“Yeah, good times. Just remember that real door locks take a bit more finesse.”
“I feel like a superhero with secret powers. Now I’ve just got to figure out that whole ‘faster than the speed of light’ thing, which sounds kind of challenging.”
“Just remember to use your powers for good, not evil,” he says grimly.
I give him a big smile, which feels awkward on my face. It hts me that I haven’t unfurled a big Cheshire grin since this whole thing began.
“You look pretty when you smile,” Jack exclaims somewhat earnestly. I guess he noticed too.
“Thanks,” I reply, touching my face. It feels stiff and foreign.
Jack gives me a sideways glance. “Okay, enough tomfoolery. We’ve got an arsonist to catch,” he declares as he puts up a sign that states, ‘Closed till Noon.’
We head toward the parking structure. I frown. “Why don’t we ever take your car?”
“Because I don’t have one.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I do have a motorcycle,” he reveals, eyes twinkling.
A tingle runs up my spine. I’ve always been curious about what it would feel like to have a vibrating piece of machinery between my legs…so to speak.
“Let’s take it today,” I say with another big grin.
He shrugs his approval and we veer toward the other side of the parking structure. He removes a black vinyl cover to reveal a pristine, vintage, black and chrome motorcycle with the word “Triumph” scrolled across the side of the tank. He swiftly straddles and kick starts the bike in one swift motion, unleashing a plume of exhaust followed by the growl of the engine.
“You sure about this?” He shouts over the rumble.
“Yeah, of course. No biggie.”
I hop onto the seat and wrap my arms around his unbelievably toned waist and we’re off like a shot.
40
By the time we pull into the country club, my wig looks like an untamed Afro. Attractive. The club grounds have been manicured within an inch of their life and there are several copper statues near an English Garden that have developed a deep patina with age. The castle-like edifice gives one the feeling of being transported to medieval Scotland, and there is a light fog in the air, which only adds to the effect.
We pull around the back and park near the service entrance. As I jump off the motorcycle my body feels like it’s still vibrating. Which isn’t such a bad thing. I attempt to tame the blonde locks in the rearview mirror of the bike while Jack waits impatiently. We synchronize our watches, decide to meet back at the bike in exactly thirty minutes, and set off in opposite directions.
I study the doors along the back of the large stone building, trying to sort out which one might be the service entrance so that I can slide in undetected. Luckily, a young dishwasher opens a door and empties a bucket of murky water onto some azalea bushes. Bingo. I've got to think of a way in fast. I start walking briskly towards him as I push together my slightly smaller-than-average bosoms.
“Hi there!” I wave and affect my thickest Georgia drawl.
He glances towards me, confused. “Hi, can I help you?” He looks about eighteen and has a fresh-faced wholesomeness and longish sandy blonde hair that give him the appeal of a surfer. I take off the glasses and bat my eyes just like Mamma always does when she wants something from a man.
“Well, yes you can darlin’. I would be ever so grateful if you just let me in this here door. See, I’m a tad bit late for my first day and I don’t want the big boss to see me,” I say, letting my hand brush his arm as I let out a playful giggle.
A couple more bats and flutters and the boy is toast.
“Absolutely, Ma’am. Anything to help.”
“Why, thank you. And please do not call me Ma’am. It makes a gal feel ancient.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am...I mean…well, I didn’t get your name.”
“Ummm…Bernice…Bernice Dubois.”
Bernice was my best friend in the first grade. She used to eat her boogers.
The young dishwasher is enchanted as he takes my hand and plants a tentative kiss. “A pleasure, Ms. Dubois.”
Boy, this kid is good. Since when are teenagers this suave?
“The pleasure’s all mine. Now I must be getting on darlin’,” I say as I pull my hand away playfully.
“Of course. Follow me. I’ll show you the back way. Where are you supposed to start cleaning first?”
“The administrative offices.”
“No problem,” he says congenially, dabbing his forehead with the rag dangling from his belt loop.
