for sufficient change. On a slow day, the purchase of a $2 hot dog with a $100 bill could really put the drain on the cash supply. With the lines currently 10 people deep, making change for a Benjamin was the least of my worries.

          “Seven hot dogs and four lemon ices on three,” Kelli Jones called from her position at the table. She’d graduated from Beach High last year but had yet to find a full-time job. She’d recently joined the ranks of the concession volunteers to keep herself busy. It hadn’t escaped my notice the money started disappearing shortly after that. But her outfit of yellow polka dot bikini and crocheted cover up, I don’t see how she’d sneak fistfuls of dollars out of the stand without someone noticing.

           “Two turkey wraps and two apples,” Gemma called again, her voice rising above the cacophony in the concession tent. This boisterous woman was Celia Anderson’s grandmother, a high-energy woman who didn’t look a day over 40. Rumor has it she was actually 72. Her husband had recently passed away and Gemma volunteered for every concession opportunity as a way to keep connected with other people. I couldn’t run the place without her. But I couldn’t rule her out of the suspect’s pool, either. Her husband had let his life insurance policy lapse.

          “We’re out of ketchup,” Dan Meriwether called. I abandoned my post long enough to grab two bottles from the supply cooler, remove their foil liner, and slap them on the table for the customers to use. Dan smiled his thanks, the corners of his eyes showing lines that I hadn’t noticed before. Since he’d been laid off from his management position at a local retail company last year, he’d thrown himself into his children’s lives. Not only was he the soccer league VP, but he also coached two youth sports team per season and volunteered at the food bank every Friday. He was generous with his time, and used to be equally generous with his money. I’d heard he was now a regular customer at the food bank where he volunteered.

          We kept up the frenetic pace until four o’clock that afternoon, at which point I asked all the volunteers to empty their pockets before they left. No hidden wads of cash. So if everything balanced, that would point the guilty finger towards the Bahamas-bound Anna Davidson.

          I took custody of the three cash drawers. Armed with tally sheets of the day’s sales and summary of food stuffs left (not much, it had been a very good day), I snuck off to the league-rented d hotel room just a few steps off the boardwalk.  I wanted to prepare the bank deposit myself. The hotel’s air conditioning was an added bonus.

          I checked, and then double checked then triple checked the deposits.  We were more than $400 dollars short from the calculated $9,500 income.  As I glanced at the stacks of cash spread out on the bed, I realized who the thief amongst us was.   And if you were paying attention, you probably know, too. 

          To see who the thief was, click on the “read more”

         

Beach Tale: "To Trick a Thief", a self-sleuthing short story

Who is stealing the tips at a small diner?  Tawny, one of the waitresses, aims to find out.  All the clues are there for you to figure it out, too.  The solution is at the end of the story.  

To Trick a Thief

by Jayne Ormerod

  

        “Ya’ll travel safely,” Tawny said, placing the check on the table.  Early June vacationers had been traveling through at a steady stream, heading for the outer banks of North Carolina for their summer beach vacations.  But despite the high turnover at her tables, tips had been disappointingly low.  She’d held off getting new brakes for her car, hoping she’d make enough extra money early in the summer in order to afford them.  At this rate, they’d have to wait another week.  Or two.      

          Loaded down with five plates piled high with pulled pork barbecue sandwiches, fries, coleslaw and fresh from the deep-fryer hushpuppies, she passed the table that had just left and spotted a stack of singles tucked under the salt shaker.  Good.  Maybe her luck was about to change.

          After delivering the food and chatting with the family hailing from Ohio, she returned to the table to find it already cleared for the next guests.  A few bills were tucked under the salt shaker, but not what she’d seen when she’d passed a few minutes ago.  Somebody had stolen more than half of her tip.  Although frustrating, it was not an uncommon occurrence in a place that catered to people traveling through.  Having cash lying out like that was tempting for someone who would be leaving the town limits within the next twenty minutes.    

But as the day wore on, Tawny made a point to eyeball the money on the table and compare it with what was there when she returned.  Yup, money was disappearing at an alarming rate.  That meant it wasn’t a random traveler, but somebody within their own ranks.