by Norah Wilson
“Tell me about the cheating, Mrs. Weather... I’m sorry, Jennifer.” I looked down at my notepad, as always placed upon my lap so the client couldn’t see what I was writing. Some people talked more with the eye contact, needing the comforting encouragement to go on. Others, I’d found, talked more without it, needing the smallest pretense of detachment and privacy as they spilled their stories.
“Ned and I have been married for a long time. Almost twenty years. And I... I thought it was a good marriage. I thought he was happy. I know I was. Who wouldn’t be happy with a man like my Neddy?”
Good. She was an eyes-averted talker. As long as she kept talking, I’d keep my gaze lowered.
“But you don’t think so anymore?”
I heard her pull a tissue from the box strategically placed on my desk.
“He has a mistress. I’m one hundred percent sure he does.”
“You’ve seen her?”
“Oh, yes. Many times.” Her words were muffled through the Kleenex she held to her face, but in my job you get used to tissue-speak.
I was beginning to think Jennifer Weatherby needed a divorce lawyer more than she needed a private dick. The vision of the five thousand dollars growing wings and flying away popped into my head. If she was that sure her Ned was cheating, why did she need me to gather the proof? “Do you have a name?”
She looked up at me startled. “Er, I told you, Jennifer Weatherby.”
“No, I mean, do you have a name of the other woman.”
She sat up straight. “No, no name. But I’ve seen her many times. She drives by the house all hours of the day and night. Once when I was out in the front garden having my tea, she slowed her car down, and stared back at me.”
I was beginning to have real doubts about this client. “That really doesn’t mean—”
“And I’ve seen them coming out of a motel together. The Underhill Motel.”
“The Underhill?”
She nodded, anxiously. “Yes, I was out shopping one day and saw Ned leaving there with this... this floozy.”
‘Floozy’. That word always struck me funny and I bit down on my lip to kill the giggle. I always pictured an intoxicated duck whenever I heard it.
I knew the place. The Underhill Motel was one of the older motels in the city, known for its cheap rooms and its hourly rates. A lot of the call girls work out of it. I made a mental note to check with some of my contacts. But it struck me that whatever Ned Weatherby was up to, and whomever he was up to it with, he apparently wasn’t out to impress them—not at the Underhill.
“Is it possible,” I asked, “that your husband was employing a prostitute? Maybe this was just a one-time thing? Not a mistress but a—”
“No! Absolutely not! I’m sure she’s more than just a prostitute. She loves Ned. She has to love Ned. I mean, who wouldn’t love my Neddy-bear.”
I looked down on the doodles on the legal pad—tight circles usually grouped in two, and ladders going to nowhere. Something that looked like demonic chicken tracks. No, wait... those were webbed feet. Duck tracks, then, wending crazily around the bottom corner of the page. And one big, block lettered word—NOTACHANCE.
Well, now it was a word.
I had serious doubts about this case. Usually clients wanted proof and confirmations of suspicions. Mrs. Weatherby appeared to have both. The other angle, I knew, would be that she wanted blackmail material. And, okay, though it wasn’t my favorite thing to participate in, it did up the ante a bit more. “What is it you’re looking for from me then, Mrs. Weatherby? I mean, if you’re sure Ned is cheating, what can I do to help you out?”
“I want you to follow Ned for a week. I want his every move documented. His whereabouts recorded.
“Here’s what you need.” The Flashing Fashion Queen snapped open her purse and dumped its contents onto my desk. Holy Hannah. I could not believe what this woman toted around. Six paper-wrapped tampons (in different sizes, no less), four different shiny tubes of lipstick, foundation, blush... There were packages of bobby pins and even a small can of hair spray. The woman was a walking feminine first-aid kit. Of course, among the jumble was an envelope marked for Dix Dodd. This she handed to me as she began piling the rest back into her purse.
“I’ve enclosed Ned’s itinerary for this week. Or rather what he says he’ll be doing this week. And I need you to photograph him everywhere.”
“When he’s with another woman?”
“Even when he’s not.”
