Haunting Harold

by Jenna Bennett

  “Of course not.” Mendoza is almost seven years younger than I am. And while I might appreciate his many charms (strictly in the privacy of my own head), he has never given any indication that he sees me as anything more than a nuisance with the occasional good idea. Zachary had had to save both of us from David’s murderer back in September.

  Heidi unlocked the Porsche and opened the door. “So you’ll start following Harold tomorrow?”

  I said I would.

  “When will I hear from you?”

  “That’s up to you,” I said. “I can either report in every day, whether I’ve discovered anything or not. By phone, in person, or by email. Or I can wait to contact you until I know something one way or the other. Up to you.”

  She hesitated. “Just let me know when you discover something. Less chance Harold will realize what’s going on that way.”

  And that was a concern, certainly. She wouldn’t want him to know that she’d sicced a private investigator on him. If he were doing something he oughtn’t be doing, he’d stop doing it until I stopped following him, and if he wasn’t, his feelings would get hurt. And I’m sure upsetting the money bags was the last thing Heidi wanted.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “If you get a text from me asking you to lunch, you can assume I have something to tell you.”

  Heidi nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  She folded herself into the front seat of the Porsche. It started with a roar. I stepped back and waited until she’d rolled to the exit. When she took off down Music Row with a scream of the engine, I walked to the door and went back inside the office.

  Everything looked the way it had when I left. Mendoza was enjoying the hors d’oeuvres, but he had filled a plate and was sitting on the sofa, eating. Edwina had curled up next to him, her head on his thigh, and she was eyeing him—or maybe the hors d’oeuvres—with adoration. Rachel had taken the spot I had vacated, behind her desk, and was looking over the chicken scratches I had made on the yellow legal pad. And Zachary had drifted back from his office in the rear, and was leaning in the doorway. All four of them looked up at me when I walked in.

  “We have a client,” I said.

  Our first. Or the first to pay.

  “Her husband’s cheating?” Mendoza said.

  “She doesn’t know. She wants me to find out.”

  He nodded.

  “You remember her, obviously. You probably interviewed her and Harold after David died, right?”

  “Right,” Mendoza said. “But I interview a lot of people. Not sure I would have remembered if Rachel hadn’t told me her name.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell me whether Harold’s cheating? If you investigated him?”

  “I didn’t,” Mendoza said. “Or only insofar as whether either of them had a reason to want to do away with your husband. They didn’t.”

  “No indication that Harold was stepping out on Heidi?”

  He shook his head. “Not as far as I can recall.”

  “That’s too bad. It would have been the easiest thousand bucks I ever earned.”

  “You probably earned more, easier, by marrying your husband,” Mendoza said. And that was certainly true. But since it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, I didn’t respond.

  “I start tomorrow,” I said instead, to Rachel. “I won’t be here in the morning.”

  “We’ll hold down the fort.” She glanced at Zachary, who nodded.

  “Let me know if you need backup,” he told me.

  He likes it when I give him little assignments to do; or at least he used to like it, until the last little assignment put him in the hospital with broken ribs and a punctured lung.

  Mendoza’s perfect brows developed a wrinkle. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “I can sit in a car,” Zachary said. “If you need someone to go into the gym after Harold and do a workout, you’re gonna have to find someone else. Or do it yourself. But I can sit in the parking lot.”

  I promised him I’d keep him—and his limitations—in mind before I turned to Mendoza. “It’s nice to see you, Detective. Is there something we can do for you?”

  “I just came for the food,” Mendoza said, with a grin. “Looks like there’s a bit left.”

  I grimaced. “I had hoped for a better turnout.”

  “But the one person who came hired us,” Rachel pointed out. “One person who does that is better than a lot of people who don’t.”

  I guess I couldn’t disagree. “Our first real client. Let’s break out the champagne.”

  We broke out the champagne. Mendoza even joined us in the toast, between shrimp puffs.

