That’s it . . . just two more days to get Coco’s Nuts for 99 cents.
Coco’s Nuts is the third mystery in the Triple Threat Investigation Agency series. The three novice private eyes—JJ, Rey, and Linda—are out to prove that socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer didn’t murder her boss, the infamous Jimmy Picolo, or her best friend, fellow trucker, Eb Stretta, or . . .
As the body count increases, so does the list of suspects and odd if not dangerous characters. But nothing will deter the persevering P.I.s from finding the culprit (and successfully solving their case).
“It seems a pretty sure thing that Coco’s chatting it up with Jimmy, Razor, and Stretta.”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked offhandedly.
“That was Denton. He and Jimmy Junior and Coco are close friends — have been since grade school, softball, and summer camp,” he elucidated. “Neither has heard from Coco like in two weeks.”
“Were they supposed to?” Linda asked.
“Coco has never missed Denton’s birthday, but he did this time.”
“Not a good sign, is it?” Rey asked with a crinkled brow. “Maybe strange little Coco met up with our gun-happy dude?”
Kent glowered and gulped back wine like a barfly trying to forget yesterday’s hangover.
“Should we add that to the tasks list?” Rey jested. “Find strange little colleague?”
Kent regarded us eagerly.
“We could look, if you like, but that’s a lot of turf to cover.” I wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth about Coco at the moment; revealing the truth would be the same as taking out a front page ad in the Honolulu Star Advertiser. Gerald Ives would not be pleased to have been one of the last to know.
He released a lengthy exhalation. “I’ll make a few calls and find out who saw him where and when. We can map a timeframe and take it from there.” He rose and grabbed the bottle of wine.
“Maybe you should start with his landlord,” Linda suggested, holding out her glass for him to top up.
Kent shrugged. “Coco once told me he never mingled with neighbors or the landlord. He had a run-in with Mr. Spamball about his pet rat, Willard. I doubt you’d get much help.”
“Spamball? Rat?” Rey asked, bemused. She found rodents as appealing and useful as reality shows featuring has-beens.
“The fat dude has skin the color of Spam,” Kent explained.
Rey’s expression wavered between distaste and disgust. “What happened to the rat?”
“Winkee, Mrs. Thomasino’s cat, happened. She was a retired meter maid, originally from Pasadena, who lived in the apartment above Coco.” He looked woeful. “When they found Willard, there was nothing left but a tail.”
We all looked woeful as we pushed away pizza and focused on wine.
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