by Jody Wallace
The morning of the picnic, stifling big yawns and nervous butterflies with instant coffee, I printed my coded list in a tiny notebook with a tiny pen to check off people who weren’t bad guys. Using the espionage trick suggested by Al of “always have a legitimate reason to be there”, I was going to be taking notes for a corporate newsletter.
I’d have to compile an actual newsletter if I remained with YuriCorp, but that was okay. I was the one who’d complained when they’d forced me to quit expressing my creative side in my blog.
When the phone rang, I let it go to the answering machine. Could be John, could be Lou. Madame Lampey had to have something up her sleeve to explain her fixation on me, but I hadn’t pried. Prying took time, and anyone in Lou’s orbit more than a few seconds this week found themselves still there hours later, wondering what had happened to the day. With the way Lou kept mentioning her nephews, all evidence pointed to matchmaking, though she seemed happy I was dating John instead of that little chameleon nobody liked.
Hey, Lou’s words, not mine.
Though I hadn’t cooperated with Lou’s request to show up at the crack of dawn Saturday, I had agreed to give Uncle Herman a ride to the farm when I did come. His license had been revoked after an incident nobody would even lie to me about.
“You look like crap,” the old man said, peering through a narrow crack in his door. “Are you a druggie?”
“No, Herman. I don’t do drugs.” Not counting the ibuprofen I’d consumed this morning to combat the low-grade headache that had plagued me since Thursday. “I haven’t slept well. Can you believe it? My neighbor has been really noisy.”
“A likely story.” With a cane hooked over his arm, he slipped out his door quickly, as if there were a cat on the other side trying to escape. I knew that maneuver well.
I accepted the heavy duffel he shoved at me with what I felt was good grace, all things considered. As he locked his door, I juggled the duffel and my purse. The duffel’s canvas strap bit into my shoulder as we made our way to the parking lot. “What’s in here, gold bars?”
“Stuff I need, Miss Nosy. We were supposed to be there three hours ago,” he complained when I unlocked the passenger door of my Volkswagen.
“I warned you I was running late.” I popped the trunk and stashed Herman’s bulky satchel.
“Be careful with that, missy, it’s fragile.”
Fragile as a ton of bricks.
He frowned as he peered into the back seat. “Where are the pies?”
“I wasn’t on the food committee.” I was on the little-known espionage committee.
“You couldn’t even make a brownie pie? Well, it needs a crust. Pie’s not pie without a crust. And fruit. Pie’s not pie without a crust and fruit.”
“Crust and fruit. Got it.” I waited for Herman to get in the car, but instead he hobbled toward the front. “What are you working on in your apartment this week, Herman? Sounds like you’ve got a Moog synthesizer over there. Are you in a band?”
He whacked my front tire with his cane, checking its soundness. “A new-fangled vacuum cleaner that runs itself,” he lied, but because he was limping around the front of my car, I couldn’t see specifics. “My kids think I need to hire a maid. Why should a perfectly healthy man pay somebody else to clean? I can do it myself, I told them, so they got me this ridiculous vacuum.”
A maid might have fled in terror from Herman’s apartment. The old guy was a hoarder of crap. Newspapers, boxes of old computer parts, dirty tools, books, broken toasters and other detritus were stacked in tottering heaps all over the front room, the only one I’d glimpsed whenever I’d dropped off groceries. I had no idea where a robot vacuum could find floor space to clean, but he’d been lying about the vacuum.
Maybe I should let Lou know he might be senile. I hadn’t been around anyone with memory loss like Alzheimer’s and had no idea how their masks would behave.
Herman yanked the handle of the driver’s side door. “We’re late already, quit fooling around. I need in.”
“This is your seat.” I indicated the passenger’s side. “As I understand it, you don’t have a valid license.”
“Horse’s ass.” Herman didn’t argue, thank goodness, he just hobbled around the back, making sure to wallop the tires, and got in.
Of course, with as many directives as he gave me on the ride to the farm north of Nashville, it might have been easier if I’d let him behind the wheel.
