by Debbi Mack
The office was downtown, in a neighborhood that had seen better days. I might have been tempted to choose another PI in a better neighborhood, if I’d had any idea where else to go. Dreary neighborhood aside, I felt better going to someone recommended by a loyal friend like Roz.
Still, I wondered why anyone would have an office in such a depressed part of town. Maybe it was a way to maintain a low profile. Or pay low rent.
His office was in a four-story, brick building, wedged between a hardware store and a funeral parlor. The building directory listed “Greeley Investigations, Suite 23,” in white plastic letters. I noticed several other businesses which had “consulting” or “associates” in their names and little else to suggest what they were.
The stairs seemed dark and forbidding. I’d just read in Women’s World that a lot of rapes take place in dark stairwells. From the look of the place, I would have staked my last paycheck that at least one rape had taken place in the building. I opted for the elevator. The door slid open in slow motion. The ride to the second floor seemed to take forever. I could have run up and down the stairs twice and made a quick visit to the ladies in less time.
I got off and walked down a long hallway marked by identical doors. I stopped at “23,” nailed into the wood like an address on a house. A business card for “Greeley Investigations” was wedged in a metal frame beneath the number.
I walked in. To one side was an unoccupied desk across from a red vinyl sofa, a chair covered in worn, yellow fabric and a fake wood laminated coffee table.
The sofa vinyl made an audible “crunch” as I sat. My reading choices included Soldier of Fortune and Redbook. I picked up the latter and flipped through it. The inner office door opened.
“Mrs. Hastings?”
I looked up. A short, pudgy man in an ill-fitting gray suit filled the doorway. I could smell his sweat from the twenty feet or so separating us.
“Yes.”
“I’m Hugo Greeley,” he said, looking me over. He didn’t budge or invite me in. He showed no interest in shaking my hand. I have to confess, the feeling was mutual.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he said and closed the door again.
I checked my watch then turned to the book reviews and had déjà vu when I read the titles. Checking the date, I realized why. The issue was 10 years old.
The door opened. “All right, Mrs. Hastings, I’m ready for you now.”
I followed him in and sat in a straight-backed chair facing his desk. A small metal fan whirred from its perch on a corner file cabinet. The stale air reeked of cigar smoke and Scotch (my husband’s drink of choice too). Mr. Greeley lumbered over to the chair behind his desk and dropped into it. The springs squealed like a chorus of stuck pigs.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“It’s my husband,” I said. “I think he’s cheating on me.”
He smiled and leaned back in the chair. It groaned. “I see. What makes you think your husband is cheating on you?”
I told him about the late nights at work, Brant’s stonewalling, the mystery phone calls and Ed’s refusal to talk about it.
Mr. Greeley nodded. “Anything else?”
“Well ... no.”
“That’s not much to go on, is it, Mrs. Hastings?” He cocked his head to one side. “Surely, there’s more to it than that.”
Aside from Roz’s insight, I had nothing specific to go on. It was more of a feeling.
For some time things had been cooling off between Ed and me. Not that Ed had ever been terribly warm. We rarely spoke, and our sex life had waned. I managed to coax Ed out of complacency every two or three weeks. My self-esteem had eroded to a nub.
I’ve always been self-conscious about my looks. Not that I’m ugly—quite the opposite. People don’t take me seriously because of my appearance, and that hurts. But I’ve always had what it takes to please a man in bed.
In the bedroom, Ed deigned to perform with a kind of military efficiency, like he was doing push-ups. I’ve learned over time how many pumps it will take, plus or minus ten. There was no way I would discuss this with a stranger.
“I just know,” I said after a while. “A wife ... knows.”
“Yeah,” he said. “So I’ve heard.” He looked me over. “How long you been married?”
“Twelve years.”
“Happy?”
I shrugged. “Not unhappy.”
“And your husband is a man of means?”