I looked at her skeptically. Now the winged five thou was flying above my head twittering, ‘Catch me if you can!’
“I know my husband, Ms. Dodd. And I love him desperately.”
“But if he’s—”
She handed me the second envelope—this one pulled from a deep pocket of her purple dress. “That’s five thousand dollars. And there’ll be five thousand more at the end of the week. That’s ten grand for one week’s work, Ms. Dodd. Surely, that’s worth a few extra rolls of film. And a few less questions.”
Surely it was. I picked up the package.
“I just have one question, Jennifer. What does this woman... this other woman, look like?”
She swallowed hard, and wet her lips. “She’s... she’s about your height. Slender. Blond hair, hazel eyes.”
Hazel eyes? How close of a look had Jennifer Weatherby gotten?
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, she’s threatened me. Several times she’s called the house telling me she wanted me out of the way.”
I blinked, then stared at her. “This might be a matter for the police then, Jennifer.”
“No, it’s a matter for you, Dix. I have faith in you.
Chapter 2
To say I did the happy dance when Jennifer Weatherby left my office would be the understatement of the year. I did the cookie-dough-right-out-of-the-package two step, the I-got-the-pool-to-myself cha cha cha.
Ten thousand dollars in cold, hard cash for a single week’s work! And five of it already warming my pocket.
This would be my biggest payday ever. And all I had to do was follow one of Marport City’s most successful citizens around for a week. From what I knew of Ned Weatherby, I really didn’t think I’d be digging up all that much dirt, but what the heck? Despite his reputation for being a bastard in business, he didn’t have one for being a bastard with the ladies. But it was Jennifer’s money. And for ten large, I’d give the lady what she wanted. Lots and lots of pictures. Documentation. Proof was in the pudding, as they say. I just wasn’t so very sure the pudding was going to be licked off any interesting body parts.
According to the itinerary she’d left me, Jennifer Weatherby wanted me to start checking out her husband that very night. That gave me just hours to get my digital camera ready, the voice recorder charged. We only had two other cases on the go, and I left them in Dylan’s capable hands. I even managed to sneak in a few hours sleep before I started what I assumed would be a long, boring case. A long, boring week.
For the most part, it was just that. When Ned was home with Jennifer, I dozed in vehicles (the various cars and vans I borrowed from those who owed me favors, or those to whom I was now indebted), always parking nearby so that when Mr. Weatherby left, Dix Dodd was on his tail. I lived on greasy fast food and coffee so mean it spit back.
Thanks to a listening device Mrs. Weatherby volunteered to plant on the phone in her husband’s den (the legality of which was questionable, strictly speaking), I recorded conversations between Ned Weatherby and his mother (loved the flowers dear but you really shouldn’t have), Ned and his old army buddies (did men never outgrow toilet humor?), his lawyer Jeremy Poole, whom I’d heard of, his accountant Tucker Flaherty, whom I’d never heard of, and three conversations with an unfortunate caterer—a Mr. Kenny Kent— who just couldn’t seem to get it right. And I recorded endless conversations between Ned and his secretary Luanne Laney.
On hands and knees, I snuck through the bushes on the golf course as I followed Ned Weatherby around. I tr
ailed my mark into his church when he went for choir practice, slinging on a gown and auditioning myself when the pastor—a serious young fellow by the name of Pastor Fitz Ravenspire—found me lurking in the pews. (I must say, for a man of the cloth, he sure didn’t mince words when it came to my singing talents.) I waited outside the men’s room at so many ball games, the beer-and-nuts guy thought I was trying to pick him up. Boring few days. Yep, exactly what I expected. And when Ned Weatherby’s lights went out at night, I lay down exhausted in the car seat and drifted off with the smell of vinyl and ass drifting up my nostrils. Drifted into complacency. Boring. Boring. BORING!
So anyway, did I mention I’m an idiot?
Because boring lasted all of five days, then went out with a bang.
