Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles)

by Jenna Mattison

  “Well, that’s a good thing, or else, who knows?” He declares cryptically. “So what’s a dame like you doing in a place like this?” Another smirk.

  Is this guy for real?

  He cocks his head to the side and appraises my “assets” as he carries on like Humphrey Bogart but with a thick Southie accent. He has piercing brown eyes, jet black, slightly wavy hair, and what looks to be an amazing body under his worn t-shirt and jeans. Not to mention the bulge in those jeans, which I accidentally glance down at, then back up to his face really fast hoping he didn’t catch me. I think I’m busted though, because his perpetual smirk morphs into a big, cocky smile.

  “I’m uhhh… looking for spy stuff…cause I want to spy on someone.”

  I sound like an idiot. What do I care? I don’t need to impress this Neanderthal!

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Jack Parella, sole proprietor, at your service. Who’re you spyin’ on?”

  Here goes.

  “My husband.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, well...I mean, I don’t think he’s cheating or anything. It’s kind of just to prove that he’s not.

  Jack lets out a snort. “Yeah, whatever, that’s a new one. I don’t know what kind of numbskull would cheat on a gorgeous broad like you though.”

  Butterflies and dirty tingles.

  “He probably has his reasons though. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of annoying habits, all broads do. And you could stand to run a comb through your hair, maybe put on a dress. I’m sure you’ve got a great set of gams under those sweats. And some lipstick wouldn’t kill ya, you know?”

  Oh, no, he didn’t.

  “First of all, what’s with all the broads and dames crap? This is not 1936. And secondly, I don’t need your little comments, you…commenting…commenter. I just need some spy stuff, okay?”

  “Whoa, you’re a feisty number. And real biting with that ‘commenter’ thing, you sure told me,” he says then lets out a small, condescending chuckle.

  I decide to take the high road and not engage any further in this sophomoric banter. So I cross my arms, arch my eyebrows, and do my best impression of “dignified.”

  I hope he buys it.

  “Alright then, I can see you mean business, so I’ll just give you a rundown of everything you’ll need.” He sniffs the air. “You smell something?”

  Oh, crap. How embarrassing.

  I stand firmly on my feces-tainted shoes and lie through my teeth. “Nope, not a thing.”

  6

  Ten minutes later I walked out of the shop with a super telescope thingy, a bugging system that resembles a GPS monitor, and a silly disguise wig. Impulse buy. Unless I buy a disguise car Bernie will know it’s me anyway, regardless of the brunette pageboy. Maybe I’ll return it tomorrow. Though that means seeing that annoying Jack guy again.

  Arghh.

  Infuriating man.

  I pull into the driveway, open the garage door, and find that it’s empty. Phew. One bullet dodged. I stand for a long time gazing out the side window of the garage at the “view.” It’s essentially of the tan siding on our neighbor Lenore’s place. Her husband left her last year for his male masseuse and she’s barely been out of that house since. Imagine being cooped up in a tan house for years on end. The thought makes me shudder.

  The spy loot gets stuffed into my vintage cedar hope chest in the den. I’ve had this thing forever. Mamma gave it to me on my seventh birthday along with the frilliest lilac dress you have ever seen this side of the Mason Dixon line. This chest was supposed to represent my bright future, my dreams and aspirations. Now it’s just filled with a couple of stupid spelling bee trophies, a dried prom corsage, yearbooks, a poorly hand sewn Hello Kitty pillow, and two hundred bucks worth of stuff to try and catch my husband in the act. Ain’t life grand?

  The sound of the garage door creaking open brings me back to reality so I quickly shut the chest, bolt to the kitchen, grab the pineapple juice from the fridge, and pour a tall glass. Every day when Bernie comes home he wants a glass of pineapple juice. And not that pine-orange-banana crap or out of a can, God forbid. It’s only pure Dole pineapple juice from the carton. So I keep it flowing like I used to do my Daddy’s brandy when he came home from a long day of defending white collar criminals. I’m stuck doing the little things for the men in my life, I guess, since I’ve never mastered the art of cooking anything more complicated than boiled eggs.

  He waltzes in with his mostly bald head looking as if it’s been freshly oiled and carries a pink box spotted with grease stains.

  “It was Helen’s birthday today. They brought a cake.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I have to work late tomorrow. Did the TV Guide come yet?”

  “Haven’t checked the mail.”

  He gives me an incredulous look, lets out a sigh, and drops his briefcase on the counter.

  “Berns, maybe we could just talk tonight instead of watch TV.”

  Bernie looks bewildered. “Talk? Why would we want to do that?”

  I shrug. “Oh…I don’t know. Just thought you might want to tell me about your day and I could tell you about mine.”

  “Liza, I’m tired, and I’m not really interested in hearing about who slept with who on that Soap you like to watch. As for me, I had some cake and I touched strangers’ feet all day. What’s there to tell?”

  We stare at each other in silence. I want so much to just ask him. To be the kind of woman in the kind of relationship that can just be open and honest with her partner. To just say, “What happened to us Berns?”, but instead I shrug, open the cake box, and dip a finger into the frosting. Bernie stomps out the front door to the mailbox, juice glass in hand.

