Henny and Lloyd crack four new cases as only they can. A ride up the Jersey Turnpike, an airplane crash, a collection of turtles, and a broken heart combine for murder. How can this be, you wonder. Who can unravel such a mixed-up conglomeration of events? Henny and Lloyd; that’s who. No matter how bizarre the circumstances, our sharp as tacks private eyes work their way to a solution. How about the case of a runaway teenage girl who shows up two decades later to claim her father’s inheritance? Or does she? Who is this tattooed woman who suddenly appears and says, “Give me!” Henny and Lloyd will find out. Or what about the mystical swami from the Far East whose track record of forecasting the future is impeccable. How does he do it? Henny and Lloyd would like to know that too and set about invoking a little mysticism of their own to find out. And finally, a self-proclaimed war hero, sets his sights on a New York City Council seat, while his old service commander, whom he despises, sets his sights on the mayoralty. One is tinder and the other is a spark. What could go wrong? Lots. When it does, Henny and Lloyd are on the spot.

“Before Jessica turned eighteen, she ran away. Just up and left, along with some of her Stuyvesant friends. Warren spent a boatload of money trying to find her. He found out approximately where she was, somewhere in Maine, but he never managed to pinpoint her, much less bring her home. Let me assure you, he never stopped trying to find her, never stopped loving her, never stopped hoping for that one magical phone call or knock on the door. But it didn’t happen. Then we got word that she was dead. An unexplained accident in the Maine woods. By the time the Maine authorities in Cotters Grove, the nearest town, had investigated and learned her antecedents and sent the news to Warren, she’d already been buried. He never saw her again after she left home at seventeen. Didn’t even get a chance for a final farewell.”

           “How long ago did you say her death occurred?” I asked.

           “Jessica would have been twenty when we received word of her passing. And that would be some eighteen years ago, the summer of 2006. Warren had nothing after that but his work. For those previous three years, though, he’d searched for her, hoped for her, constantly. He wasn’t areligious man, but I know he prayed for her to return. But…” Towers shrugged and looked down for a moment. “You mentioned his will. He never changed his will. Well, that’s not strictly true. Whatever slim ration of hope he lived on, hoping for Jessica’s return, was the belief that the report of her death was in error. Since he’d never seen her since she originally left, the door for a miracle remained open, if only a crack. In his will she was his sole, number one beneficiary. If, however, she truly was dead, he left a list of others who would share in the inheritance. I should tell you he was cremated, according tohis wishes.”

           Towers stopped talking. I felt a vague premonition about what was coming next, and

asked, “And what is the problem now with the inheritance?”

           “Jessica has come back to claim it.”

           “The dead daughter?” Henny sputtered.

           “Yes and no,” Towers answered. “She says she is Jessica Goldman. But I don’t believe her.”