by S F Bose
As it turned out, Worldhead Global Security gave me a great reference. Sam said he also ran a background check on me, which I passed. I was ecstatic and did the Rocky dance in my office. Sam’s job offer saved me from going back to Virginia and I was ecstatic.
Chapter 3
As I drove down Farm Road toward the Village, my thoughts shifted to the case review Sam and I planned to do that morning. Damian Fletcher, a well-to-do, local businessman, had hired us to follow his second wife, Sherrie. He was convinced she was having an affair and wanted confirmation. To help us follow her, Damian had installed a tracking device in his wife’s car, which I thought was odd. He also gave us a copy of her weekly schedule.
The case saddened me because Damian’s parents, Martin and Cecille Fletcher, were very good friends of Grandma Addie and my late Grandpa Pete. I remembered the Fletchers bringing Damian and his younger brother, Tim, to dinner at the B&B. I was probably seven or eight years old at the time and Damian was in his mid-twenties. Although he was much older, Damian had been friendly to me and my brother and sisters. Tim ignored all of us.
Then, when I was ten, Damian married his first wife, Corrine and our family went to the wedding. Damian and Corrine’s happiness was dazzling. After thirteen years of marriage and three children, the happily ever after train ran off the tracks. Three years ago, Corrine’s divorce from Damian had been the talk of Mystic Grove.
Not long after the divorce, Damian married Sherrie Reed. Sherrie was 21, beautiful, and an heir to the Reed software fortune. Now it appeared that Damian’s second marriage was careening off the rails.
Last Monday evening Sam and I piled into his Jeep and tracked Sherrie to the Bumblebee Motel outside of the Village of Black Earth. I monitored the tracking device signal on my tablet and called out directions and turns to Sam. When we reached the motel minutes after Sherrie, Sam pulled slowly up the drive. Sherrie parked in the smaller south lot, while Sam turned right into the larger east parking lot. My spidey sense kicked in and I felt someone was watching us. After I scanned the vehicles around us and didn’t see anyone, I decided to keep it to myself. No sense in my new boss thinking I was loony.
It was a freezing cold evening with occasional snow flurries. All of the motel room doors were visible from the east lot, so Sherrie had to come our way. Sam parked in the back of the lot in the shadows and got his fancy camera ready. He photographed Sherrie tottering along in a hooded winter coat and high heeled boots to Room 107. A little later, he photographed a short man dressed in a ski mask, beanie cap, blue parka, jeans, and boots as he walked quickly to Room 107. The man knocked and then embraced Sherrie after she opened the door. Sam photographed both of them. Then the man walked her backwards into the room and kicked the door shut.
While Sherrie and her lover enjoyed themselves, Sam braved the subzero walk to the motel office. I watched him shrink down into his black storm parka and jam his hands into his pockets for warmth. Snow was starting to fall more steadily. When he returned, he said Sherrie’s friend used the alias “Robert Edward Lee.” We laughed. He was obviously a Civil War buff. The man and Sherrie showed up three or four times a month, always on Mondays or Tuesdays.
After several hours, the room lights came on. Because of the heavier snow, Sam couldn’t take photos through the windshield of the Jeep anymore. He grabbed a smaller Panasonic camera and we walked toward a white Chevy Suburban parked in front of Room 108. Again, I felt like someone was watching us and quickly scanned the cars parked in the immediate area. I didn’t see anybody.
The Suburban was one room over from Room 107 and provided great cover. Sam wanted photos of the couple leaving the room together with their faces showing. He stood by the front passenger door with the camera and I was right behind him.
Then things went downhill. Two men, walking back from the Bee Hive restaurant across the highway, shouted at us. I spun around. The shorter man was older and grizzled looking. The taller man was younger and clean-shaven. Both wore cowboy hats, field jackets, jeans, and boots. After a quick assessment, I calculated that I could easily take both of them.
The men approached fast and looked angry. I slid into a Krav Maga ready stance. I’d learned the very effective, Israeli self-defense method at Worldhead. Both men stopped twenty feet away. When the older man casually reached into his right coat pocket, I pulled and leveled my Kahr CM9 at him. After ordering him loudly to take his hand out of his right pocket, he did. Both men glared at me.