I looked at him. “You mean rich? He makes a good living, but I wouldn’t call us rich.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s an actuary with Fidelity Insurance.”
“Good paying gig.” Mr. Greeley tortured the chair some more with his fidgeting. “That’s a handsome suit. Very tasteful. Your husband must do well to buy you such nice clothes.”
I regretted having worn it. He would probably charge me more than his usual fee.
“I wear this for interviews. I’ve been looking for a job for several months.”
“A job?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes, I’m out of work. My last employer laid me off.”
“What did you do?”
“I was an administrative assistant at Sartwell Sausages.”
“Sausages, eh?” He smiled again. “Funny thing about sausages. You can hide all sorts of funny stuff in them. Dirty stuff.”
“Not if you follow FDA guidelines.”
He let go an artificial laugh. “The schoolgirl act is wearing thin, Mrs. Hastings.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The quiet voice. The prim manner. I get the feeling there’s a bit more to you than meets the eye.”
Feeling intimidated, I was speaking softly, even for me. I was wary, maybe even scared. Still I wondered if he could see that I was more than just a pretty face. I blushed. His compliment made me think that there might be something more to him than met my eye. Maybe he was more than just a smelly, fat, poorly dressed gnome.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Greeley.”
“Sure, Mrs. Hastings. Like I’m sure you’d appreciate catching the mister in the act, filing for divorce, getting half his loot, and keeping yourself in nice suits for a long time.”
I sat there, blinking, at a loss for words. What did he care? I felt peeved and thought about leaving. But what were my options?
I smoothed my skirt and sat straighter. “Will you take my case, Mr. Greeley?”
He laughed again. What was so funny? “Okay, Mrs. Hastings. I’ll take your case.”
He took down some information about Ed: his office, his work hours, his close friends and such. We went over the fee agreement. It was a lot of money. But I had to find out if Roz was right. What I would do next, I wasn’t sure.
When I got home, I found Ed. He was in our bed, with my biggest carving knife protruding from his chest.
*****
I opened my mouth to scream. A horrible sound came out—a cross between chalk on a blackboard and a dog undergoing torture.
Things were a blur after that. I think I called the police. Then, I might have called Roz or maybe I called the PI to tell him Ed wouldn’t be cheating on me anymore, if he ever had. I kept making calls because I didn’t want to stop and think about what I’d seen.
I couldn’t reach Roz. I tried again and again and left messages each time, each one less coherent than the previous one. In between, I nipped Ed’s scotch. I don’t normally drink, but the Scotch was out and it seemed like a good time to start. The doorbell rang. I stumbled to the door and checked the peephole. Instead of a policeman, I peered into the rheumy eyes of the PI.
I opened the door. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“Your call was forwarded to my cell. I wasn’t far.” He paused and looked me up and down. “You’ve been drinking.”
I could feel myself blush. I knew that odor. When Ed had been drinking I could smell it a mile away. I broke out sobbing. Another guttural cry tore from my lungs.
“I don’t believe it. I just don’t ... ,” I blubbered.
Mr. Greeley raised an eyebrow. “If you’re an actress, you’re a good one.” He placed a sweaty, but comforting arm around my shoulders and led me to the sofa in the living room. He gently pried the bottle from my grasp and set it on the coffee table. He wiped my cheeks with a hankie, staining it with blotches of mascara. He asked where I found the body. I hiccupped “bedroom.” He walked down the hall.
I had begun regaining my composure when Mr. Greeley returned.
“Get up, Sobbing Beauty.” His tone had turned as sour as spoiled milk.
“Wh-what’s wrong?”
He grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. “There’s a lot I’ll do for a dame, but I won’t play the sap for ya.”
My jaw dropped. Why would I want Mr. Greeley to pretend to be an idiot?
Without a word, Greeley took my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom. I turned my head to avoid looking at my husband’s bloody corpse.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice snagged between a sob and a screech.
“Mind telling me what all those are about?” He gestured toward the bed.
