by Jane Limprecht

This story has never before been published.

The doorbell rang just as I set my phone alarm for my midday Tylenol. Stormy hurled herself onto the couch, barking at the front window. With hands braced against the furniture along my path, I hobbled to the door. My neighbor, Sheila Wright, stood on the porch holding a narrow cardboard box. A larger package lay on the metal table next to her.

I pulled the door open, keeping weight off my left leg to avoid the unsettling popping of cartilage inside my arthritic hip.

“Hey, neighbor.” Sheila thrust the narrow box toward me. “Here’s another mixed-up delivery. And I checked the address of this other package on your porch.”

“Let me guess. It’s for you.”

Sheila nodded, her newly highlighted waves undulating like water. This was the third time the delivery driver had mixed up Carl’s and my packages with Sheila’s, but our across-the-street neighbor was a good sport about it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I said. “You can update me on the neighborhood news.”

“I’d love to chat, Ellen, but don’t trouble with tea.” Sheila stepped inside and closed the door while I pivoted out of her way.

“Your hair looks nice,” I said as she shook off her parka and sat on the couch. “New ’do?”

“I’m trying to up my game.” Sheila picked at the neckline of her sweater. The fawn color complemented her highlights and her green eyes. “I’ve met someone.”

“Really? Where?”

“Online. He liked some of my Facebook posts, so I liked some of his.”

“Facebook, the favored social media platform of the senior crowd.” Sheila blinked as if offended, so I tapped myself on the chest. “Me included. Although I’m cautious about who can see my posts. There are weird people out there.”

“That’s terrible.” Sheila pouted for an instant before her face brightened again. “Anyway, after we connected on Facebook, he suggested we chat privately. His name’s Edward Taylor and he’s a lieutenant general in the army, posted overseas.”

“Where’s he posted?”

“He couldn’t say,” Sheila replied, a bit too quickly. “He sent pictures, though. Lots of sand, no trees.”

“That narrows it down.”

“It does.” Sheila’s highlighted waves rippled with her enthusiastic nod. “He’s divorced with a daughter in private school in Pennsylvania. There’s a conference at the Pentagon next week, so he’ll be in Northern Virginia. I’ve invited him for dinner.” She paused. “On Valentine’s Day.”

This was not the friend I’d known for years—the no-nonsense career woman, the neighborhood potluck organizer, the mom who remembered the snacks. The divorcée who bounced back after marriage to a cranky know-it-all. No, this dewy-eyed, gullible person was an entirely new Sheila.

“I’d like to meet him.” I hoped my smile looked genuine.

“It’s exciting to meet a man who appreciates me for who I am. That is, not exactly meet. You know what I mean.” Sheila shrugged one shoulder, a teenage girl’s gesture. “But I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll grab my package and run.”

On her way out, Sheila ruminated over what to cook for Lieutenant General Edward Taylor. Beef stew, poached salmon, a Porterhouse steak? She continued this discussion with herself as she stepped off my porch.

I picked up the package Sheila delivered. I knew what it held—my ticket to mobility while awaiting hip replacement surgery in six weeks. I ripped the cardboard flaps, snipped the taped bubble wrap half an inch at a time, and drew out my new oak cane. An inch-wide brass collar with a Celtic motif joined the caramel-colored staff to the handgrip, which flicked upward like a wave in front and downward like an eagle’s beak in back.

My phone alarm burbled. It was time for my Tylenol. And time for some online research. Sheila might be gullible, but I wasn’t.

#

“Carl, have you ever heard of a romance scam?”

“Mmm?” My husband lay on the couch, watching an early Stargate SG-1 episode.

I sank into the loveseat and pointed my cane at the TV. “The actress who played the doctor in Stargate now plays ‘mom’ roles on Hallmark. Speaking of romance.”

Carl pressed the remote’s mute button. “What was your question again?”

“Romance scams. Ever heard of them?” I summarized my conversation with Sheila and showed Carl my phone screen. “Look at this AARP Fraud Watch email. They send alerts every year around Valentine’s Day. Con artists persuade lonely folks to send money or gift cards, anything with cash value that can’t be traced.”

“I guess I’ve heard of them.” Carl sneaked a look at a silent explosion on TV. “Why?”

“I researched romance scams after Sheila rhapsodized about her Facebook boyfriend. It’s organized crime! Lots of times they target older women on social media. They pose as a military officer or a doctor with a humanitarian group. Or an oil rig worker.”

Carl scratched his forehead. “Oil rig workers make a bundle. They’re trolling social media for dates and asking for money?”