Sam intervened and told me to put my gun away, which I did, reluctantly. Then he gave me the camera and said he wanted pictures of anyone who came out of Room 107. The camera was set to burst mode. All I had to do was point and click. With that, he wheeled and went to talk to the men. I kept my eyes on Sam. After talking for a bit, the three men moved several yards to the east and behind a panel truck, to get out of the wind. I turned my attention back to the motel room.
Minutes later, the door to Room 107 flew open. A strikingly handsome man in his mid-twenties leaned out and looked left and right. He wasn’t wearing the beanie cap or ski mask. I had a quick impression of long, curly, red hair and a red beard and mustache. He was at least eight inches shorter than my five foot six inches. His eyes skimmed over me and shifted to the parking lot. He couldn’t see Sam or the cowboys.
“Let’s go,” he said to Sherrie with some urgency. She was still in the room.
As soon as he stepped outside, I raised the camera, lined him up in the display screen, and held the shutter button down. The camera just clicked off picture after picture. The overhead lighting was so good, the flash didn’t trigger. He ducked his head and shouted, “No!” He tried to yank Sherrie out of the room but she yanked right back.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said in a high, screechy voice that made me wince.
“We have to. Hood up! Hood up!” he said. I realized he had an Irish brogue. The man finally pulled Sherrie out of the room. Since her coat hood was down, I got some great shots of the two of them before they bolted for the south parking lot. The man was in front pulling Sherrie along by her hand. Sherrie tottered in his wake, her long blond hair flying out behind her. I took photos until they passed the motel office and disappeared around the corner.
After quickly checking the room and finding nothing, I jogged down to the office and then rounded the corner. I saw Sherrie’s car with its lights off careening out the motel’s north exit. I scanned the lot for the man’s car but didn’t see any movement or exhaust vapors. I swore softly. I had hoped to get photos of the man’s car and license plate. Turning, I faced the Bee Hive Restaurant across the highway. Again, I felt the prickling feeling that someone was watching me. I walked down the driveway toward the entrance to the motel and stared at the restaurant parking lot across the road. I raised the camera and clicked off five or six shots.
Then I jogged back to join Sam and the two men. It turned out they were a father and son from Dallas, Texas and the Chevy Suburban was theirs. They thought we were stealing it. I apologized to the older man for pulling a gun on them. He told me I had good instincts because he had a Glock 26 in his pocket. We shook hands and parted ways.
When we got back to the Jeep, Sam was bothered about a few things. His voice was quiet but firm. He said he wanted me to think about different ways I could have handled the situation without pulling my gun. I just looked at him and nodded. However, I was satisfied with my reaction. The older guy had a Glock 26 in his pocket, for cripes sake.
However, my self-defense experience bothered him even more. He grilled me about my knowledge of Krav Maga. I told him that anybody at Worldhead who traveled internationally had to learn it, which was close to the truth.
He frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When?” I asked. “We didn’t have a typical interview. This whole PI thing happened pretty quickly.”
I had him there and even in the dark Jeep, I could see him struggling for an answer. Then he said we couldn’t have secrets about things like
that. We both needed to be honest with each other so we could build trust and know each other’s strengths. I nodded again. It sounded more like a marriage than a job. Furthermore, there was no way I was going to share my secrets with Sam Nolan.
When he looked at the photos on the Panasonic camera, he groaned. For a second, I was afraid the photos were bad. However, it turned out that Sam knew the short, Irish guy. His name was Finnegan Daley. Sam had done some work for Finnegan and his business partner. Later, they had become friends.
“The man sleeping with our client’s wife is your friend?” I asked in surprise.
Sam gave me a pained look. “We’re not close friends,” he said. We sat in silence as he flipped through more of the photographs on the camera.
When I commented that Finn was short, Sam said that he was a proportional dwarf, no more than four feet ten inches tall.
“I can’t believe Finn is involved with Sherrie Fletcher,” he muttered. Sam handed me the camera and I looked at the first photo I had taken. “He really is cute,” I said.