I forced myself to look.
Next to my husband were several photographs. In shock on discovering him, I guess I’d missed them. I focused on one in which he was kissing—oh, my God! I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Greeley replied. “Your husband was a closet homosexual.”
Well, that would explain his distant attitude and lack of interest in sex. The men were attractive and younger than Ed. Younger than me, for that matter.
“A lot of married men are, Mrs. H,” Greeley continued. “Some of them remain in denial all their lives. Others get their rocks off the only way they can, through secret liaisons while maintaining the illusion of so-called normality.”
I gulped. This was an awful lot to deal with in one morning. “I ... I never saw these photos before. I think—”
“Allow me to do the thinking, Mrs. H.” I wanted him to stop calling me that—it seemed disrespectful, but I was too cowed by the whole business to make a peep.
“Anyone can see this body is fresh kill,” he continued. “This murder happened quite recently.”
“Ed had left for work before I came to see you. Obviously, he came back here for some reason. Someone—the murderer—came in while I was at your office.”
Greeley narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin. “Or you arranged for him to be at home when you came back, because you had these photos all along. You took these yourself—they’re a poor enough quality to suggest they’re an amateur’s work. Or maybe you got them from another private eye—a cheap one, who couldn’t be bothered to get decent shots. Then you set up the meeting with me to give yourself an alibi. Afterward, you came home, poured yourself and hubby a couple of shots of Scotch”—he gestured toward a bedside table where two near-empty glasses held what looked like Scotch on the rocks—”and had a little discussion about the photos.” He paused. Shouting, he continued. “You got him drunk, ran into the kitchen, grabbed the knife and plunged it into your husband’s chest!”
“Mr. Greeley!” I squeaked with righteous indignation, like an angry Minnie Mouse. “Not only do I not drink, I do not drink Scotch. And I definitely would not drink Scotch before eleven A.M.”
“Really?” He sounded amused, in a sleazy way. “That wasn’t a bottle of milk you held when you answered the door.”
He had me there. Sputtering, I managed to say, “I was in shock at the time. Really.”
The private eye looked me over, then shrugged. “Okay, let’s say I believe you. But the cops may not when they look at the evidence. The photos, the knife, the bottle of Scotch. I suspect yours will be the only fingerprints on them. And if your husband had life insurance ...”
His mention of fingerprints triggered something in the back of my mind. I felt ill. “He worked in insurance,” I said in a meek voice. “I’m pretty sure he carried a policy.”
“They always suspect the widow, Mrs. Hastings. And under the circumstances ...”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence. The circumstances, along with any money I’d get from the insurance, would provide a motive for murder. Even I could see that. Even the fact that I’d gone to a PI about my husband’s infidelity might be revealed, unless that information was privileged.
“Is what I told you today confidential?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can try to stonewall, but I might be forced to reveal what I know, since it involves a homicide investigation. If I withhold important evidence, they could yank my license faster than a magician pulling a tablecloth out from under a setting for four.” He looked me in the eye. “That’s why I won’t play the sap for you, Mrs. Hastings. I have to play it straight with the cops or my career’s at risk.”
I felt like I was caught in a mudslide, hurtling into a chasm. Sobbing, I threw my arms around the pudgy body, gagging on the cigar smell and B.O. “Please help me,” I said, in a shaky voice. “Please. Help me find out who really did this. Because I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I just ... couldn’t.”
He reached up and slowly stroked my hair. The doorbell rang. Finally! The police. Mr. Greeley patted my back. “You should get that. And don’t worry, sugar. I’ll help you.”
*****
The police—a Detective White, in particular—asked many questions. I answered them honestly. People in uniforms and jumpsuits arrived and took lots of photos. After they had taken Ed away, Detective White asked me to come by headquarters later and make a statement. Because my house was a crime scene, I needed to stay elsewhere for a while.