“It’s a scam, like I said. There are no real people behind those posts, just a boiler room operation. Or a bot.”

“And Sheila’s guy said he’s divorced with a kid in private school?”

“Typical M.O. Single dad seeks good woman. The FTC and the FBI also publish alerts this time of year.” I typed the Federal Trade Commission’s URL on my iPad and clicked through pages of citizen complaints. “Who would send money to a stranger who claimed he needed medical treatment after pirates attacked his oil rig? Next to that pitch, Lieutenant General Edward Taylor sounds almost believable.”

“What will you do?” Carl said. “Tell Sheila her new boyfriend’s a crook and she’s an idiot?”

“First, I’ll confirm my suspicions. If I’m right, I’ll be as delicate as possible when I talk to her. Subtlety’s not my strong suit.”

“One more thing I love about you. I never have to guess what you’re thinking.”

I tossed a throw pillow at him as he unmuted the Stargate episode.

#

The next morning, I searched through Sheila’s Facebook posts. We friended one another when our kids were in high school and she was still married. Now, her Facebook page featured outings with a group for older singles—biking along the Potomac River, posing in the Kennedy Center’s Grand Foyer, sipping rosé at Spring Valley Winery—along with periodic requests for handyman recommendations.

Edward Taylor first appeared three weeks ago. Sheila posted that she enjoys biking, Edward said he likes to bike, too. Sheila loves Shakespeare, so does Edward. Rosé is her favorite wine, Edward prefers a full-bodied red and, by the way, he’s handy with a tool kit. My response was “ugh.” Sheila’s bordered on giddiness.

I touched the tiny picture next to one of Edward’s posts and pulled up his Facebook profile. A masterpiece of generic intel: military officer, stationed overseas but can’t say where, graduated from Penn State a long time ago. I needed to get craftier. Time for a reverse image search.

I uploaded Edward’s photo and looked for matches. And there they were. Not only Lieutenant General Edward Taylor, but Doctor John Hutchins and self-made entrepreneur Reilly O’Hara, each wearing career-appropriate garb in an unrecognizable locale. I inspected rows of thumbnail headshots until I found the mother lode, a stock photo site. The lieutenant general, the doctor, and the entrepreneur were fictional alter egos of the same anonymous, mature, and craggily handsome male model.

Now, to tell Sheila.

#

Before Girl Scout cookie season ended, I’d purchased four boxes of Samoas, Sheila’s longtime favorite. Although it pained me to share my stash, if I had to make my friend feel like a loser, I should at least offer a consolation prize.

Hey neighbor, I texted. I have a box of Samoas for u. Stop by.

I added a smiley face, then deleted it. Too obvious. She’d be annoyed enough when she discovered my mission.

Thirty minutes later, I ushered Sheila inside and gestured toward the dining room table, where I had arranged a plate of Samoas alongside a pot of fresh-brewed coffee.

Sheila broke a gooey cookie into thirds and popped one piece in her mouth. “How did I miss the cookie-buying window? I must have other things on my mind.” She grinned and gave that teenage one-shoulder shrug.

I eyed the Samoa on my plate for a long moment. “There’s something I wanted to mention. Edward might not be who you think he is.”

Sheila’s grin disappeared. “What do you mean?”

“After you told me about him, I read warnings about false online profiles. Sort of an annual Valentine’s Day caution.”

Sheila stared at me, her mouth pinched shut.

“Edward’s conversations sounded like what to watch out for,” I continued. “Sometimes people seek out relationships on social media to take advantage.”

“Come to the point, Ellen.” Sheila’s petulant head-toss stirred a memory from my teen years when highlighted hair was called “frosted.” Like her highlights, Sheila’s tone had grown decidedly frosty.

“Eventually they ask for money. If the other person obliges, the requests keep coming.”
Sheila narrowed her eyes and stared straight ahead.

“And the profiles are total fabrications,” I said. “They’re bots, or boiler room workers, whatever, targeting people who seem—like they might be lonely.”

“I seem like I might be lonely?” Sheila’s voice was chilly. “A loser, incapable of sweeping someone off his feet?” She pushed back her chair, scraping my wood floor. “Edward hasn’t asked for a penny. In fact, he trusts me with his money.”

“What?”

“He had some snafu with his bank account and he needed to meet a project deadline. He asked if he could wire me the money to pay business associates here in Northern Virginia.”

“I thought he was in the military.”