~ * ~
Samantha huddled on the seat of the dunking booth like a wet rat. Her hair clung in thin tendrils to her face, and her makeup had washed off fifty-seven immersions ago. The line of employees waiting to sink her was longer than the line of employees at Lou’s grand buffet.
If she hadn’t been obviously loving it, I’d have enjoyed it even more. Some friend I am.
“You call that a pitch?” she hollered at Roxanne Spivey, whose final cast had gone too far to the right. “I thought you had magic hands!”
“If you hit me with one of those wild pitches, I’ll sue,” Uncle Herman added. He’d set up shop in the white gazebo near the dunking booth and added his commentary to Samantha’s. He’d tried to send me to refresh his pie and iced tea earlier, but I’d deflected the errand to a random Lampey since I was occupied.
Roxanne checked with me, and I waggled the small placard hanging around my neck that said, “Dunk for Dogs.” We were selling three balls for five bucks. All proceeds went to a local no-kill animal shelter. Roxanne had already bought six.
“You throw like a sissy!” Samantha yelled. “Give it up, Casey Jones.”
“Casey Jones was a batter.” Roxanne dug into her pocket for money. “Three more, Cleo.”
We swapped dollars for softballs. The dunking booth was at the far end of the immense yard, near the gazebo and concrete pond. No, really, a concrete pond. It was stocked with fish. The children’s inflatables, pony rides, sprinklers, and other entertainments that merited much shrieking were between the pond and the creek. I hadn’t seen the maze but it was near the back forty. Lou had somebody running hayrides there on the hour.
The massive buffet was near the house. Pavilion tents shading tables and chairs dotted the grounds, and the trees were festooned with crepe paper and random piñatas. Supposedly one of the barns was wired with big screen televisions and a video arcade, but since there were three outbuildings, I wasn’t sure which. The grass was as smooth and thick as a golf course, and flowers bloomed everywhere—in pots, in the ground, and a couple in Lou’s hair, though I’d only seen her briefly upon arrival.
She’d given me a nasty snort—some thanks for putting up with Uncle Herman—and sent me to the dunking booth without even a peek at the buffet.
Despite its size, Lou’s farm was no longer a working farm, though it did have fish, dogs, cats, horses, chickens, ducks, geese, a garden, and a large enough herd of cattle that they could receive a tax write-off. Samantha had attracted such a crowd that the dunking booth turned out to be the perfect place to question suspects. I didn’t have to seek anyone out; they all came to me and handed me cash.
And then I crossed them off the list, as well as their families, due to lack of proof and solid alibis. It was progress...of a sort.
“I noticed your mom and dad here today,” I said to Roxanne. “My stepfather couldn’t make it.” Roxanne’s parents, both supras, had been in the peace corps in the sixties. They weren’t on my roster but it never hurt to ask. “What do they do for a living?”
“Retired. They’re usually off somewhere in the RV. They just got back from three months in Canada.” Which ruled them out as the saboteurs, unless the RV lifestyle was their front for criminal activities.
Roxanne tossed the ball up and down, eyeing the target that would send Samantha and her big mouth into the murky tank. “If I give you an extra five bucks, can I step up to the kid’s line?”
“Sure!” I stuffed the additional money into my apron pocket. Ten minutes before Samantha and I were done here a
nd could work the crowd. Beau was due to be dunked next. If he bailed on me, I was going to be pissed. There was no telling what I’d have to promise Alex to handle the extra turn but I couldn’t stay here all day. I had suspects to grill.
Roxanne, with an evil smile, strode forward several paces and took aim.
“You’ll never do it!” Samantha yelled, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Not even from the baby line. Miss it, miss it, miss it!”
“Hit it, hit it, hit it!” chanted the waiting crowd.
Uncle Herman cackled in counterpoint to it all.
Jolene, who was going to sell Beau’s tickets, popped up by my elbow with a giant plate of summer salads, fried chicken, potatoes, corn bread and fruit. “Your boyfriend’s not here yet,” she said. “He’s probably still at work, the stinker.”
“He’s here. He’s helping Lou.” John had been roped into pouring iced tea at the buffet. Although we’d seen one another from afar and he’d cast me a longing glance, we hadn’t had time for a tete a tete. Partly due to my schedule. Mostly due to my avoiding him. “He got back from California last night.”