  This is pretty much our day-to-day life in a nutshell. I binge eat while Bernie watches TV and religiously plans his TV viewing week from the TV guide (his version of The Bible).

  Promising myself I’ll work out tomorrow, I stuff a piece of leftover cake into my mouth then stick a frozen pizza in the oven. Okay, so I guess it’s not the most exciting life, but it’s my life, and he’s my Bernie, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  7

  I wake to the less than soothing buzz of the alarm I set for the ungodly hour of seven a.m. I like swimming laps in the pool. Sometimes. The ice cold water gives me a charge. And the “laps” usually involve me floating on a tube for a half hour. Semantics.

  Bernie’s side of the bed is already cold. He likes to wake up at the crack of dawn and go to breakfast at a country club two towns over. He says it helps him remember what he’s working so hard for. I guess touching smelly feet all day can really wear on a person.

  As I lie in bed, trapped under the heavy weight of a feeling of doom, I try to imagine the Bernie I fell in love with back in college, but for the life of me I can’t recall him. It’s almost like somewhere along the way a middle-aged man with budding man boobs (who is seriously losing the follicle battle) replaced my young, sprightly, quirky Bernikins. Seems his hair has migrated from the crown of his head to that once endearing mole on his chin. I don’t think he’s cheating but I can’t shake the fear that maybe there’s a chance. I try to push it from my mind but it keeps crawling back in…like some determined worm, burrowing itself into the recesses of my brain. Reminding me that I’m not the same girl that Bernie married.

  I thumb through his closet hoping to get a sensation from his clothes, the smell of his aftershave, or anything that triggers something other than a lukewarm response inside me.

  No luck.

  8

  The swim is invigorating, but oddly I broke into a fit of tears after jumping in with a belly flop. Though it did sting, the tears came from something else. Some place visceral inside me. This whole thing has me stressed. I mean it’s not like I actually suspect Bernie of any wrong doing, per se, but ever since the girls unanimously voiced their suspicions I have this horrible, ugly thought lurking around, demanding I pay attention to it.

&nb
sp; As I backstroke across the pool, I’m reminded of Ms. Andrews, my seventh grade gym teacher. Somebody once said she only made us do that particular exercise so she could check out all the girls’ boobs floating above the water. Looking back, I’m betting Ms. Andrews would’ve been a big K.D. Lang fan.

  I pull myself up and out of the pool and wrap up in the giant stripped beach towel stamped “Puerto Nuevo, Mexico” in a hot pink font. Puerto Nuevo is a depressing sort of place where five year olds roam the streets selling Chiclets, and swarthy men swarm with the promise of cheap lobster. And since it was mid November, sunny Mexico also happened to be overcast and drizzly. Not exactly my idea of a romantic fifth anniversary vacation, but we could only afford the “off season” back then.

  My cell rings for the tenth time and I know without even looking that it’s probably Evvy or Anne. Maybe Josie. Either trying to make up for painting my husband with a scarlet A, or attempting to give me silly reasons behind their theory. Too bad, I’m not talking to them till I have some proof to rub their perfect little noses in.

  I towel dry my hair and don an all black outfit like I’m a ninja. Or something. My mission today is to plant the bug/tracking device on Bernie’s car while he’s in the office. I consider adding the wig and decide, what the hell, I can return it right afterwards. No harm, nothing foul (at least I think that’s how that saying goes).

  I pin my hair into pseudo cornrows and attempt to pull the wig onto my giant cranium (I’ve always thought I had an abnormally large head but no one’s ever mentioned it so I guess I wear it well). I struggle and tug until I’m stuffed inside the nylon cap. The wig looks cool. A cross between starlet and comic book heroine. The black fringe bangs frame my face and the length falls just below the chin. I line my eyes in black liner and smudge it a little to give me that “I’ve been out partying all night” look that’s all the rage in magazines.

  So I’m pretty much disguised. Except for the car, which I’ll park down the street. I opt for black Doc Martens to complete the ensemble. Plus they’re perfect for being stealth since they don’t squeak. Bernie hates them. He says they make me look like a lesbian.

  I tuck the long, thin telescope into the side of my pants, as one would a concealed weapon, and stomp into the kitchen for my breakfast of champions. Diet Pepsi and a biscotti (which is really just a stale cookie, but it tastes really good dunked into a DP). After downing my breakfast in two swift bites I’m off.

  9

  As I pull onto Nathaniel Street, three blocks from Bernie’s practice, my heart races. This is really it. I’m like an amateur sleuth on my first mission. Which would be really cool if my mission wasn’t to catch my husband cheating on me. He’s definitely not so it’s a moot point anyway. Just a big exercise in futility. But it’ll be worth all the trouble to smugly tell my compadres, “I told you so.”

  My plan of parking down the block from Bernie’s turned into parking almost a half-mile away. All these crazy, “can’t park between noon and 1:00 and again between 3:45 and 4:30 or during the summer solstice.” (Okay, I made that last one up). So I finally managed to parallel park by a dumpster that smells like it belongs to a fishmonger to avoid breaking the precious parking regulations.