  “To Heidi.” I lifted my glass.

  “To Harold,” Rachel added.

  “To us,” Zachary said.

  We all looked at Mendoza. He swallowed. “To no dead bodies this time.”

  I nodded. “To no dead bodies this time.”

  We drank.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning saw me loitering off Hillsboro Road, just down a side street from the entrance to Somerset.

  The subdivision where Heidi and Harold lived was locked up as tight as if it really had been a medieval castle. Instead of a moat, there was a stone wall, ten feet tall, topped with spikes, around the whole property, or at least around the part I could see. I wasn’t about to follow it across the fields and up the hill to see if there was a break in it somewhere. Not just because I don’t enjoy hiking, but because Harold would probably drive away while I was enjoying the great outdoors. So for all intents and purposes—or at least for my purposes—the wall was impenetrable. Even if I could climb that high, I wouldn’t risk the spikes.

  In the middle of the wall was a double iron gate—one side for coming, one for going—and a small gatehouse. The gate was probably just aluminum, but it was tall and spiky, and had bars that were too close together for me to squeeze through. Next to the entrance, there was a panel with buttons and a microphone, where someone with legitimate business could ring up their party and ask to be buzzed in whenever the guardhouse was empty.

  It wasn’t empty now. I could see a dark-clad figure moving around inside.

  I’ve only had my private investigator’s license for a few weeks. But surveillance, I’m quickly learning, is a lot of sitting around being bored.

  This was no exception. Cars drove by. Most of them toward town, a few away. A couple of times the spiky gates opened, but not for Harold’s car. Time crawled past. As we moved closer to eight o’clock and the beginning of the workday, traffic picked up. I sipped the cup of coffee I had picked up on the way, trying to make it last as long as possible—it was lukewarm by now—and forced myself to pay attention.

  It was a few minutes after eight when the gates opened again. I could see a white Mercedes creep slowly up to the road and then merge with traffic. I peeled my eyes and caught just enough of the license plate as it zoomed by to ascertain that yes, it was likely to be Harold. I started the Lexus and fell in behind.

  We were headed away from town, so there was much less traffic than was going the other way. I stayed well back of the Mercedes, since there were no other cars between us. At Old Hickory Boulevard, Harold signaled a left, toward the interstate. I did the same. And hoped that if he caught a glimpse of me in the rearview mirror, the baseball cap I had pulled down over my forehead was enough to obscure my face. Back when I was married to David, I hadn’t been driving a black Lexus SUV, so at least I didn’t have to fear that Harold would recognize the car.

  We headed east on Old Hickory Boulevard toward Brentwood. I stayed back, and got lucky in that a couple of cars squeezed in between us on their way to the interstate. At Franklin Road, Harold took a right. I followed.

  At this point, I figured there was a fifty/fifty chance that he was going to the gym. Heidi said he worked out in the mornings, and he could get to the Brentwood YMCA this way, even if the interstate would have been faster.

  And sure en
ough, once we got to Concord Road, Harold took a left. A few minutes later, he signaled a turn into the Brentwood Y’s parking lot.

  I went past. No sense in drawing attention to myself by turning in right after him. There are lots of black Lexus SUVs on the road, but if I made myself too visible, Harold might notice me. So I let him enter the parking lot alone while I drove up the road to the next corner, turned around, and came back.

  By now, the white Mercedes was empty, and there was no sign of Harold. I assumed he’d gone inside, although I suppose he might have gotten into someone’s car and gone somewhere else. That’d be a neat trick if he was carrying on behind his wife’s back. Go to the Y, switch cars, drive to the mistress’s place, and get dropped off back at the Y a couple hours later, after his workout. Not the kind of workout his wife thought he was doing, but sex burns a lot of calories.

  If he had left, there was nothing I could do about it, though. And if his car was here, he’d come back to it sooner or later. I found a parking space and cut the engine. Silence descended.