Every evening, Dylan met with me. Between six and eight, when Ned Weatherby headed home and I followed at a discreet distance in whatever vehicle I could wangle, I would call my assistant. As soon as Ned turned down Ashfield Drive with its row of humongous houses, I’d hit #1 on my autodial. Dylan would meet me down the block from the Weatherby home—close enough that we could see the driveway, far enough away so that we appeared to be visiting elsewhere. And of course, always parked in a slightly different location.
Dylan would slide into the passenger seat and the two of us would go over what was happening at the office. A quick study, he knew not to bring the overdue bills along, not even the ones where the friendly reminders had turned considerably more hostile. Those would be taken care of soon enough anyway. Mostly he would fill me in on our other two cases that were on the board.
Why not do that whole thing over the phone, you’re thinking, rather than arranging this nightly tête-à-tête? Because I’d have starved to death. Mrs. Weatherby had insisted I conduct the entire surveillance personally, and given how much money she was paying me, I wasn’t about to quibble. So to keep continuity, I was reliant on Dylan to bring me enough stakeout food to get me through the night. When this case was over, I never wanted to see another wrapped burger or oversized shake as long as I lived.
Each evening as we met up, Dylan left his window down a little lower, and pushed up against the passenger door a little closer. By this fifth night, he was practically hanging his head out the window. “Gee, Dix,” he said, exaggerating a gag and waving a hand in front of his nose. “Wonder why you’re alone on a Friday night.”
Did I mention I desperately needed a shower?
It was just after seven and my mark was home. It had been a busy day for Ned, but I’d known that going into it. Jennifer had inked it in on the now grease-stained and worn itinerary she’d provided. Friday: meet with J. Poole 9am his offices, 11:30 lunch meeting with potential clients from Toronto—expected to go into the afternoon, 4:15 massage at gym/meet for racquetball if time permits.
Dylan picked up the wrinkled itinerary and looked it over. “Did you follow him into the massage?”
“Hardly!”
“Dix, I’m surprised at you,” he said. “And frankly, a little disappointed.”
I sighed. “It’s a restricted gym. Men only. Even the staff are men.”
He waited.
I opened the glove compartment and pulled out my fake mustache. “Good thing I can pass for a guy when I have to.” Which of course, is really quite easy—memorize a random fact about some big-boobed starlet, tell a good flatulence joke (and under pain of death, never use the word flatulence), and say, “How ’bout them Blue Jays/Leafs/Raptors?”. And of course, pray you don’t have to go for a pee.
Dylan lifted an eyebrow. “Tell me you didn’t give him the massage.”
“Hell, no. But I was the bungling incompetent trainee who delivered the towels to the room.”
He nodded. “Now, that’s the Dix Dodd I know and respect. And did our Mr. Weatherby behave?”
“Model customer. Just what you’d expect from a choirboy. He even kept his t-shirt on.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.”
This had surprised me. In fact, a lot of things I found out about Ned Weatherby this week had surprised me. The stories around Marport City always painted him as not just a shrewd businessman, but a bit of a prick about it. Before trailing him, I could have easily pictured this guy elbowing little old ladies aside if he spied a quarter in the middle of the street, or cheerfully drowning puppies if puppy-killing paid. But I’d witnessed no such bad conduct. If anything, Ned Weatherby was too good to be true. Literally. Because I’d seen too much to believe too good to be true could be true.
I watched as Dylan—a good six feet with a few inches to spare—attempted to get comfortable in the passenger seat of the vehicle-du-jour, a subcompact Hyundai. He put his left ankle on his right knee then down again. With one foot on the floor, he attempted to hike the other up on the dashboard, but that wasn’t about to happen. Finally, he just gave up and let his feet stay flat in the nut-crushing confines of the car.
Good. Served him right for so indelicately pointing out that I stank. It sort of leveled the playing field, seeing him sitting there with his folded knees nearly touching his chin. My satisfaction was short-lived, however, because he found the lever on the side of his seat and reclined it.
Oh, yikes!
In this half-reclining, totally sexy pose, he sipped his own super-sized drink and rattled the ice in the cup. “You’ll be pleased to know things are under control at the office.”