“Business, or contractors, maybe. I couldn’t see any risk in it.” Sheila scooted her chair up to the table again. “I deposited his nine thousand dollars in my bank account and wrote checks for four thousand four hundred dollars apiece to his two associates. All on the up-and-up.”

“Forty-four hundred times two is eighty-eight hundred.”

Sheila spoke as if explaining arithmetic to a kindergartner. “That is correct. He said to keep two hundred dollars for my trouble. And to buy myself something pretty for our first date.”

I must have wrinkled my face like I smelled a skunk. Sheila placed her palms on the table and stood. “Thanks for the cookie, Ellen. I’m sure you can freeze that extra box.”

I couldn’t keep up with her as she marched toward the door. Frosted, frozen, freezing. Our fifteen-year friendship was on ice.

#

If Edward Taylor hadn’t asked for money, what was the scam? I returned to my research, toggling among websites until, bingo, I hit on the answer. A money mule scam, where the con artist persuades the victim to forward stolen money or bad checks. The fraudster often targets the victim through online romantic connections—check; asks the victim to receive funds into a bank account and then transfer the money to another party—check; and lets the victim keep part of the money. Check, and mate.
And the scariest part? Even an unwitting money mule could be prosecuted as part of a criminal money laundering conspiracy.

Despite Sheila’s newfound chill, I had to protect my old friend. But how?

Stormy’s frenzied bark announced another package delivery. I opened the door to find a box the size of a microwave oven, once again addressed to Sheila Wright. With an irritated snort, I shut the door. I shuffled into Carl’s office and eased into his reading chair.

“I don’t know what’s up with the delivery driver, but there’s another misdelivered package on the porch,” I said. “Would you carry it across the street for me?”

“Sure. While I’m there, I’ll tell Sheila her new boyfriend’s a crook and she’s an idiot.”

“Might as well. Our friendship can’t get much cooler.”

#

“Something’s off, for sure,” Carl said when he returned from Sheila’s house.

I looked up from the couch. “Don’t tell me you talked to Sheila about her beau.”

“I kept my mouth shut, but my eyes open.” Carl sat next to me and stretched out his legs. “Edward had that package delivered to her house, for her to readdress to his daughter Chloe at some Pennsylvania boarding school. He said it was high-end electronic equipment that might get mishandled otherwise.”

“Sounds fishy.”

“Even fishier, I saw a notepad with an address for Chloe Taylor—a Virginia address—scribbled on it. Who knows what story Edward concocted to explain that.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think there’s no daughter or boarding school, and Sheila’s boyfriend asked her to send a box he doesn’t want to send himself. Is that typical in a money mule scam?”

“I’m not sure.” I snapped my fingers. “Wait. Something I skimmed over in my research. A repackaging scam, where the unknowing mule reships goods bought with stolen credit cards and the like.”

“The unknowing mule,” Carl said. “Sheila.”

“But isn’t this kind of small-time? Edward, or whoever Sheila’s corresponding with, would have to ship a lot of packages to make any money.”

“What if there’s a boiler room full of fake Edwards, each romancing a stable full of Sheilas?”

“Ouch, a stable full of money mules. If that’s the case, what should I do? Sheila won’t like hearing this.”

“I’ll go over with you for moral support. Let me run a couple of errands first.”

A few minutes after Carl kissed me goodbye and left the house, my phone clunked with an incoming text. The last thing I expected was a message from Sheila. Help.

Grabbing my cane, I hobbled double-time onto our porch. Across the street, a large man wearing a windbreaker rocked back and forth in a tug-of-war with Sheila, half in and half out of her doorway.

“Hey you,” I shouted. “Leave her alone.”

I revved my legs into a rolling shamble, accenting my forward movement with cane stabs into our dry lawn. Sheila and the man were struggling over the microwave-oven-sized box Carl had delivered. But why?
I gave up trying to make sense of the scene. Sheila was endangered and I carried a sturdy oaken stick with a point on the handle. I trundled onto Sheila’s porch, grasped the bottom of my cane, swept my right arm to the left across my chest, and backhanded the eagle-beaked handle across the man’s ear. He dropped the box, clawed at his head, and whirled to face me.

Off balance, I brandished the cane and yelled at him. Sheila darted behind an azalea bush and reappeared hoisting a heavy clay pot. She reached high and bashed the pot on the man’s head. I shuffled sideways barely enough to avoid him as he landed with a thud.

“Hold it right there,” a female voice barked from behind me. “FBI. Hands up, both of you.”

I raised my left hand while my right hand gripped my cane. Facing me, Sheila executed a flawless jazz-hands maneuver, arms bent at right angles. The man lay motionless at our feet.

