Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives

by Josie Brown

  Harry turns to Cal. “So, what are you suggesting, that I play I Spy? Detectives aren’t cheap.”

  Cal frowns. “A lot of it is simple deduction, even without electronic surveillance. Of course, it would be easier if we knew more about her regular habits, like when she goes out, where, and why.”

  “Or her lover’s.” Pete throws down the deck. “If what Jake says is true, we do know that he lives here in the Heights. Maybe there’s a way to narrow the field.”

  Harry quits drying the dish in his hand. “How do you propose doing that?”

  “Simple process of elimination. Comings and goings. Phone calls and e-mails. You know, that kind of thing.” Now Cal’s excited. “I could certainly write a program that tracks cars leaving the Heights and memorizes their known characteristics—you know, make, model, color, license plates. If any of them move toward her place, then I can train a SATCOM eye to stay on the most obvious suspects. Even if this dude is smart enough to stay away from her place, another program for the satellite will track her comings and goings as well. Eventually their two cars will be at the same place at the same time.” He pauses, lost in thought. “Another consideration is cross-referencing any calls made to her, or e-mails sent.”

  Why do I feel they’re getting carried away? “But isn’t that kind of tracing illegal without a search warrant? The last thing Harry needs is to do something that gets him in dutch with the bar, not to mention the law. Then he’ll never get custody.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll never be able to trace it back to Harry. Or to any of us.”

  I start to open my mouth again, but the looks on all three of their faces—determination on Cal’s, excitement on Pete’s, desperation on Harry’s—tell me it’s no use to try to talk them out of any harebrained schemes.

  They are on a mission. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s lead, follow, or get out of the way.

  I will pass. I have no choice. DeeDee and I have the same equipment.

  And I certainly don’t have an ulterior motive.

  So that they can plot and scheme without my angsting over them like some mother hen, I take what’s left of the meat loaf into the great room so that the kids can finish it off.

  Don’t ask, don’t tell. Works for me.

  While they eat, I busy myself straightening up the room. I can just imagine what DeeDee would say if she saw it now, what with Temple’s toys tossed helter-skelter around the room. As I gather my children’s coats and hats, I notice that Jake’s have been carelessly tossed on the floor, followed by a pair of muddy sneakers. When I move the coat onto a hook, a baseball cap falls out of its pocket. It is a replica of those of San Francisco’s original baseball team, the Seals. I hang it on a hook beside the coat.

  It will be interesting to see how fast DeeDee can retrain her children.

  Not that I’ll be privy to life in this house, ever again.

  36

  “Marriage is like a bank account. You put it in,

  you take it out, you lose interest.”

  —Irwin Corey

  Tuesday, 17 Dec., 11:38 a.m.

  It isn’t until our yoga instructor has barked out the next pose—downward dog—that Brooke notices me folded awkwardly behind her. She lifts one hand to wave, and almost topples over.

  I snicker at this, and that starts her giggling, and the next thing we know we’re being shushed by all the yoga Nazis in the room, but that only makes us laugh all the harder.

  By the time we’ve snatched up our mats and our hoodies and headed out of the studio, I realize how much I’ve missed Brooke.

  And I know the feeling must be mutual, because it’s she who suggests we grab a bite to eat. I’m all for that, Margot be damned. Besides, I want to hear if Colleen is right, and someone is spreading rumors about Harry and me.

  12:05 p.m.

  The Max’s Diner by the expressway has a great matzo-ball soup and tall booths: perfect for our rendezvous. No, I don’t mind that we’re meeting on the sly. As of this moment, I view this as a covert op, and I need an inside woman.

  I need Brooke.