Jolene gave me a strange look. “I meant Beauregard.”
I thought it best not to correct her misassumption, though she was the only person at YuriCorp who didn’t know about me and John. Several women, instead of being hateful like when I’d “dated” Beau, had congratulated me on landing the elusive Mr. Arlin.
I accepted their praise, asked who they’d brought to the picnic, and followed up with gosh that’s nice, what did their families do for a living?
“Jolene, where’s my pie?” Uncle Herman asked. Jolene ignored him. Considering she put up with Beau on a daily basis, ignoring Herman was no sweat. Beau had been his version of pleasant lately, but lately didn’t count.
Roxanne blew all three tosses and conceded in disgust, Samantha heckling her with creativity and abandon. I wouldn’t have lasted past three attempts. There was a long line, and it was too warm to be standing around exerting oneself without the satisfaction of dunking Samantha.
“Next!” I yelled.
A thirty-something guy who looked familiar handed me a twenty. I couldn’t place him. One of YuriCorp’s road warriors?
Jolene made it easy for me. “Hi, Clinton,” she said, cheeks bulging. “Glad you could make it.”
“Keep the balls coming,” he said, with a dark glare at Samantha.
Was there a Clinton on my list?
“I see another loser!” Samantha wrapped her fingers around the edge of the dunking platform and leaned forward. “If your aim’s as bad as your singing, I’m going to jump in the water myself. I’m drying out up here. Can’t anybody get me w— Eek!”
Clinton’s first shot pegged the target, and Samantha plummeted like a rock.
The crowd burst into applause.
Clinton, Clinton, who was... Oh, right. My studies in employee relationship trees came to my rescue. Clinton aka Clint McAdams, former boyfriend of Samantha Graves. Currently employed by the Lampey PI firm and dating Jolene’s daughter Rachel, a salesperson in the downtown office.
Clint McAdams, who’d been pummeled by Alex Berkley my first night at Merlin’s.
Clint McAdams, who’d been described by Samantha as having issues.
Clint McAdams, who was on my list.
Time to make the doughnuts.
When I didn’t hand Clint another softball because I was trying to decide how to strike up a conversation, he nudged me. “I gave you a twenty, honey. Hand over the balls.”
“Give him some balls!” Herman yelled. Then he laughed.
“Sorry. Here.” Clint was good-looking, rugged and shaggy, if you liked that type. Sandy hair, leathery tan accented by a denim shirt with ripped off sleeves, jeans and cowboy boots. “That was a nice throw.”
“I know how to shut her up.” With a gag, according to Samantha. He tossed the ball up and down and waited for Sam to climb on the bench. She was wetter but no less mouthy.
“Lucky shot.” She pushed her hair out of her face, where it lumped on the sides like giant ears. “If only you’d been so lucky when we— Eek!”
Down she went again.
“Do you play baseball?” I asked Clint since, “Tell me about your powers,” wasn’t a good lead-in.
“Used to be in the minors.” He pegged the target again. “I’m an even better shot with a rifle.”
“That’s nice to know.” The saboteur hadn’t shot anybody, but Clint seemed to have a lot of repressed anger to go with his issues. Was he tormented enough that he might take it out on YuriCorp, gleaning the necessary information from his girlfriend in sales and John Arlin’s handler? Or was he John’s handler?
“So you’re not playing ball anymore,” I guessed. “What do you do for a living?”
“Track down cheating spouses and bond skips.” He wound up and threw. The metallic clang of the softball on the target resounded over the crowd’s clapping.
“Are you with Lampey PI?”
He accepted another softball. “What’s it to you?”
“Just making conversation.” Just fumbling for a way to confirm whether or not you dabble in corporate sabotage.
Clint glanced at Herman as if anticipating another heckle. When Herman did nothing, Clint reared back for another pitch.
The sixth time Samantha climbed out of the water, audience appreciation—Herman notwithstanding—was sparse. Several wandered toward the children’s area or buffet. However, Clint didn’t look like he’d had his fill. Where the hell was Beau? It was past his turn for the booth.