I sighed and packed a small bag of essentials. I’d have to find a motel. I didn’t want to impose on Roz—and, frankly, I couldn’t endure her cigarette smoke.
Before I left, Mr. Greeley took me aside. “After I saw the body, I checked your husband’s cell phone for myself.”
“Won’t your fingerprints show up?” Something clicked as I spoke the words. “The photos. They won’t have my fingerprints on them. I never saw them before, and I never touched them.”
My joy was short-lived. He pulled a thin pair of gloves from his pocket. “For such occasions,” he said. “And, my guess is, the killer wore them, too. Mrs. Hastings, someone’s framed you like a van Gogh. I’m sure they took every precaution to keep themselves out of the picture.”
He chuckled at his pun and continued. “The outgoing calls included a couple I recognized, due to the sorry fact that they come up so often in my business. One was for a gay bar downtown. Another was for a male escort service called Just Four Men—the number four, as in the number of men who work as escorts. Pretty cute, huh? Anyway, I think your hubby was seeing someone—or ones—through this service. So that gives me a couple of leads.”
I nodded, mute and worn.
“I was also wondering about his business associates. Is there anyone he sees at work who might be more than just a friend?”
I told him what I told Detective White. “His assistant, Brant. He could be very ... protective of Ed. And he was outright hostile to me.”
“Think I’ll go do some poking around.” He paused and added, “Looks like the job you hired me for isn’t finished after all.”
*****
I spent the next two nights at Motel 6 tossing and turning. I hate sleeping in unfamiliar beds. Whenever I shut my eyes, I saw Ed’s body and the knife. And all that blood.
I returned to my house, stumbling in and collapsing on the couch. Not for all the money in the world would I enter the bedroom. Even if a cleaning crew had rendered the crime scene spotless. I couldn’t face it. I kept worrying that the statement I gave police might not have made sense. Restless and fretful, I called my husband’s office. Brant answered. I asked if Ed had shown up for work the morning he’d been murdered, and when he’d left.
“Yes, he was here,” Brant said, in his condescending nasal way. “But he le
ft around nine-thirty-ish for a meeting. I told the cops.”
“But you didn’t go with him? Any reason?”
“No,” Brant snapped. “He said it was personal. I have no idea where he went, if that’s your next question.”
“So you were there all morning?”
There was a long pause. “No,” he said. Wariness had crept into his voice. “I got a phone call and had to leave for a while.”
My head was spinning, but I pressed on. “When was that? What time.”
“Right after your husband left.” His words were strained, as if spoken through clenched teeth. “And it’s none of your beeswax where I went and what I did.”
“Okay.” I hung up on him. Rude, but who did he think he was?
The doorbell rang. I checked the peephole. It was Roz. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about her.
I opened the door. She rushed in and squeezed me in a viselike hug. “Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll be okay, Roz.” My voice was small and flat. Roz shut the door and, arm around me, walked me to the sofa. “Sit, sit,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”
I recounted it the best I could—the parts the police said I could tell, anyway—about finding Ed’s body, the knife, the blood, the photos—while images of Ed kissing those men flashed through my mind. She went “tsk” and drew her breath in with a gasp at the appropriate moments. When I was finished, she said, “Oh, sweetie. I had no idea. I mean, who would, you know? But seeing those photos with men in them”—she made a face—”that must have been quite a shock.” She looked pained.
I was on my last legs and excused myself. I desperately needed to get some sleep. Together we walked to the door, and she left. Returning to the sofa, I stretched out. Despite something gnawing at me, I fell into a deep sleep. I awoke with a start from nightmares of Ed, the knife, the photos ... Racing to the bathroom, I got there in time to throw up.
*****
Mr. Greeley called that evening. “I’ve been to see Brant, Mrs. Hastings.” He mumbled the words. I visualized him pressing one of his foul cigars between his lips. “Pay dirt. Man’s so light in da’ loafers, he should be levitatin’ when he walks.”