The Art of Eavesdropping

by Christy Barritt

  We’d just moved here, and Dad had gotten a job as maintenance manager for a nearby resort. One day, while he’d been at work, he’d had a heart attack. By the time the ambulance had arrived, it was too late. He was gone.

  And the rest of us were forced to go on without him in this strange new place.

  “I’m sorry to hear that about your car,” my mom said. “But why are you acting so strange?”

  “Because acting strange is a lot more fun than acting normal?” I tried to blow off her question so she wouldn’t be worried. She had enough on her mind trying to take care of my sister.

  But worry was my mother’s middle name.

  “I had no idea that this new job you’re working would keep you out so late.” Her voice scooped lower with suspicion.

  “Sorry, Mama. But it will require some overtime hours. I’m okay with that because I get paid extra.”

  She shook her head. “It’s just too bad you can’t find another good government job. At least working for the law firm is a respectable job.”

  My face grew paler. My mom didn’t know the truth. She thought Driscoll and Associates was a law practice, and I hadn’t corrected her. Guilt haunted me at the thought.

  I knew I needed to tell her the truth, but Mama was so proud of me. If she found out I was secretly working for a private investigator . . . she wouldn’t feel the same way.

  She would equate PI work with danger.

  She leaned toward me and sniffed. “Why do you smell like cleaner?”

  I tried to keep my expression even. “Cleaner? I . . . it’s part of my job duties. I’m the low person on the totem pole, as the expression goes. That means I get stuck cleaning up.”

  She let out an unapproving grunt. “I see.”

  “How is Ruth?” I deposited my purse on the table and glanced out the window again. Whoever had been following me appeared to be gone.

  “She had a good day. No complaints.” My mom wiped her hand across the dining room table, as if checking for dust. Our house was simple, but my mom insisted it remain clean.

  Perhaps I’d gotten some of my OCD qualities from her.

  “She wore her vest without giving you a hard time?” My sister had to wear a device twice a day that helped to keep her lungs clear. The vest vibrated, loosening up the mucus in her lungs to help prevent cystic fibrosis flare-ups.

  “She sure did.”

  “That’s something to be thankful for.”

  My mom frowned. “I fear she’s going to need that lung transplant sooner rather than later though. Her lungs are getting worse.”

  Sadness pressed on me at her words. I knew my mom was worried about my sister. I was worried about her too, for that matter. But I tried not to show it. I tried to be strong for my mom. She’d been through so much over the past few months.

  “When it comes time, we’re going to have the money. It’s going to be just fine. God will provide.” She raised her praise hands. My mom was such a person of faith.

  “I know He will.”

  Her face fell. “I’m sorry you have to see my lack of faith sometimes. I’ve always taught you to trust God, yet I fret about things way too often. Especially now that your father . . .”

  “It’s been a tough couple months. Cut yourself some slack.” I pulled my mom into a quick hug.

  She nodded and stepped back, but I saw the tears in her eyes. Thankfully she was making some good friends at the church we’d begun to attend. She needed people to lean on, people outside the family. We were all carrying the same grief.

  “Go get some rest,” my mom said.

  I nodded and stepped back.

  Sleep sounded great. I had a long day tomorrow. I needed to go into the office during the day, and I’d need to work for the cleaning agency in the evening.

  A surprising sense of excitement rushed through me. For the first time in a long time, I was looking forward to my job.

  In my room, I lay in my bed and tried to sleep but couldn’t. I had too much on my mind.

  I’d figured today would discourage me from moving forward with my new job. But a part of me felt more alive than I had in a long time. Could I really see myself doing this for the long haul?

  I would do whatever was best for my sister.

  Health insurance had been a real struggle. Since no one in my family had a job that offered it, we were paying out of pocket. But those premiums seemed astronomical, and the deductibles sucked any extra money that we already had.

  I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed the wooden jewelry box my father had given me only a week before he died. The piece was beautiful and made from rich mahogany, with various drawers and two sides that pulled out to hang necklaces on.

  The gift had seemed slightly strange since I didn’t wear much jewelry. But my dad had probably figured I could use this for the rest of my life.

  I ran my hand over the top of it and closed my eyes. I missed my dad so much. I loved my mom. I really did. But my dad had been the one I’d felt the soul connection with. He was the one who understood me.

  Not only had I lost my community, but I also lost my biggest supporter when my father had passed away.

  I placed the jewelry box back on my nightstand and pushed away my tears. Instead, my mind drifted through all the new people I’d met today, starting with the man who’d stopped to help me on the side of the road.

  He was typical of the weekenders in the area, with his fancy suit and flashy car. He’d said mantente alerta. Stay alert. Could I have misheard? Maybe he’d muttered, “Maintain to it later” or “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  I had no idea. Was I reading too much into something that wasn’t valid?

  And there was Oscar. He was a character within himself. I didn’t quite know what to do with him nor did I really trust him.

  Then there had been Velma. Was she someone who could be a friend one day? She was probably only a few years older than I, but my scruples seemed to perplex her.