This is way too easy. Note to self: channeling Mamma works on teenage boys.
He escorts me to the hallway then we part ways. I slide the glasses back on and get to the task at hand. The long limestone corridor is empty. Stroke of luck. Old paintings line the walls and faint classical music pipes in through hidden speakers. The whole effect positively wreaks of old money. A massive ornate tapestry hangs from the wall, which reads, “Frater Diligo.”
Wonder who that is? Maybe the founding father?
Along the towering mahogany carved doorways that line the hall, there are two offices marked administration. I knock on the first door and wait. No answer. I retrieve my handy dandy lock picker and glance from side to side for prying eyes. The coast is clear. My pulse quickens. I feel a rush of pure adrenaline combined with a queasy feeling as my eyes dart back and forth and I fumble with the door lock. I hear a dull click. Yes!
I slowly enter the darkened room and shut the door behind me. There are no windows so it’s pitch black inside. I feel around for a light switch and almost knock over what I assume to be a lamp. Finding the switch, I flick it on and the small room that’s filled with rows of file cabinets illuminates.
Bingo. This detective stuff is easy peasy pudding pie. Mmmm. Pie sounds good….focus Liza!
I browse through the first cabinet. Most of the drawers are labeled “staff” (betting these people go through a lot of “help”). I find one marked "members" and set about grabbing as many files as I can carry. Scanning the room for somewhere to put them, I spot a garbage bag inside the bin. I stuff most of the contents of the top drawer inside it. As I open the second drawer, I hear footsteps coming toward the doorway. I take a deep breath and try not to panic. Quickly shutting the file cabinet, I try to look busy cleaning; sans duster or broom or any other cleaning device. The door opens and a portly woman in her fifties waddles in looking surprised.
“Oh! Well, who are you?” she shrieks.
“Hello. I’m Bernice. I’m new here and I was told to clean this office.”
“Well, this room only gets cleaned once a month, on the second Tuesday, Bernice. So you were misinformed,” she exclaims, lips pursed and arms folded across her chest.
“Oh, my. How embarrassing,” I say and bat my lashes. She stares back at me with a blank expression and taps her foot impatiently.
Seems she’s immune to my charms. Hmmm. Now what?
I fish for another tactic as I try to ward off panic and the room begins to look as if the walls are closing in. Just then, like a light bulb going on, I get an idea.
“Oh, my. I really am sorry. Can I trouble you not to please tell anyone this happened? You see, my husband died recently and I really need this job.”I let my chin quiver for effect.
Her face softens as she puts on a comforting, sweet smile. “Well, of course dear. My Morton passed eight years ago, bless his soul. I know how difficult it can be. So don’t you worry one bit, your secret’s safe with me,” she says, giving me a conspiratorial wink.
“Now off you go.”
“I’ll just go ahead and take the trash with me since I’ve already got it,” I say brightly, holding up the garbage bag.
“Alright then dear. I’m Hildy. If you need anything while you’re here, just knock. I’m the third door on the left.
“Thanks, Hildy.”
I step out into the hall and take a deep breath.
The pounding in my ears is almost deafening, and I’m just barely getting my balance back; although the hallway still looks slightly slanted.
I feel bad fibbing to the sweet old lady, but it’s really not that big of a lie. I mean, Bernie is sort of dead to me.
41
As I search desperately for an exit out of the club, I spot Jack approaching with an older man who looks to be perpetually catching wind of a foul odor. He smugly gestures to the oil paintings that line the walls.
“As you can see, members date back to very prominent families. Though these days our admittance requirements have become somewhat more lenient, shall we say.” He appraises Jack who’s chomping mercilessly on a cigar. Parella gives me a sly look as I continue down the corridor, doing my best to pass myself off as “the help.” As I walk by, I hear Jack say, “So you guys have poker night here or what?”
