"Royal Doulton Long John Silver Pirate Toby Mug 1953 — NOT JUST A LITTLE OLD LADY COLLECTIBLE!" I posted on Facebook Marketplace. Everyone told me my swashbuckler mug with the parrot handle would never sell, but I decided to give it a shot. I never expected a simple sale to test my detective skills.
Once proudly displayed alongside figurines of cherubic German children playing the accordion, Grandma's mug had lived in seven different basements and closets over four decades and survived five cross country moves since she bequeathed it to me.
Now it was time to let go. I wasn't honoring Gram's memory or my living space by guiltily holding onto things I didn't want. So I began to weave some word magic, hoping I could make more than the $10 antique stores were offering.
The A+ Sales Pitch
"Don't think 'little old lady collectible," I wrote. "What a fun gift for anyone who loves the book "Treasure Island" — or someone who loves pirates! It would be great on a desk to hold pens. It has a spout which would even make it an eclectic creamer! With a little change in perspective, it actually makes a charming gift!"
Reframing the cup from useless to utensil, I made the $30 sale ($170 less than the book value from the late '90s, but a sale, nonetheless). My buyer also purchased six yards of vintage Hawaiian fabric and asked if I would be willing to mail the items, since she lived an hour away.
Two months later, I received a message from Venmo informing me that my $54 payment had been reversed, pending the outcome of a dispute. I was flabbergasted. The buyer had thanked me when everything arrived. From her triple exclamation points, I thought she was thrilled. Maybe Long John Silver leaked and stained her doilies when she tried using him as a gravy boat?
The Disappearing E-mail
"Annie, this is so strange," I messaged. "Someone's trying to undo the Venmo transaction." Then I sent a screenshot of the notice I'd received, circling the name "Rachel," who filed the claim, and told her that Venmo wanted me to send proof of the sale. Could she help?
Annie sent a screenshot of her Venmo payment confirmation. "This is what I have," she wrote. Her picture and name were cut off, but the amount she sent was there, along with the note, "cloth and mug."
"Do you have any record of our conversation," I asked? I'd driven three miles for a shipping estimate and messaged her a total. She sent me her address and (a few days later) messaged me to say everything arrived safely. I couldn't find any of this.
A Mysterious Woman
"You must have been hacked," Annie wrote, and I began panicking — less about the money than my Venmo account and banking information being compromised.
"Look," I wrote, circling the name "Rachel" on my Venmo transaction receipt.
Again, Annie didn't acknowledge the incongruity. Meanwhile, I reached out to Venmo, and a customer service rep told me that whoever paid me for the sale had filed a dispute with their bank.
Wait a minute, I thought. Annie didn't mention that she was the one who filed the dispute. Why is she pretending to know nothing about it? And why isn't she concerned about Rachel?
Giving her one last chance, I wrote: "I need the part where we agreed on the price. You also sent me a message after you received everything, but I can't find it. It's disappeared."
"I've sent everything I have," she wrote. "I can't find that part of our thread, either."
A Red Herring Appears
That's when a dimly lit bulb in my brain became a Broadway marquis: "OMG," I realized. "I'm communicating with the hacker! That's why she has no record of the conversations." I could already hear my Millennial daughter giving me "the lecture" again — that she's going to confiscate all things digital, so I don't get scammed out of my life savings.
“'OMG,' I realized. 'I'm communicating with the hacker! That's why she has no record of the conversations.'”
Then I remembered there were two message threads, because Annie bought two items. I located the second conversation and found everything I was looking for — the price we agreed on (with postage), her address and her final message: "Arrived in perfect condition!!! TY so much."
Screenshotting my payment confirmation revealed another clue that reeked of dead carp: Venmo Rachel's headshot didn't look anything like Marketplace Annie's. They were at least three decades apart. Rachel was a dark-eyed twenty-something brunette. Annie was a light-haired, older woman, closer to my age.
A Jessica Fletcher Moment
Now I was positive I was chatting with an imposter. I can read between the lines. I can sniff out a clue. I watched "Murder She Wrote" with my grandma.
I now had mismatched pictures, disappearing conversations, bank-dispute amnesia, and a name switcheroo. Jessica Fletcher had nothing on me!
Determined to give this unscrupulous swindler a piece of my mind, I toggled over to our exchange. My anger had been brewing for years: the constant phony Marketplace buyers who want my cell phone number for their scams . . . the texts from fake toll collectors . . . the nightstand I bought from fake Wayfair that never arrived. Then there's the $50 I lost on a Target gift card bought for a crook who hacked into an older friend's email, making her sound desperate — followed by the $25 I gave to the fake college student on Nextdoor who had no money for groceries and the incessant texts from "USPS" informing me in broken English that my package is undeliverable.
Sweet, Sweet Vengeance
Fingers to keyboard, a decade of fury poured from me like word lava:
"You just wasted two hours of my day, you @&%$ing loser. You won't be getting a cent from the bank. I found all of the documentation, plus my original conversation with Annie, and the message she sent me that she received and was thrilled with the merchandise. Has it ever crossed your mind that the people you are trying to cheat are struggling just as much as you? You are a horrible person — a LOSER with a capital L — and a pathetic excuse for a human being. I believe in karma; May it bite you in the ass, and bleed you to death."
I pressed "send" and launched my bitterness into the ether.
Returning to the real thread with my buyer, I warned her, "Annie, someone has hacked you on Marketplace. Cancel your bank card!"
Meanwhile, Venmo froze my account and wanted $50 to reinstate it — plus a fee for a dispute I didn't initiate. And if that wasn't enough wasabi on the wound, a few minutes later, the charlatan had the nerve to respond:
Wait! . . . What???
"My husband disputed a charge on the card," Annie said, responding to the venom on our thread. "I had no idea. But feel free to jump to horrible conclusions with partial information. There were three charges in a row for the same amount, and my hubby thought it was suspicious. Best wishes to you in your anger management course."
Oh no, I thought, hoping Annie would put two and two together and have a good laugh when she saw the message warning her about her hacker. I quickly tried to apologize, but she'd blocked me — on both threads!
Sorry, Annie, it was an honest mistake, and this is my apology. (Erma Bombeck once said, "If you can't make it better, you can laugh at it!")
Hanging Up My Gumshoes
Venmo ultimately reimbursed me for the sale and the dispute fee, but I remain vexed regarding the different names and profile pictures. Why did Annie pay me from an account registered to Rachel? Who is Rachel? Her granddaughter? Does Annie not have a Venmo of her own? But wait. It had to be Annie's Venmo, because the transaction appeared on the bank statement her "hubby" saw. Is Rachel a pseudonym? Is Annie? Is this woman in a witness protection program?
Surely Jessica Fletcher would have tied up the loose ends. Still, I'm turning in my navy-blue Cabot Cove cardigan and silk scarf. I hereby leave sleuthing to the professionals.
Clearly, detective shows have given me an inflated sense of my gumshoe abilities.
Damn you, Angela Lansbury.