  What about that feeling I’d had earlier—that I was being followed? Was it an overactive imagination? Or had someone really been behind me? And, if that was the case, why?

  An uneasy feeling sloshed inside me. As it did, I twisted my hair back into a bun and scooted down farther in bed. I needed to sleep. I needed to stop thinking and turn my brain off for a little while.

  But it was going to be easier said than done.

  Instead, I tried to rhyme.

  There once was a girl with a bun. She thought she could take a run. But the lies that chased after seemed to come faster, until she realized she was done.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, I had to take the bus to work. It wasn’t ideal, but I was thankful that I had a bus I could take. Though I’d looked up some videos online about how to fix my car, I’d run out of time to actually do it.

  Velma smiled at me from her desk when I walked in. “I brought in some muffins. Help yourself.” She nudged the plastic container toward me.

  “That was nice of you. Thank you.” I took one of the blueberry pastries and walked into my office. As I sat at my desk, somebody else walked in behind me.

  It was a guy probably a few years older than I was, with short dark hair, loose clothing, and a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Birds aren’t real.” He wore skater shoes and a backward baseball cap. Tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves, his shirt collar, and even stretched across his hands. The faint outline of a mustache and beard graced the edges of his face.

  “You must be the new girl.” He shuffled toward his desk at a quick pace. “I’m Michael Straley, Oscar’s other assistant.”

  “I’m Elliot. Nice to meet you.” I reached my hand forward, and we shook.

  He took a seat at the desk next to me and nodded at my muffin. “I wouldn’t eat that, by the way.”

  “Why not? Velma brought it in.”

  He lowered his voice. “If she ever brings food, politely decline. If you’ve ever thought about becoming gluten-free, now i
s the time. And that’s a true fact.”

  He picked up some apples from a pile of snacks on his desk—a pile that included two granola bars, pretzels, and a pack of gum. He juggled the Granny Smiths a minute before tossing me one.

  I caught it and placed it on the desk in front of me, still totally confused. Even though fruit was my comfort food, truth be told, I wanted the muffin right now. My palette had started to anticipate it already.

  “I still don’t understand.” I lifted the treat, ready to take a bite. I loved gluten and everything it stood for.

  He lowered his voice. “She probably got it while she was dumpster diving.”

  I wanted to barf up the muffin even though I hadn’t taken a bite yet. “The trash?”

  Michael gave me a look that was nothing short of amused. He took a bite of his apple and leaned back.

  “Are you for real?” I clarified.

  “Velma is the cheapest person I know. She splits her two-ply toilet paper to make it into one ply. She washes paper towels, dries them, and then uses them again. It’s better if you know these things now.”

  “Was that why she went to Easton’s Sporting Goods to work out yesterday?”

  Michael pointed at me and clicked his tongue. “Bingo! I can see that I’m going to need to show you the ropes around here. Speaking of which, how did it go last night?”

  “Not great—” Before I could finish explaining, the door to Oscar’s office flew open. His massive figure stood there, and his beady eyes were like laser beams that burned into my very soul.

  “Elliot. In my office. Now.”

  For the first time in a very long time, I felt like I was being called in to see the principal.

  And I didn’t like it.

  My hands were sweaty as I lowered myself into the fake leather chair across from Oscar.

  “Good morning,” I started, trying to put my best foot forward.

  He continued to stare at me, no trace of a smile in sight. “How did it go last night, Signora?”

  “That’s Italian . . . never mind.” I shook my head. “Last night? Do you mean, at the police station?”

  I was buying myself some time to formulate an answer, and I hadn’t expected to feel this intimidated by the man, but I did.

  “Yes, of course at the police station. What do you think I’m talking about? A blind date you went on?” His cheeks turned red as he stared at me, his face nearly vibrating with emotion.

  I raised my eyebrows but tried to keep my expression otherwise placid. “Well, I did manage to get into the station, and I did manage to clean. I did not, however, manage to find any information out on Flash Slivinski.”

  Oscar’s hand slammed into the desk. “I sent you there for one reason and one reason only. This isn’t a very good start to your job, Dora.”

  Dora? What? Had he forgotten my name in these brief few minutes?

  Sweat formed across my brow. “It wasn’t all my fault—”

  “No excuses.”

  “But—” I needed to tell him that the detective had been there. Then it would make sense why I hadn’t gotten the information.

  “Failure is not an option here. I gave you a job to do. You are officially on notice. If you are not successful, then you’re out of here. Capisce?”

  I stared at him, certain that I didn’t understand. He couldn’t fire me after one day. He hadn’t even heard my explanation. “No. No capisce.”

  He sighed and glowered at me. “Listen, Dora. I like you. I want you to succeed. Let me give you a few tips . . .”

  “Okay,” I said, probably a little too quickly. Now wasn’t the time to correct my name.

  “There’s an art to what I do.”

  “An art? Well, I’m a quick learner—”

  “Starting with this. Whenever you eavesdrop, you can’t let people know. Become invisible. It’s why I hired you. You represent the plight of the undocumented worker.”