A lean woman in a black coat and navy slacks appeared to my left. Holding up a badge, she announced herself as Special Agent Amber Bellamy.

Fueled by adrenaline, I barged ahead with an explanation. “This man attacked my neighbor and I ran across the street to help. Well, I hobbled—”

“Are you Sheila Wright?” Special Agent Bellamy interrupted, directing an iron gaze at my neighbor.
Sheila nodded.

“Do you know this man?”

Lowering her arms, Sheila glared at the man. “I’ve never seen him before. He banged on my door and tried to steal a package I was supposed to send to a friend’s daughter. This creep said he came to pick it up. Which made no sense at all.”

A car door slammed behind me. I twisted around to see Special Agent Bellamy’s older male counterpart—salt-and-pepper crewcut, black topcoat, navy slacks, sober expression. Trailing him was a man who was shorter and younger, but every bit as serious.

“FBI Special Agent Brent Hornsby.” The tall man flashed a badge and exchanged a nod with his female colleague. “We’ll take this man into custody.” He informed Sheila that he and Special Agent Bellamy wished to speak with her. He advised me, politely but firmly, that I could go home. I’d be interviewed later if necessary.

Much as I wanted to stick around, my living room window would provide a front-row view of the arrest. I limped home, thinking how irked Carl would be that he missed all the action.

#

The doorbell rang as I downed my after-dinner Tylenol. Carl rose from the table to answer it, while I distracted Stormy with a leftover noodle so she wouldn’t bark.

I heard Sheila’s voice. “I brought Ellen some fudge to thank her for rescuing me. And to apologize. Will she ever forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive,” Carl said. “Come on in. Ellen’s in the dining room.”

I struggled to my feet, my body aching from my afternoon heroics. “I’m just glad I could help. And relieved you didn’t get hurt.”

Sheila folded me into a hug. “I can’t believe I almost let a phony fraudster break up our friendship.”

“Scammers are very, very skilled at their life’s work—deceiving honest folks like you.” I tilted my head toward the table. “Sit down and tell us what happened.”

Sheila handed the fudge to Carl. She pulled a folded paper from her pants pocket, laid it on the table, and smoothed the creases. “This is called a warning letter. Special Agent Bellamy visited me to serve it personally, to ensure I knew I was sending money to an entity engaged in a money laundering operation.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. “That’ll make an impression.”

Sheila nodded. “Transferring the bank account money was part of the fraud. So was resending the package.” She patted the paper. “The box wasn’t actually bound for Edward’s daughter at boarding school.”

“Really,” I murmured, glancing at Carl.

“It was headed to a receiving point for stolen goods,” she said. “Fortunately, the FBI gave me the benefit of the doubt that I was an unwitting participant in the operation.” Sheila sighed. “My fake boyfriend was invented by a bunch of crooks and I was an idiot. Not that you or Carl ever said that.”

I shook my head. “Of course not.”

“Never,” Carl added.

“I get why Special Agent Bellamy visited you,” I said. “What about Blake, or Trent—the male agent, what’s-his-name?”

“Brent Hornsby was the other FBI special agent. The younger man was Jeremy Chao, from the U.S. Postal Inspection Service. Law enforcement had intercepted packages addressed to the supposed boarding school, so the creep on my doorstep wanted to snatch that box before I sent it.”

“Had law enforcement identified him as a co-conspirator?” I asked.

“Correct. The FBI special agents and the postal inspector—Jeremy Chao—tailed him to my house.” Sheila sighed again. “Anyway, you two get on with your evening. I simply wanted to thank you and apologize for being such a fool.”

Once Sheila and I had shared another hug, Carl walked her to the door. Lingering in the doorway, she mused about FBI Special Agent Brent Hornsby. “At least I know he’s a real person. Mature, handsome, serious. And totally on the up-and-up.”

The door hadn’t quite closed when Sheila stepped off the porch, so I heard her cheerful pondering. “I wonder if he’s married. I didn’t see a ring.”

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Jane Limprecht (janelimprecht.wordpress.com) started writing fiction after retiring from a career that included working as a Justice Department spokeswoman, a legal reporter, and a legislative attorney. Her crime short stories appear in Hook, Line, and Sinker: The Seventh Guppy Anthology; Chesapeake Crimes: Invitation to Murder; Kings River Life Magazine; and Hooked on Urban Legends–and Murder (2026). She is a past board member of Sisters in Crime’s Chesapeake Chapter and volunteers for voter education and the public library.