Two Guys Detective Agency (17 page)
Rankled, she reached over to close the file that contained the report on Richard.
“I do them all the time in my business,” he offered. “For gun purchases.”
She took her time chewing and swallowing. “I don’t care.”
“So, what do you do for a living, Octavia?”
“I’m not employed.”
“Not to be confused with being unemployed. Lucky you — hubby must make a boatload — you have
some nice jewelry.”
Her blood pressure bumped higher, but she realized if she continued to engage with him, he’d never go
away. She kept eating.
From her stack of mail, he picked up a Rolex brochure. “Are you in the market for a new watch?”
She took another bite.
“I can set you up, got a nice selection of ladies’ gold timepieces.”
She swallowed, then took a long drink of coffee. Time to set the peddler straight. “I don’t buy my
jewelry in pawn shops.”
“Too bad — you could save a lot of money. Or buy twice as much.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I get it — you’d rather pay for the privilege of going to a big jewelry store in the mall where your
friends will see you.”
“Here ya go, Grim,” Brittany said, setting a bulging brown paper bag on the table.
“Thanks, doll.” He handed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, man.” She crammed the money into her apron, then turned to Octavia. “How’s the salad?”
“The salad’s fine,” Octavia said, then glared at Grim. “It’s the company that’s lacking.”
He smiled up at Brittany. “She hasn’t warmed up to me yet. Hey, I got a vintage Atari game console in
the shop yesterday. Want me to hold it so you can take a look?”
Brittany’s eyes lit with interest, then she bit her lip with dainty white teeth. “Can I afford it?”
“We’ll work out a trade...my desktop is running kind of slow, probably needs a tuneup.”
She grinned. “Easy peasy.”
“Stop by after work if you have time.”
“Will do.” The girl scooted away.
Octavia smirked. “Kind of young for you, don’t you think?”
He sobered. “She’s sixteen, no mom, and her dad doesn’t know she exists.”
She knew a little about that. “And you’re some kind of savior?”
“Nope...just someone who gives a damn.”
The man was infuriatingly self-righteous. “When you get down from your cross, feel free to go.”
He picked up the bag and stood, then leaned down. “You’d be a knockout if not for that frown wrinkle
between your pretty blue eyes.”
Without breaking eye contact, Octavia picked up the giant container of ketchup from the table, turned it
over, and squirted a big blob over his white snakeskin boots. She knew enough about exotic skins to know
snake was absorbent.
He looked down at his boots. “That wasn’t nice.”
“I’m not a nice person.”
“I’m beginning to notice.” He straightened, then turned and walked out of the restaurant.
Ugh, galling man. But then, weren’t they all? She stared at the padded envelope and envisioned Richard
slipping it to Carla when they were in bed...God, had they done it in her own house...in her own bed?
Angry tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. It was difficult to picture Richard with
another woman — his sex drive was not particularly high...a common phenomenon of successful men,
she’d discovered as her friends from the club had lamented their husbands’ lackluster performance in the
sack.
But why else would he give the envelope to Carla?
More humiliating than her husband humping the maid...did anyone else know about it?
Of course they did...men couldn’t help themselves — they had to brag to their friends. And then the
men told their wives...
Which explained why everyone was avoiding her.
She picked up her phone and dialed Carla’s phone number, but got her voicemail. “Carla, this is Mrs.
Habersham. I know what’s going on between you and my husband, you little tramp! Call me back if you
know what’s good for you.”
She sat back, soaking in misery and sending laser beams of hate toward Richard wherever the fig he
was. Then she turned back to the mail, hoping to find a stray stock dividend check or tax refund. But it was
only bills, bills, bills, an invitation to a club dinner next Wednesday, notice of a charity fundraiser Botox
party — how passé — wait....
Octavia went back to the club dinner invitation and a plan oozed into her head. She smiled to herself.
What an excellent opportunity to confront everyone at once to find out what they knew about her husband.
“DO YOU SEE him?” Octavia asked.
“No,” Linda said, binoculars to her face. “Just like the last time you asked twenty seconds ago.”
“Are you sure? Someone has to be home, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney.”
“Um, I think that’s exhaust coming out of the dryer vent.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t see anything.”
“Scan the top floor windows where the bedrooms are probably located — we might catch him in the
act.”
“In the act of what?”
“Having sex.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“It’ll make our case,” Octavia insisted, reading from the file. “According to Mr. Wendt’s medical claim,
the injury he sustained when he fell off a ladder and hurt his back makes it impossible for him to walk
without aid, or get an erection.”
Linda lowered the binoculars she had aimed at the blue house across the street. “It’s also illegal to
photograph someone having sex in a private place. I thought you were going to do the legwork.”
“This is my first case!”
“This is
my
first case, too, but I know the Peeping Tom law.”
“I forgot — you’re one of those by-the-book people.”
Linda poked her tongue into her cheek. “Why does the insurance company think he’s lying?”
“Because this is his third personal injury claim with his third employer in as many years.”
“Which means he’s probably good at this.”
“He’s a man, which automatically means he’s a liar.” Octavia took the binoculars and lifted them to her
face. “It just remains to be seen if he’s lying about his back. And his dick.”
That lying sentiment had been close to the surface. “No word from Richard, huh?”
“Nope. But I have reason to believe he’s having an affair.”
Linda turned her head, but her sister didn’t move, simply held the binoculars to her face as if she’d just
announced that she’d had eggs for breakfast.
“I’m so sorry, sis. Are you sure?”
“Why else would he have taken off, if not for another woman?”
“But to leave his practice, too?”
Octavia shrugged. “Things were closing in on him. I think for some men, it’s just easier to walk away
from everything and start over than to stay and fix the things they broke.”