I exit a side door and make my way back to the motorcycle, flushed with energy. The trash bag gets stuffed into one of the saddlebags on the side of the bike and I buckle it closed.
A couple of long minutes tick by before I see Jack approaching quickly with a wide smile plastered across his face. He stubs out the cigar and throws it onto the grass as he jumps on the bike.
“What happened?”
“Details later, but let’s just say there’s no stripper night here at the Club Lucerne.” He chuckles, motioning for me to hop on. “Hang on.”
We take off with a jolt, and I cling onto Jack for dear life as we pull out of the long gravel driveway. Small grey pebbles fly through the air and dust trails after us as we zoom past the iron gates.
42
I managed to forget everything that’s been going on in my crappy life for that brief fifteen minutes. The fifteen minutes that I was on the back of that motorcycle with the wind in my hair and so close to the other cars on the road I could reach out and touch them. Something about that feeling of being in danger felt good. Felt like there were more important things in life than cheating husbands.
As we pull up to Eye Spy, my cell rings. It’s Evvy.“Hello.”
“Liza, where the hell have you been? I’m worrying myself gray over here.”
“Sorry, I just needed a few days because…well…umm…the thing is. You guys were right.” There’s a long pause on the other end as I dismount the bike and motion for Jack to park. “I’m not going start sobbing or anything. The initial shock has worn off.”
“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Shit. We didn’t want to be right about this, you know.”
“Yeah, well you were.” I let out a long sigh.
“Alright, this calls for major carnage at Orzo’s. I’ll arrange everything and we’ll meet you at eightish.”
“Okay. That actually sounds great. But if anybody even remotely gloats I’m leaving.”
“We wouldn’t dare. See you at 8:00. Kiss, kiss.”
“Love you.”
Orzo’s is a New York-style restaurant and bar. It’s where all the rich folks from Andover go to feel like they’re still living in the city. With its exposed brick walls, dark purple chairs, and crushed mint infused mojitos, it has an urban vibe without all that pesky urban culture that Andoverites avoid like the plague. A girl’s night out is exactly what I need right now. I spot Jack as he rounds the corner.
“That was my best friend Evvy. I’m doing a girl’s night out-sob-in-my-tequila-sunrise-sort of thing tonight, so I think I’ll just sleep at home.”
“You ready for that?”
“Sure. I mean, I can’t avoid it forever.”
He opens the door to the shop and I notice that he’s carrying the garbage bag full of files. He plops them on the counter with a dull thud.“Okay, so I’m gonna make us some lunch and we can go through these and see what we see.” He pulls the files out of the bag and looks confused. “Uhh, okay. This can’t be all of them…”
Busted.
“Well, not exactly.”
“How unexactly are we talkin’ here?”
“Well, I was able to get most of the top drawer.” Jack gives me an exasperated look. “Hey! I did pretty damn good for my first time out, and I would’ve got them all if it weren’t for Hildy.”
“Who’s Hildy?”
“A grandmotherly sort that works in the admin offices whose husband passed away eight years ago.”
Jack shakes his head in disapproval. “Liza Dear. Darling. Sweetheart. Would you please refrain from befriending people while we’re on a mission?”
“Then I guess you don’t want to hear about my eighteen-year-old dishwashing boy toy?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Don’t be a jerk. I did a good job.”
“Yeah. Now we’ve officially popped your cherry.”
“Gross. I don’t know how you expected me to get all the files anyway. There were like hundreds of them!”
“I thought you were crafty?” He says with a cock of the brow.
I squint my eyes and shoot him a dirty look as he heads for the stairs to his loft.
“I’m making grilled cheese—crusts on or off?”
“On please.”
He shuts the door and takes all the fun out of the room with him.
Okay, I need to be honest with myself. I’ve developed a not so tiny crush on Jack. As infuriating and machismo as he can be, he’s still really sexy. Damn it. It’ll fade. It’s just a distraction/rebound thing. And as long as he keeps rejecting my advances—which he seems to be disturbingly good at doing—we’ll be fine. I just need to stop being a lush…or at least stop being around Jack in my lushy states. That shouldn’t be too hard. Right?