  And apparently she needs me too, if for nothing else than to grouse about Margot’s rabid imperiousness. “You got out right in the nick of time. I tell you, Lyssa, it’s a bloodbath! Besides you, Tammy was her most natural successor. But Margot doesn’t want to turn the presidency over to her. Behind her back, Margot calls her ‘power-hungry.’ Ha! Now, is that the pot calling the kettle black or what?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “But instead of just coming out and saying that, she’s been meeting with each of us on the sly, trying to sweet-talk us into running against Tammy. Do you know how she wants to choose her successor? Get a load of this: each of us is supposed to come up with a strategic plan—on PowerPoint, no less—for how we’d personally run next year’s events!” She sticks a manicured finger down her throat. “Yeah, well, she can whistle ‘Dixie’ for that one. I came onboard for the cocktails and gossip, not the grunt work.”

  “But what do you think is her endgame? I mean, someone has to be president, right?”

  Brooke rolls her eyes. “Frankly, I think she wants us all to vote her in for another term, but she’s trying to come off as being democratic about the whole thing.”

  “She’s pitting you all against each other so that she’ll become the logical choice yet again? Man, that is brilliant.” Margot truly is a Machiavellian genius. “If that’s the case, I’m surprised she was even going to nominate me in the first place.”

  Brooke looks up from her matzo ball. “Au contraire, mon amie. You were the perfect choice. First off, you’re an uncomplaining workhorse. And besides, with you she could play puppet master. You know, be the power behind the throne. Heck, you’re so starved for attention that all she’d have to do was give you a pat on the head every now and then, and you’d be good for another event or two.”

  I almost choke on my soup. “Oh, get real! I’m not that needy . . . am I?”

  “Like a puppy. If someone scratched your belly, you’d never leave their lap.” She examines a nail. “Speaking of delectable laps, how is our sweet boy Harry?”

  I pause too long for any lie I could tell at this juncture to be credible. “He’s moving. Today, in fact. DeeDee’s attorney did an end run for the house, based on Jake’s latest transgression and the fact that Harry’s lost his partnership at his firm.”

  Brooke nods. “Yeah, he was spotted tossing a few suitcases into his car this morning. An hour later, DeeDee’s car pulled up.”

  Why am I not surprised that Brooke already knows this? Suddenly I have my hackles up. If they’re still stalking Harry, then surely I’m on their radar too.

  Smile pretty for the cameras. . . .

  “Will he be staying in the Heights?”

  I try to make my nod as nonchalant as possible. “He was looking at a couple of places, yes.”

  “I hear he’s going to rent Pete Shriver’s cabana house. I guess that will put a damper on Masha’s poolside trysts.” She scans my reaction to this. “Unless Harry’s her type. Ha! What man isn’t?”

  Brooke proves once again that she’s put together the best network of spies in the Heights. I don’t know whether to be impressed or repulsed.

  One thing I am for sure is determined to identify DeeDee’s lover before Harry and the boys do something stupid that costs him his kids for good. “If DeeDee is having an affair with someone, it’s going to make it easier to spot the guy, what with her living here in the ’hood again.”

  Brooke’s demure sip of her wine doesn’t fool me. Apparently she’s already thought about that.

  However, the couple now being seated in one of the corner booths may make her reconnaissance a moot point:

  It is DeeDee with local realtor Max Karloff, better known around the Heights as the Listing Lothario.

  His motto isn’t Satisfaction Guaranteed for nothing.

  I nudge Brooke, but she’s already spotted them in one of the restaurant’
s many dizzying mirrors, which turn its nooks and crannies into a Peeping Tom’s paradise.

  “Well, well, well! I guess DeeDee’s already figured out that it’s not going to be easy to make the house payment with Harry being unemployed.” Brooke twists her neck to get a better view. “I’ve always liked that tricked-out media room. I wonder what the asking price will be? Oh, my God!”

  “What? WHAT?” From where I’m sitting, I can’t really see a thing, now that they’ve sat down.

  “He’s got his arm around her shoulders . . . and he’s playing with her hand! But she doesn’t seem to like it. Maybe she really is frigid.”

  Brooke is poised to jump up for a better look, but I yank her back down. “I don’t think you should let her see us.”

  “Yeah, darn it, I guess you’re right. If I get whiplash, I guess this is worth spending a week in a neck brace.” Even as she rubs the back of her neck, she is smiling. “Well, this is certainly the scoop of the year! What do you say we order some champagne to celebrate?”