“Finnegan? You think he’s cute?” asked Sam.
“Well yeah. Give credit where credit is due, Grandma would say,” I replied. Sam said something under his breath, but I didn’t pursue it.
As soon as Sam pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, the persistent feeling I had that we were being watched disappeared. Sam brooded all the way back to Mystic Grove. I suggested that he call Finnegan. He said Finn would just try to talk him out of filing a report with Damian Fletcher. He had to give Damian a report because he was the paying client. I couldn’t argue with that.
By the next day, Sam decided to provide a report to Fletcher with a few bad photos of Finnegan running with Sherrie. He didn’t include any face shots of Finn.
“We’ll give Damian the evidence he needs to prove his wife is having an affair, but I don’t think we need to reveal Finn’s identity,” said Sam. “How’s that sound?”
Thinking of my parents’ divorce, I replied, “Wisconsin is a no-fault divorce state. He doesn’t need to prove infidelity. He probably just wants to know for sure if Sherrie is having an affair. So I agree.”
“Technically, we should tell Fletcher,” said Sam quietly, looking at one of the printed photos. “But I just can’t do it.”
The next day was New Year’s Eve day. Sam hand-delivered the report to Damian and I wondered if he hoped our client would be out of the office for the holiday. However, Damian was at his desk. Sam said Damian read the report, looked at the photos, and took the news calmly, even sadly. I felt bad for Damian, even though I hadn’t seen him in years.
***
I merged left from Farm Road onto Mystic Road. Thinking back on that stakeout, I knew I had a problem. Sam wanted to know how I could have handled the two cowboys without my gun. Unfortunately, if I ran into the same situation today, I wouldn’t do anything differently.
The cowboys had posed an obvious threat. They were angry, aggressive, and the older man admitted he was reaching for his Glock. However, I couldn’t tell Sam the truth. I needed a better answer for him. Unfortunately, I didn’t like any of the responses I had come up with.
It bothered me that I might have to change my usual way of dealing with serious or critical threats. Then it occurred to me. Maybe I only needed to adjust my approach when Sam was around. If this job worked out long-term, eventually I’d be working on my own more and could handle things my way. That thought cheered me.
Chapter 4
When I saw the water tower and church steeples poking above barren trees in the distance, I knew I was close to the Village. Mystic Grove’s middle name was “quaint.” The Village embraced and retained the character of its nineteenth century farming community beginnings. It had old churches, historic houses, cobblestone walks, brick paths, covered bridges, and loads of green space. In fact, old homes from the 1800s now housed many of the shops and restaurants that attracted tourists to the Village all year long.
Mystic Grove had come very close to dying away. After World War II, the Village declined because so many young men moved away to seek new opportunities. The Village Board at the time created a plan to attract antique dealers, furniture makers, and artists to the historic district. They succeeded and over time transformed Mystic Grove into a tourist mecca.
Many tourists came to Mystic Grove because they enjoyed the slower pace and friendly people. The historic district was limited to foot traffic, which visitors seemed to enjoy. They also flocked to the unique shops, antique stores, restaurants, flower gardens, concerts, and festivals. Repeat visitors came from all over Wisconsin and the surrounding states.
Local residents came downtown mainly because of the excellent restaurants, but they also enjoyed the concerts and festivals. While other small towns had disappeared, Mystic Grove was thriving.
I turned left onto Bridge Road, and then took a quick right into the small, municipal parking lot. I kept driving through the lot and into the smaller private parking area in front of the Bowman Office Building. I pulled Lulu into my usual spot and turned off the engine.
After housing the old Bowman Creamery since 1845, the Bowman family sold the building in 1931. A subsequent owner defaulted on his loan and the property remained vacant for several years. Then, in 1936, Edgar Fremont bought the Bowman property and transformed the creamery into an office building. The large, two-story beige, brick building with its peaked roof and windows all around quickly filled with businesses. It remained an office building for the next seventy-nine years. Nolan Private Investigations had an office on the second floor.