  Or not exactly silence. There were plenty of other cars coming and going. Doors slamming and alarm systems beeping. People bouncing into or dragging themselves out of the Y’s doors.

  I settled in to wait. It was too risky to go inside to make sure that Harold was there. He’d been David’s client for most of the almost two decades David and I had been married. If Harold saw me, he’d recognize me, and I couldn’t risk that.

  I did pull a pair of binoculars out of the glove box, though, and trained them on the tall windows at the front of the Y. Through them, I could see faint figures engaged in running and jumping and lifting. With the binoculars, they became clearer. Men and women in shorts and T-shirts sweating and straining on machines and over free weights.

  I didn’t see Harold. Not that that meant anything. The view through the windows was limited. He could be behind the wall, in the part of the room I couldn’t see. He could be doing a spin class or a pickup basketball game in another part of the gym. He could be in the pool, swimming laps.

  I lowered the binoculars and settled back in the seat to watch.

  An hour and a half passed in silence and solitude. There’s a wilderness track running down through the trees, so joggers and exercise walkers, some with dogs, headed down that way, and came back. A class of toddlers came out into the play area in the back of the building, spent twenty minutes getting rid of their excess energy by running around and screaming, and went back in.

  A yellow VW Beetle pulled into a space next to the building. I watched idly as a young woman with glossy blond hair got out and started making her way toward the door of the Y. Fashions must be coming back around, because I swear she was dressed in the same dress and boots I’d been wearing… must be more than a decade ago now.

  Good grief. I had gotten old enough that I could wear my clothes for a second time, if I could still fit into them.

  She went into the building. A couple minutes later, she came back out, got into the car, and drove away.

  Bathroom break?

  I could use one of those, to be honest. Tomorrow morning, when I’d probably have to do this again, I definitely wouldn’t bring a large coffee to pass the time. And if the bathroom was conveniently located inside…

  That’s as far as I got before the door opened again and Harold burst out, dressed for the day in a suit and tie.

  He stopped outside the door for a few seconds and stood, scanning the lot.

  I fought the impulse to duck down in my seat. My windows were tinted, so he probably couldn’t see me anyway, and besides, movement is more likely to draw the eye than a car sitting quietly in a parking lot.

  And he can’t have noticed me, because after a few seconds, he crossed the parking lot to the Mercedes. When he’d gotten in, I started my engine and backed slowly out of the parking space. A little farther down the row, a black pickup truck was doing the same thing, and I slowed down, politely, to let him get ahead of me, the better to keep some distance between me and Harold.

  He ended up behind the Mercedes, with me behind the truck. Harold merged with traffic on Concord Road. The truck followed, and after a few seconds, so did I.

  At the light on Wilson Pike Harold turned left. So, luckily, did the truck, so I was able to stay back a while longer. A couple of miles south, Harold took a right and then pulled into the parking lot of a small building, similar to my own office on Music Row. His name was on the sign outside along with several others, so I had obviously tailed him to work.

  The truck drove past the business. So did I, toward the golden arches I saw just down the road. By now I was in desperate need of a bathroom, and chances were Harold would be safely tucked in his office for the ten minutes or so it would take me to drive to McDonalds, visit the bathroom, and drive back.

  The guy in the truck pulled into the drive-thru lane. I parked and went inside the building. By the time I got out—empty, and with a little snack to take me through the rest of the morning—the truck was gone.

  I got in the car and drove back to Harold’s office building. The Mercedes was parked in the lot, so I figured Harold was still inside.

  Like my own, it was a small lot, though. Just the one building, with eight or so parking spaces. If I occupied one of them, and stayed there for hours, someone was sure to notice. And probably to come outside to tell me to leave.

  I checked out the surrounding properties instead. There was a hill across the street, with what looked like an apartment community on top. Great place for a lookout, but too far away for me to be able to follow Harold if he left. By the time I’d get back down here, he’d be long gone.