  37

  “Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.”

  —H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

  1:03 p.m.

  My heart jumps into my throat when I see all the police cars blockading my street. I pull over as close to home as I can, what with all the neighbors standing in the middle of the street, trying to figure out what’s happening at the Lonely House.

  Mickey came up with that name, and it hits the nail on the head. Rarely does anyone come or go. In fact, I’ve only seen the owners once, while walking Harvey at night—a young couple who drove up in a van with dark-tinted windows. They never park in the driveway, but pull into the garage. In the fleeting few seconds when the garage door was open, I noticed that the interior of the garage was empty except for their van.

  The house, too, usually has its blinds down, and they never entertain there. I’m guessing they’re both workaholics, or that they travel all the time. Or maybe it isn’t their house at all, but belongs to some relative who’s on an extended stay somewhere else, and they just check up on it periodically. A yard service shows up every other week to trim the grass and the shrubs.

  In other words, the house is lonely.

  Now it seems we’ll know why.

  The house is swarming with men in black zip-up sweatshirts with the letters DEA stamped large on the back. The sidewalk is taped off so that pedestrians have to cross the street in order to keep moving forward. Not that anyone wants to do so. Why should they, when the action is right here?

  Our chief of police, Officer Fife, is using his bullhorn to detour cars that, like mine, need to reach the other end of the street. When he gets to me, I give him a wink and a smile in the hope that it will loosen his tongue. It should. The world of rumor and innuendo is free. In the world of fact, however, deep-dish apple pies are the coin of the realm, which I gladly tithe twice a year: July Fourth and Christmas.

  The timing is fortuitous. I hand him one of the candy canes I snitched off the Max’s counter. “So, what gives?”

  “A big ol’ drug bust. Apparently your neighbors there were running a grow house.”

  “You’re kidding! Right here on my street?” I crane my neck to take in this new point of view of the Lonely House. “They’ve owned it, what, for three years now?”

  “Yep. And never a peep from the neighbors about anything suspicious happening.” As always, Fife is the last to know, but the first to cover his butt.

  “So, what gave them away?”

  “An anonymous tip was sent in. Even gave info on where the suspects sell the stuff. I guess someone had it in for them. Oddly, no one is stepping up for the reward.”

  “Maybe it’s just some upstanding citizen.”

  “Hope so. Considering the number of break-ins we’ve had over the past week, we can use some more of them.”

  “Wait—what break-ins? I haven’t heard of any.”

  “It’s a fact. They haven’t really been taking anything, just moving things around. We’re guessing it’s a smart-ass kid or two. Tomorrow Pete’s putting a warning in the Boulevard Bugle’s online edition. We’re going to reinitiate a neighborhood watch.” He turns just in time to see Mallory-formerly-Activist-Mom accost a DEA agent with her petition about weapons control. “Aw, heck! Mallory’s about to get herself arrested. Gotta run. . . .

  Mallory! Just let the man do his job, please.”

  Going home can wait. I U-turn so that I can hit the next place on my list: Pete Shriver’s paradise on the hill, where Harry is the new cabana boy.

  As befitting the scion of the family that owns one of the biggest tech conglomerates in the world, Pete Shriver’s pad is a veritable Xanadu. In fact, that is its nickname within the Heights. This stucco miniature (albeit not by much) of Hearst Castle sits on five very lush acres on the one lofty peak that gives our community its name. The view from the house takes in the whole valley. The streets of Paradise Heights uncoil from the base of Pete’s hill.

  The cabana house, which flanks the Shrivers’ infinity pool on one side of the property, enjoys this vista too. A telescope has been set up beside the huge picture window. Harry is playing voyeur, scoping out his old house. When he sees me trudging through the gate and up the slope, he waves me over.

  “Mi cabana, su cabana. The pool’s a nice touch, wouldn’t you say? Speaking of which, did you bring your bikini?”