After locking up Lulu and patting her roof, I ran across Bridge Road and followed the path between the Mystic Grove Antiques Emporium and the Saucy Shop. I noticed the “Closed” sign was still in the front window of the Emporium to my left. The owners, Peter and Martha Church, must be sleeping in. They were both in their sixties and worked long hours each day. I saw a rolled up Mystic Grove Gazette on the front porch.
The Emporium was a huge, three-story Victorian house. Peter painted it dark gray, light gray, and white. It had several porches and ornate details. Antiques, old books, and unique gifts filled the first two floors. Peter, Martha and their adult son, Justin, lived on the third floor.
The Saucy Shop to my right sold hot sauces, barbecue sauces, salsa, cooking and dipping sauces, marinades, seasonings, and rubs. Laurent Trahan, the fiftyish owner from Louisiana, was already in his shop. I could see the back of his shaved head as he looked down at something. Bending my head into the wind, I hurried up the path, angled right, and entered the Farmhouse Cafe. The door chimes announced me.
Abbie Quinn, the owner, was standing behind the register in the small gift shop at the front of the restaurant. She was willowy tall, had beautiful green eyes, and wore her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She greeted me with a bright smile.
“Good morning, Liz!”
Abbie was a morning person. Heck, Abbie was an all-day person. She was an extrovert’s extrovert. I’d gone to grade school and high school with her and briefly dated her older brother, Otto.
“Hey Abbie, how are you?” I replied with a smile.
“Can’t complain and it wouldn’t help if I did. How are you?”
“Good. Trying to warm up,” I said with a shiver.
“A nice, hot breakfast is the ticket. Are you eating here or to go?”
“To go. I’ll have one bacon butty, orange juice, the strongest coffee you have with cream and sugar. For Sam I’ll get a green tea, no cream or sugar, and plain bagel. Oh and a couple of packets of honey,” I said quickly. It was hard to talk because my mouth was watering. As she wrote down the order, Abbie broke into laughter.
“You two could not be more different, food-wise,”
I grinned. “No doubt about it.”
“Is he a vegetarian?”
I shook my head. “No, he’s just a strange eater. He said he’s been that way since he was a kid. He’d eat the same food for a w
eek or more and then move on to another food. When he got older, he kept eating that way.”
Abbie frowned. “The same exact food?” Abbie asked.
“Yeah. He’d eat potatoes three times a day until he got tired of them. Then he’d eat scrambled eggs or steel-cut oatmeal all day. Lately, though, he’s been mixing it up a little. Last week he had bagels for breakfast, a salad for lunch and toasted bagels with peanut butter for dinner.”
“Well, that’s a little better. You’re a good influence on him, Liz,” Abbie said. Then she shook her head. “His poor mama though. Can you imagine having such a picky eater? At least he looks healthy. Grab a seat and I’ll get this right up for you.”
I walked with Abbie from the small gift shop toward the back of the restaurant. There was a larger dining room to the left with a scenic view of Mystic Pond. Tourists and visitors loved to eat there. Straight ahead was a smaller dining room with booths, tables, and privacy. Locals, like me, loved the smaller dining room.
“How are your mom and dad?” I asked. I hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to Abbie since I came home. The diner was usually packed and she was always busy.
“Fit as a fiddle. Dad still sells real estate and Mom’s teaching at the grade school. Otto just got discharged from the Air Force and is staying with them, temporarily.”
“Air Force? That’s awesome! What are his plans now?” I asked, flashing on the image of her brother when we were dating.
“According to Mom, it’s to break the continuous sleeping record,” Abbie said and we laughed. “He’s not sure what he wants to do yet. He may go back to school. How’s your family doing?” she asked, turning toward me.
“Everyone’s good. Dad, Grace, Addie, and Nana Anna all keep the B&B going. Dad’s lady friend, Margo Becker, moved in. She’s nice. Mom’s still living with Ben Katz on a small farm in Cross Plaines. After she retired from the University, she turned into Martha Stewart. She cooks, bakes, and gardens relentlessly. She also loves to travel abroad. Ben refuses to travel with her anymore. She wants to go to Paris and he wants to kayak here in Wisconsin,” I said with a laugh.