The office. Right. I paused to sip my drink. “The McGarvie case?”
“You nailed it. The guy was cheating with her best friend.” Dylan said. “Lori Lee McGarvie won’t be marrying that dog. She’s moving on and not looking back.”
“Your words?”
He beamed with pride. “Hers.”
“What about Roberta Street?”
“Hitting the road.”
Ha ha. I poked the ice in my drink with my straw. “Without her cheating boyfriend, I hope.”
“Actually, with Lori Lee McGarvie.”
“Excuse me?”
I blinked wide as Dylan flashed a sugar-eating grin. He locked his hands behind his head. “I have a sense about these things. And I just love happy endings.”
He did. Believe in happy endings, that is. Of course, if he stayed in this business long enough, he’d wise up.
Dylan nodded toward the house where Ned Weatherby had yet to enter. The millionaire was outside still, wandering around the gardens in the early evening light. He picked at the flowers and examined the shrubs. He pulled the rare weed that the gardener had missed.
“Why doesn’t he go in?”
“He does this every night,” I said, sticking my cold drink in the cup holder and wiping my condensation-dampened fingers on my jeans. “Fiddles around outside for a while. He’ll stay out there until the sheers pull back and Jennifer knocks on the window.”
“Regular green thumb, is he?”
“He’s a lot of things.” I hauled out the photographs from the week and handed them to him. Most of them were taken with a very sharp telephoto lens that would have given any paparazzi an orgasm. Ned in meetings with his staff looking annoyed at times, perplexed at others, never quite happy about the discussions on the table. Ned with his lawyer having a business lunch at Chez Lenore, and heading to the racquetball court after. Ned at the dentist, the jewelry store. But never at the Underhill Motel. And the closest he got to a blonde babe all week was his ready-to-retire secretary Luanne Laney, and she was more silver than blond.
There was one photograph that was out of place. A hellishly angry one that I’d shuffled to the bottom of the pile before handing the pics to Dylan. I watched his eyes as he riffled through them and came to this picture.
“This guy...” Dylan pointed to an older gentleman standing beside Weatherby in the photo. “This guy I’ve seen before.” The two were standing beside Ned’s BMW. And even from the still shot, the anger of the stranger was evident. His hands were fisted, his face red.
“That’s Billy Star,” I said.
>
“Did you get an audio on this exchange?”
“No. Wasn’t close enough. And he’s obviously no blond chick so I don’t think Jennifer would be too concerned with that.”
Dylan flipped once more through the pictures. “Here,” he said, pointing to the one of the boardroom gathering. It had taken some roof climbing, fancy angling and a fifty dollar bribe to get that shot through the window, but I was nothing if not resourceful. “That’s the same guy sitting to the left of Weatherby.”
“Good eye.” I smiled like a mama cat watching her kitten nab its first mouse.
No, not a mama cat. Definitely feline, though. Hell, as I sat there with Dylan, I could almost hear myself purring.
“Man, he even looks angry here in the boardroom,” Dylan said. “Controlled but pissed-off. That guy’s got some serious attitude with ol’ Ned.”
“Billy Star works at Weatherby Industries. Top floor. His office is right next door to Ned’s.”
“Not after this, I take it.” Dylan flipped again to the picture of an angry Star giving Ned the one finger salute.
“That’s what I would have thought too. But this gentlemanly exchange happened yesterday, Thursday. And I saw Billy strolling back in to Weatherby Industries again this morning.”
“Wonder what they were fighting about?” Dylan mused, echoing my very thoughts.
I was curious, too. Damn curious. Mentally I began building scenarios and checking off possibilities. Were they fighting about business? Old money? New money? Maybe the blond bombshell Mrs. Weatherby suspected her husband of boinking was playing honey in the middle—hottie in the middle?—with these two. But then I thought Mrs. Weatherby was being paranoid, didn’t I? Didn’t I? The only way I’d know for sure would be to check it out. The winged money Jennifer Weatherby had given me, coupled with that she had promised, tweeted their chastisement as they flew above my head.