Senior Detective Denny Miles and his partner, Detective Jensen Lukasky, arrived at the Moon Lake Police Department promptly at eight to start their shift that Tuesday morning. Moon Lake was a small town, compared to some of the larger metropolises of the West Coast. While it maintained ample coverage for all its citizens, the police department only needed the main building and a substation on the other end of town to serve and protect.
After checking in with their Captain, the detectives walked over to their desks, where a stack of reports were waiting for them.
Denny and Jensen split the files between them, and then started summarizing each to the other, before going on to the next report.
"Okay," said Denny. "Coroner says the elder Smith likely passed away about a year and a half ago. Cause is still under investigation, but the Medical Examiner is starting to suspect severe depression, which probably resulted in self medicating an overdose of pain killers and anti-depressants. Or at least, that's what the early tests indicate were the last things Margaret Smith consumed."
"That doesn't make much sense Denny," replied Jensen. "While they would never win an award from Good Housekeeping, someone was maintaining that place at least enough to keep the smell of Smith's remains from attracting attention."
"True. It would explain all the potpourri and empty air freshener cans we found in the house, along with the fact the bedroom windows had relatively new weatherstripping on them. Too bad the Crime Scene boys couldn't find any prints other than the elder Smith's."
"So, does that rule out the daughter?"
"Remains to be seen. What do you have?" asked Denny, while grabbing his next folder.
"Margaret Smith's financials," replied Jensen. "Last deposit was roughly a year and a half ago. $850. The account has had no transactions since, with a current balance of $895.43."
"According to this, Margaret Smith received a check every month from Social Security for $850," revealed Denny, reading the new report. "But the latest one was just cashed a couple of weeks ago at a convenience store a few blocks from the Smith house."
"We'll have to check that out, but see if this tracks. Someone goes to visit Margaret, finds her dead, and decides to squat there awhile. First check after her passing arrives, and our squatter decides to ride the gravy train."
"I'd buy that, but they couldn't access her bank account, so found some other way to pay the bills and maintain the illusion Smith was still alive. Probably cash or money order."
"Last winter was pretty rough," pointed out Jensen. "Our theoretical squatter probably wanted a safe place to stay. Then, when the weather improved, they moved on."
"But kept stopping by their personal ATM for Smith's Social Security checks, courtesy of the US government and the postal service."
"Which would explain the time gap between Smith's actual passing and the start of the past due notices piling up in the mailbox."
"I wonder if they'd take the risk of stopping by for the November check?" Denny asked aloud.
"We haven't had a chance to notify Social Security about Smith's death yet, and Yvette Smith is in no position to do so right now."
"Well, if our rogue werevixen is the culprit, she's being pretty cagey about it," observed Denny. "According to this report, Yvette's current bank balance is $23.17. There's also a direct deposit of $300 a month from something called Academic Achievers."
"I've heard of them. Some kind of national scholarship program," explained Jensen.
"From what I can see, Yvette's been drawing from that for meals and incidentals. Her grades might have been good, but her personality needs work," said Denny, as he stood and stretched. "Come on partner. I feel like going to the convenience store and getting a snack."
A half hour later found the detectives interviewing the owner of the convenience store, who was on duty with his wife. Both had gray hair and smelled feline to the detectives.
"This store has been family owned and operated since the 1930s, when my great-grandparents moved here from the old country and became weretigers together. I'm fifth generation Italian-American weretiger, and grooming our youngest son to take over whenever we decide to retire," the man said proudly.
"That's fantastico," replied Denny, "but we're here to find out who has been cashing Margaret Smith's Social Security checks for her."
"That poor lady," observed the owner. "Used to come in here all the time until about a... year and a half or so ago, if I recall correctly. Right dear?"
"Yes. She'd shop, but the whole time would complain about her ungrateful daughter who wouldn't give her the time of day and never knew what was right for her," said the wife. "Or at least, that was the spiel every time she was here. Never met the daughter myself."
"Nor I," added the store owner. "Don't know if the girl actually deserved such hatred, but Smith could certainly carry a strong, one sided tirade against her."
"I'm sure," replied Jensen, "but who started cashing Smith's checks for her?"
"Her husband," replied the store owner, to the detectives surprise. "We've been cashing his for years, but the first time he came in with one of hers, said his wife had broken her hip in an accident."
"Did he ever say why you were cashing his checks all that time and not hers?" asked Denny.
"Claimed that after surviving the Great Depression, he didn't trust banks, but with her being younger, she did, until the accident seriously crippled her mobility," answered the store owner. "Anyway, he kept coming here week after week. Did a little shopping or bought a money order to pay some bill. Kept giving us progress reports on her all the time."
"He said that despite the bones healing, she can't get around as well as she used to, which is why he keeps cashing the checks and doing the shopping," added the wife. "I'm sorry the poor thing still has to use a wheelchair after all this time, but I certainly don't miss her tirades."
Not wanting to contradict the mystery suspect's story until they could investigate it for themselves, the detectives remained silent about the truth.
"What does he smell like?" asked Jensen.
"Werefox, like her," replied the store owner, to which his wife nodded her head in agreement.
"And what does he look like?" asked Denny.
The store owner was about to answer, when something caught his eye. He turned, looked out one of the store display windows and said, "That's him! That gray haired gentleman walking down the sidewalk across the street is Bartholomew Smith, although he prefers to be called Bart."
The detectives looked out the window to see the back of a gray haired man, wearing a relatively nice looking suit, walk around the corner across from them without a care in the world.