  “You wish.” I peek through the scope to see what’s holding his attention. Apparently it’s Lucky, who is busy chasing a squirrel around the backyard.

  “I want my dog back. I miss that little pain in the ass. DeeDee shouldn’t get too comfortable in the old homestead, since neither of us can afford it now—unless this new guy she’s seeing is going to be her sugar daddy.” He frowns at the thought. “What do you think are the odds of that? Be honest.”

  “Considering the commissions he’s known to pull down, I’d say pretty good.”

  That gets Harry’s attention. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Yeah, sort of. Unless my eyes are lying, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance that I’ve cracked the case.” I plop down on one of the cabana’s rattan chairs and prop my feet up on one of Harry’s two unopened suitcases. He has packed light. He’s making it apparent he doesn’t plan on staying. “I just got back from lunch with Brooke. We went to the Max’s Diner by the expressway. DeeDee was snuggled up in one of the booths—with Max Karloff.”

  “The realtor guy with the billboards all over the place?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Well, I guess that makes sense. If she can’t afford the house, she’s going to need someone to sell it.” He goes back to looking through the telescope. “Bev Bullworth is certainly going to be disappointed. She thought she had that listing in the bag.”

  “Sure, they may have been meeting about the sale of the house, but . . . well, I have to tell you, it looked a little cozier than that.”

  “Oh, you’re just trying to make me laugh, right? DeeDee with that slime bucket?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “My, how the mighty have fallen.”

  “He’s got quite a reputation, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know: Satisfaction Guaranteed. The way he lets it all hang out in the men’s locker room at the club, I can see how that might be the case. The dude is hung like a horse. I guess we now know the attraction.”

  “Harry, I’m sorry you had to hear it from me.”

  “Really? Well, I’m not. I’m glad I was forewarned.” He smirks. “If you’d told me two months ago that DeeDee had anything in common with Masha, I would have said you were crazy.”

  “Masha’s seeing him too? How do you know that?”

  “Cal loaded in the SATCOM program two days ago. Pete pulled together all the baseball, basketball, football, and soccer league emergency info—you know, names, telephone numbers, e-mail addresses—and cross-referenced them with DMV records of license plates, as well as what the camera has picked up ov
er the past forty-eight hours.” He shakes his head sadly. “Let me tell you, the Heights is a regular Melrose Place! But hands down, Masha is Slut of the Year. She’s got it going on with at least four guys, from what we can see.”

  “Wow. . . . How has Pete reacted to it?”

  “Let’s just say that my divorce won’t be the only one rocking the Heights. It should be interesting, to say the least.”

  “Listen, Harry, whose satellites is Cal using anyway?”

  “From the way he talks, I’m guessing it’s the Feds. Why?”

  “Well . . . isn’t that against the law?”

  “Let me worry about that—if and when the time comes that we actually have to.”

  “What you’re doing is very foolish, Harry. It could mean you’ll never see your kids again. Have you thought about that?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ve thought about it. But that worry is outweighed by what I can get back if we take this chance: my life.”

  Harry’s wrong. That life is gone. It went out the door on Halloween, with DeeDee.

  It suddenly dawns on me how much superior Cal’s system is to Brooke’s, and that’s saying a lot. The CIA could certainly make it a part of their ongoing study as to whether human intelligence is better than image intelligence.

  I’ll suggest to the boys that they submit a full analysis to the Feds before being sent to prison. Maybe they can use it to negotiate an early release date.

  38

  “Marriage: A word which should be pronounced ‘mirage.’”

  —Herbert Spencer

  Wednesday, 18 Dec., 2:45 p.m.

  Christmas break officially begins after school ends today. The kids have been restless all week in anticipation of our annual trip to Cabo San Lucas, the four days after Christmas Day. Of course, we’ll be back by New Year’s Eve.

  The call from Ted comes right as I’m heading out the door to pick them up. “So, listen, hon . . . I’ll just come out and say it: Cabo is off this year.”

  “You’ve got to be crazy! The kids have so been looking forward to this! Why—”