Linda didn’t have any advice...not when she herself had been entertaining thoughts of starting fresh the
very day Sullivan had died. Her cheeks burned at the memory of her selfish fantasies.
“Remind me,” Octavia said. “What did Mr. Wendt do for a living?”
Linda picked up the folder. “It says here that he stocked groceries.”
“That doesn’t seem like a particularly dangerous job.”
“Lots of twisting and lifting, I suppose...and he allegedly fell off a step ladder.”
Octavia scoffed. “
I’ve
fallen off a step ladder.”
Linda squinted. “When?”
“Well, not me, but my maid Carla has...and she bounced right back up. Of course, I’ve come to
understand that bouncing might be a talent of hers.”
She cringed — so Richard had slept with the housekeeper. How humiliating for Octavia.
“Does it say how long Sullivan had Wendt under surveillance?”
She flipped through the pages in the file to scan his scrawled notes. Sullivan had not been a scholar —
spelling and penmanship were not his strong suit. “Looks like three weeks.” Her heart pinched. He must’ve
been desperate for that money-shot payoff. Had she nagged him about money? Had the stress over money
triggered his heart attack?
She kept reading, deciphering. “In his notes, Sullivan wrote that he observed several women going in
and out of the house, women who appeared to be prostitutes. He questioned them, but none would admit to
having sex with Wendt, they all claimed to be taking care of him or his house.”
“So he
is
lying about his dick.”
Linda bit her lip. She was aware Sullivan came into contact with some unsavory characters in his line of
work, but knowing he’d questioned hookers left her feeling a little...frumpy. And embarrassed that he’d
had to come home to her in her mom jeans and Hamburger Helper.
Had he hated his life?
Octavia lapsed into silence and Linda maintained it, marinating in regret. They both had a lot on their
minds, it seemed.
Minutes ticked off the clock in the dashboard that predated digital displays. After some time, Octavia
lowered the binoculars with a labored sigh. “This is excruciating.”
Linda had to agree. They’d been sitting parked in a line of cars across the street from Mr. Wendt’s
house for almost two hours without a sighting. She was hungry and she needed to pee. She shifted her legs
that were sweating against the seat. “Welcome to the world of private investigating.”
“
Ugh
— where’s the ah-ha moment, the car chase?”
“I think we’ve had enough car chases,” Linda reminded her. Oakley’s concern came back to her...he
also would not approve of her taking over Sullivan’s cases.
In fact, Octavia was the only person who thought she was capable of it.
But did that make them both crazy?
“Wait — someone’s coming out.”
Linda picked up the zoom-lens camera and focused on the front door. It opened and a man emerged in
a motorized scooter.
“That’s him,” Octavia said. “I thought he was in a wheelchair.”
“He must’ve upgraded.” Linda took a couple of photos for practice — and to establish a timeline. Mr.
Wendt was a regular looking man, neat and attractive — nothing about him screamed criminal. He held an
envelope and buzzed toward the mailbox at the end of the driveway.
He tried to position himself close enough to open the hinged door, but couldn’t quite reach. Linda
snapped more photos.
“Go ahead, get up and do a jig,” Octavia muttered.
But he kept straining and stretching from his seated position until he finally opened the mailbox, put the
envelope inside, and raised the flag.
Both of the women groaned in defeat.
Then something in the street caught Mr. Wendt’s attention. For a few seconds, Linda was afraid he was
going to look their way. But whatever it was, it was lying on the ground.
“It’s a bill,” Octavia said. “I can’t tell what denomination.”
“Let’s hope it’s a hundred,” Linda said.
He looked both ways in the street, then buzzed over to the money and leaned down. No matter how far
he stretched, though, the bill was just beyond the grasp of his fingers.
“Come on, stand up,” Octavia muttered. “Linda, are you getting this?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly the man’s head swung around and his eyes widened. A car was barreling straight for him. He
yelled and waved his arms, then put his scooter in reverse, but he wasn’t moving fast enough. The women
both held their breath until the car screeched to a stop in front of him. Then Wendt turned around and
puttered back to the sidewalk.
They exhaled.
“Well, that’s it,” Linda said. “If the man didn’t stand up and run to get out of the way of a moving car,
he can’t stand up.”
Octavia pursed her mouth. “Unless he knows someone is watching and he staged the whole thing.”
“That’s pretty elaborate, don’t you think?”
“Klo said some of these people are professionals. What’s a few dollars to hire a buddy to nearly run you
down if it helps you collect a million bucks in a personal injury case?”
Linda shook her head. “I just can’t believe people would be so...”
“Bad?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, believe it. Not everyone is like you, Linda.”
She said it as if that was a good thing. Linda let the remark slide because she knew her sister was
hurting over her husband’s betrayal, despite her gruff exterior.
They were deflated, expecting Wendt to head back inside, but instead he turned the scooter around and
motored off in the opposite direction.
“Where do you think he’s headed?” Octavia asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll have to follow him at a good distance, or he’ll spot us for sure.”
Thirty minutes later, they were still following him, driving at less than ten miles an hour as he traveled
from road to road via sidewalks and crosswalks. When he turned onto Nicholasville Road, a major road
with serious traffic, Linda stuck out her arm and waved yet another car around them.
“You got your car chase,” she remarked dryly.
“This is ridiculous. Who knows where he’s going.”
“Probably to the Fayette Mall. It’s only another half mile or so.”
Sure enough, eventually the man puttered into the mall parking lot and headed for the main entrance.
Linda hung back, then found a parking place. Octavia tucked the camera into her designer bag and
straightened her clothing — a silky coral-colored button-up blouse and a slim black skirt with sandals. Next
to her, Linda felt like Suburban Mom, minus the cape.