  “But I’m not undocumented—”

  “Sure you are, non-gringa.”

  “No, I’m really not—”

  “You’re out there, speaking another language. No one thinks anything about you. They have more important people to deal with.”

  “But I mostly speak English. And I’m a US citizen—”

  “Now get outta here.” Oscar pointed his thick finger toward the door. “Michael has your job for today. He’ll help show you the ropes. Hasta la vista, baby!”

  Before I could even stand from my seat to leave, Oscar turned the TV on, propped his feet up on the desk, and started watching a soap opera.

  Exactly what kind of job had I taken? I didn’t know.

  But I needed to quickly figure out if I was going to see this assignment through or not.

  Because if I couldn’t respect my boss, could I really work for him?

  Before I could walk back to my desk, Michael met me at the door and nodded toward the exit. “You and I are out of here.”

  I sucked in a breath, trying to understand what he meant. My mind, of course, went to worst-case scenarios. “What do you mean? Did you just get fired too?”

  “Oscar fired you?” Michael’s eyes widened with surprise.

  I shook my head, realizing I might be overreacting. “He didn’t exactly fire me. He just threatened to.”

  “Oh.” Michael seemed to relax as he waved a hand in the air. “Get used to it. He’ll say that a lot. That’s a true fact.”

  Suddenly, I was having second thoughts about working here. I liked stability. It was more than just liking stability, I needed stability. I needed a steady paycheck.

  “So when I said you and I are out of here, I meant that you and I are going to trace Flash Slivinski’s steps on the day before the murder occurred. We’re going to be out of the office today. You okay with that?”

  Getting away from Oscar sounded like a great idea.

  I hurried back into the office and plucked my purse from the desk I’d hardly had time to get acquainted with yet. “Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, we climbed into Michael’s old minivan. And when I said old, I didn’t mean charmingly old. I meant, it was probably fifteen years past its prime, needed a new paint job, and screamed, “I have no social status.”

  The inside smelled like fast food. A dirty sock was strewn in the back seat, and mail had been shoved between the front seats. I desperately wanted to clean the van for him, but that would be overstepping, especially considering we’d just met.

  “So, where exactly are we going to start with this?” I rubbed my hands on my jeans, still unsure how I felt about everything.

  “We’re going to start by heading to Flash’s condo. We’re going to look at things there.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You ever done this before?”

  Only if cleaning my dead Aunt Marie’s house counted. “Never.”

  “I’ll teach you the ropes.”

  “Great. I’m a fast learner.”

  He smiled, but something about the action almost seemed skeptical. I ignored it. I hated when people underestimated me.

  Instead, I drew in a deep breath. “So, has Oscar had a lot of other assistants before me?”

  Michael’s eyebrows shot up before he quickly leveled his expression. “You heard?”

  “Maybe.”

  He shrugged, almost as if hesitant to answer. “He goes through assistants like some people go through toilet paper.”

  “That’s not comforting. Why is that?” I felt more of my stability slipping away.

  “He starts people off with high pay to lure them in,” Michael said. “But Oscar also realizes they’ll only last a maximum of two days, so he’s not really losing that much money through his process.”

  “Why do people last such a short period of time?” Suddenly, this was all seeming like a bad idea. And that truly was a true fact, as Michael seemed prone to say.

  Michael shrugged again. “Oscar can be . . . difficult. But I’ll let you see for yourself.”


  I didn’t need to see for myself. I’d already experienced it. The man was rude, insulting, demanding, and unforgiving. Why was I still working for him?

  “How long did his last assistant last?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Three hours.”

  My eyes widened. It was worse than I thought. “What happened?”

  “Oscar . . . told her she was going to have to crawl under a house to look for evidence a sewage line had been tampered with. It was for an insurance case.”

  “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

  “Especially not since she was claustrophobic.”

  Meanwhile, was Oscar watching TV and doing interviews?

  I stared out the window, trying to calm my nerves. “So, it sounds like you do things like this a lot—the footwork for investigations. What about Oscar’s associates? He’s not the only PI at the firm, is he?”

  “He named the business that when he was the only employee. He thought people would take it more seriously if he added ‘associates.’ I suppose, practically speaking, that I’m an associate, though Oscar would never admit that. I do the footwork with almost every case we work.” Michael shrugged and glanced at me, a look of almost amusement in his gaze.

  Exactly what kind of job had I taken? I’d been so anxious to find something new.

  But what if I’d just made a huge mistake?

  Chapter Seven

  Twenty minutes later, Michael and I pulled up to a ten-story condo complex on the outskirts of DC. Michael grabbed some keys from his pocket as we hurried up the sidewalk toward the front door. As he led me into the building, he looked like he had done stuff like this a million times before.

  “So, you know anything about Flash?” As Michael crossed his arms, a thorny tattoo peeked out on his muscular bicep.

  We paused at the elevator. “Only that he supposedly killed a woman and that he’s some kind of famous golfer.”

  “Some kind of famous golfer?” Michael chuckled and pressed the button for the top floor. “He is one of the most famous golfers in the world.”