43
The first file belongs to a Maximillian Van Holt. What a name, geez Louise. He must’ve been born with his mouth chock full of silver spoons. The front door jingles. I suppose it’s a customer. I drop Van Holt’s file on the table and head out to the front of the shop.
A pretty blonde woman stands a few feet from the counter fidgeting nervously.
“Hi,” I say in an overly enthusiastic way, hoping to score Jack a much-needed sale.
She jumps back, startled. Regaining her composure, she smiles stiffly. “Hello, I’m looking for Jack Parella.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Only he’s upstairs making us some grilled cheeses.”
“Is it alright if I wait?”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Have a seat,” I motion towards the rickety chairs near the window, “in the waiting room.”
I decide to stick around and look busy since I feel weird about leaving her alone. Even though she doesn’t look like the thieving type. It just seems rude.
She sits with her knees touching and an alligator clutch on her lap. Her shoes are a light tan driving loafer, and she’s sporting a knee-length khaki skirt, a tailored light blue pinstriped button down, and a sand-colored trench coat. She looks like the type of woman Bernie should’ve married. That all-American-wholesome-preppy-class president type.
As I admire her perfectly manicured French-tipped nails, I notice that she’s pulling a tissue from her purse.
Uh oh. I think she may be crying…maybe this is some woman that Jack dumped or something. Men. They all suck.
She notices me noticing her tears and smiles uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. This is so inappropriate. I should just come back when I’ve got my composure.”
“No, no, that’s okay. Really. I cry all the time these days…at the drop of a hat really.”
She sniffles. “I’m so sorry. I hope everything’s alright.”
I shrug. “Not really. My husband cheated on me.” Wow, I can’t believe I just blurted that to a total stranger. Her unexpected response to my revelation is to burst into a fit of tears. “Ummm, it’s okay,” I say, “I’ll be fine.”
She blows her nose. “That’s why I’m here too. I think my husband may be cheating on me,” she says softly, fanning herself with a well-manicured hand.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. So you’re here to buy spy equipment?” I nod reass
uringly.
“All the detectives in town are booked. Apparently it’s high season or something. And my friend…Jo…I mean, Jeanine, said Jack Parella and his girlfriend might be able to investigate it for me.”
Girlfriend??
“Uhh…well, first of all, I’m not Jack’s girlfriend. “ I snort. “And secondly, as much as I’d really like to help you, we’re not real private investigators.”
Greta starts sobbing again. “I just don’t know who to turn to. I just need to know the truth.” Her face is streaked with mascara and her cute little nose is red and swollen.
“I know what you mean. My friends were the ones who suspected Bernie. I, on the other hand, was totally oblivious. But once they brought it up, it kind of forced me to find out if it was true, you know? So I bought some spy equipment from Jack and the rest is history, along with my marriage. History, that is.”
She looks up, lashes clumped together with the wetness of tears, and pulls another tissue from her purse. “How did you find out?”
Something tells me this woman needs me to share the gory details with her. And as a matter of fact, I don’t really mind. It kind of feels good to get it off my chest. “I walked in on him with his receptionist. Doggy style.”
She looks shocked and disturbed. “Oh, you poor dear.”
“Yeah. I haven’t even told my Mamma yet. She’s going be devastated to lose the only doctor in the family.”
“James is a doctor as well. He has so many young, pretty nurses around, and I’m afraid that it might be one of them. He’s home late almost every night, and sometimes goes in on the weekends as well.”
I give her my best “keep your chin up” look.
“So will you help me?” she asks earnestly, folding the mascara-smudged Kleenex in a perfect square and tossing it in the trash, her proper upbringing bleeding through in every word and gesture.
“I told you. We’re not detectives.”
“Well, you found out about your husband, didn’t you?”
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 9