“Why don’t you stay down there, Sam?” Clint said. “It’s where you do your best work.”
“You tell her,” Herman agreed.
For the first time in many dunkings, Sam’s veneer slipped. “Come over here and shake my hand when you say that.”
“Like you can push me, you bitch,” he snapped back.
His power had to be akin to pushing because Sam had mentioned they pair cancelled. However, pushing took on a variety of formats. I withheld Clint’s next missile of revenge. “There are kids here, dude. Watch what you say.”
“Don’t be ugly,” Jolene agreed. “I thought Rachel was helping you work through that.”
“Fine, no profanity. Now give me the balls.” Clint snatched the next softball out of my hand. The bucket at my feet was nearly empty. Most of the balls were scattered around the dunking booth.
Clint sent Samantha into the tank once again.
I was in the middle of a crowd, and Al was only a yelp away. He’d promised to listen for me. There was no reason to be intimidated by Clint.
“What’s your problem?” I asked him.
Clint stared at me for a minute before his gaze shifted somewhere behind me.
“I don’t have a problem. Everything is fan-damn-tastic. Can I help it if I like to play ball?” His mask said, Not fantastic. Hate what they’re making me do. Never should have agreed.
What hateful task had Clint agreed to? Garbage duty? “Are you stressed about your job? The economy is pretty bad.”
“My job’s great.” His mask begged to differ. Hate my job. Bad, bad, bad.
Not everyone was cut out to be a PI. From what Lou had described, it wasn’t a job I’d be looking into if I were forced to quit YuriCorp in protest of the upcoming interviews.
“Clinton met my daughter Rachel at the Lampey agency,” Jolene added. “Rachel helps out when they need an extra set of hands, but as much as she’s been at the PI office lately, I think there’s another reason.”
Clinton bent each arm across his chest, pressing them closer to loosen up. This rotated his face away from me, so I sidled in front of him, watching his mask.
“There’s no other reason, Mrs. Lampey. We’re busy as hell,” he lied. If the old bat catches on, we’ll have to do her next.
Do the old bat? That sounded ominous. And vulgar.
“I think it’s love,” Jolene said. “A year is long enough to know if
it’s love and move to the next phase. She needs a ring for her birthday, Clinton.”
“Rachel and I are happy with the way things are.” I’m not happy, not with all this sneaking around.
Doing old bats? Sneaking around? I caught myself stiffening and tried to relax.
“Now I want to toss some balls,” he said. Now I want Sam back.
“We’re out of balls. Take your money.” I offered him a wad of cash, hoping he’d go away so I could hunt him down elsewhere and ask pointed questions. Clint had just been upgraded to the top of my list. If I had a job as an evil, supra-burning spy, I’d hate it, too.
All things considered, I should probably tap Al as back-up instead of Samantha.
“I don’t want the money, I want the balls.”
Suddenly, Clint lurched forward, and Jolene yanked me out of his way. Her plate tumbled to the ground beside the pail.
“If you want the balls that bad, take them.” I kicked him the bucket. “Jeez.”
Clint, who’d come to a stop with his foot in Jolene’s potato salad, swiveled his head and narrowed his eyes. “Rachel, is that you?”
Where did he think Rachel was? Nobody was here but Clint and Jolene and...
Beau. He appeared beside Clint as if from thin air. If I hadn’t been staring at that very spot, I would have assumed Beau had wound his way through the crowd, but no, there had been nobody there and then Beau had been there.
Unless he’d wound his way through the crowd and I hadn’t noticed. He was pretty short.
“Thanks for the donation,” he said to Clint. He adjusted a pair of dark sunglasses. “You’re done now.”
“Not hardly.” Clint righted the bucket. “Honey, you’re gonna have to round up some more.”
“I’ll get them. Clinton, pick up that trash.” Jolene trotted to the dunking booth, foot-swiping balls toward us like she was practicing soccer goals. Most of them rolled right up to the bucket.
“Thanks so much,” Samantha said to Jolene. “Give the psycho more things to throw.”
“Give the boy some balls,” Herman yelled. Not for the first time.
Beau caught one of the balls with his foot and flipped it into his hands like a hacky sack.