  The McDonalds was too far away to be helpful. I could easily sit in the parking lot there for several hours, and nobody would be likely to bother me, but I wouldn’t be able to see much. There was a three-story office building on the other side of Harold’s office, though, with parking on three sides. I pulled in there, and found a spot from which I had a good view over Harold’s front door. And settled in for another couple hours of nothing to do except trying to stay awake.

  By now, Rachel would have gotten to work, so I pulled out my phone and called her. “It’s me. Just checking in.”

  “Everything’s fine here,” Rachel said in my ear. “Zachary is working on the website. I’m dealing with paperwork. And the dog is snoring.”

  It must be nice to be a dog. She’d been snoring when I tiptoed out of the house early this morning, too. Rachel had driven by on her way to Music Row and scooped Edwina up.

  “I’m bored,” I said. “I followed Harold to the gym, and sat in the parking lot for a while. Then I followed him to the office. Now I’ll probably be sitting here for another couple hours.”

  “Not exactly what you expected when you decided to become a PI, huh?”

  “I thought it would be more exciting,” I admitted. “Spying on David and Jacquie was fun. And there was certainly a whole lot of excitement in stalking Steven a few weeks back. But this seems to be a lot of just sitting around staring at doors.”

  “Sorry,” Rachel said. “But at least we’re getting paid.”

  True. “Maybe I’ll bring a magazine tomorrow. Although then I might be too preoccupied to notice Harold leaving.”

  “Better to take up knitting,” Rachel said.

  No doubt. “So far he hasn’t done anything he shouldn’t be doing. Just going to the gym, working out—I assume—and going to work. I wonder how many days I’ll be doing this before Heidi pulls the plug. If nothing else happens, I mean.”

  “Probably not many,” Rachel said. “Although she’s got plenty of money, so she can keep you going for a couple of weeks, or months, without feeling it.”

  “Not sure I could survive weeks or months of this,” I admitted. “Although I guess it would be good for the bottom line.”

  Rachel agreed. “We have a paying client. Let’s not look that particular gift horse in the mouth.”

  No. Definitely not. �
��I’ll keep you updated. Although so far, this looks like a whole lot of nothing.”

  “It’s only been three hours,” Rachel said. “It’s unreasonable to think he’d be cheating on his wife in the first three hours you follow him. Especially when those hours are from seven to ten in the morning.”

  Perhaps so. “Maybe he’ll cheat during lunch.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel said. “But if he doesn’t, you’ll still have to follow him until the end of the day. And tomorrow. He’s in his fifties. He might not feel the need for a boost every day. Maybe he only meets his mistress a couple of times a week.”

  Maybe. Rachel’s husband had cheated on her, and had died of a heart attack in his mistress’s bed. I wondered whether he’d only gone to see his mistress a couple of times a week, but decided it was better not to ask.

  “I guess I’ll check in with you later.”

  “Do that,” Rachel said.

  “Take care of Edwina.”

  “Zachary’s on it,” Rachel said.

  I sighed. “I’ll call you back. Have fun with your paperwork.”

  “And you have fun with Harold,” Rachel said and hung up.

  I settled into the seat and proceeded to wait.

  * * *

  I’ll spare you the blow-by-blow of the next few hours. People came and went. I assumed they were patients, or maybe medical salespeople—the ones who were pulling small suitcases behind them. There were at least a dozen women among them, many attractive and in the right age range—below forty, above eighteen—for a fling with Harold.

  Of course, it probably wasn’t likely that Harold was bedding anyone in his office during the workday. Chances were he was in there actually doing work.

  It was a one story building, with tall windows. If I left my car and walked around the perimeter, I might be able to see him.

  Although he might see me too, and that wouldn’t be so good.

  Maybe tomorrow I’d put on a wig, and dress down, and give it shot. I should probably trade cars with Rachel or Zachary tomorrow, too. The black SUV is pretty non-descript—there are thousands of them on the roads—but if I had the option to use something else every other day, it might not be a bad idea.