  I left the top down on the Karmann Gia, just in case I need to jump in the car Dukes of Hazzard-style and make a quick getaway. My one rebellion was keeping my convertible instead of submitting to a suburbia special- the silver Volvo station wagon. I’ve had this car since college and though logic dictates I should trade it in considering the nasty oil leak, lack of power windows, and the ever morphing smells emanating from the vent system, I just can’t seem to part with it. I’ve had the engine rebuilt four times, sent quite a few mufflers to auto parts heaven, and my worn driver’s seat is now adorned with the pelt of an unsuspecting sheep. I also had the car painted a bright, Kelly green a few years ago so it’s not exactly the most practical car for spying.

  Oh well.

  As I briskly make my way towards Bernie’s building, I feel a rush of energy course through me. I’m kind of digging this undercover stuff. I just wish I were doing it for fun, or cash, or something other than what it is, but here goes.

  The office building is a pale apricot color and sticks out like a sore thumb in this part of the world. I mean this isn’t Los Angeles. Most buildings here are muted shades of earth tones, which are then muted some more so as to not be offensive to anyone, at anytime.

  I walk briskly past the windows of his ground floor office and spot him chatting with a patient in the brightly lit reception area. I pull the telescope out for a closer look. He’s wearing his usual attire of white lab coat paired with a dark, long-sleeved cotton shirt and brown trousers that are just shy of being floods. He likes to wear these god-awful Hushpuppies that he says are bar none the best shoe for “foot health.”

  I guess he would know.

  The young receptionist rushes by with some files and as Bernie shifts his position to grab them he starts to turn towards the window.

  Crap.

  I duck under the hedges—in the nick of time—but manage to get the wig caught on a branch of a firethorn bush. Great. It’s really mangled. I give it a final tug and the tangled mess does its best to fall off. So I pull on my sweatshirt hood and tie the strings tight to conceal the unsightly mess.

  Grace has never been one of my virtues.

  Telescope in hand I duck walk to the underground garage so I’m not seen through the office windows. I spot Bernie’s Porsche parked a couple of stalls away from the elevator so I glide towards it in my squeak-free Doc Martens, darting my eyes from side to side to check for prying eyes.

  Just as I’m pulling out the tracking device, moments from fulfilling my mission, Joanne Cohen comes bounding out of the elevator. Joanne’s one of the many clients that Bernie invites to our annual holiday party. She always wears something insanely expensive and ridiculously low cut. Today she’s sporting a dark purple ribbed number complete with plunging neckline. Damn it. Her and her monstrously huge breasts are coming straight at me. If she spots me I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining this. Halloween isn’t for another few weeks. I’ve got to think fast.

  I roll under the car for cover. Brilliant. Except for the fact that Porsches are notorious for leaking oil and now I’m lying with my back in a generous puddle of the warm goopy stuff. Geez. But on the bright side I can put the tracking device on at my leisure. I open the little plastic baggie moments after Joanne’s four-inch stiletto heels click away and climb into her car.

  No wonder she’s a chronic podiatry patient.

  Once I stick the small metal disc (that resembles a watch battery) with double-sided tape onto what I can only assume is the axle, I roll out from under the car. I reach behind my back to touch the wet goop. Yup that’s oil all right, and now that I’ve got it all over my hands, my nose itches.

  Great.

  Now I’ve got it on my face. As if this whole experience isn’t humiliating enough already. I can’t wait to get home, have a shower, and get this tight hairball off my freakin’ head.

  10

  As I finish the long trek back to the Karmann Ghia, I notice a couple of kids hovering nearby. They’ve got on long, unreasonably baggy pants that show off their striped cotton boxers and matching tattoos that run down the sides of their necks. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that they’re part of a gang or something.

  I am so not in the mood for this.

  I unlock the door and the frizzy-haired kid in a blue windbreaker makes smooching noises at me. Are you kidding me? This kid is like sixteen. I roll my eyes and pull off my ruined sweatshirt, stuffing it into the trunk.

  “Lookin’ good. Hey, mommy, I like your car,” the frizzy haired kid says.

  Mommy?

  “Gee, thanks,” I reply with an insincere smile.

  “How about we take it and you for a test drive?” Frizzy glances at his “home-boy” for validation. They share a raucous cackle.


  These two seem really pleased with themselves. They ooze a young, stupid arrogance. That kind of stupidity usually lands people in jail. Or worse. The other kid pulls out a mini comb and begins meticulously grooming his sparse mustache.

  I squint my eyes against the glare of the sun reflecting off Frizzy’s multiple gold chains and reply, “Flattering, but no thanks,” and move towards the car but Frizzy steps in my way.

  “I don’t think you understand, Lady. Poncho likes your car, okay?” His breath smells like stale beer and cheese doodles. He’s so close I can see his jugular vein pulsating under the blue writing that spells, “Homeez II”, in a squiggly font. He spits a loogie about an inch from my left foot and looks up challengingly.

  Alrighty. I’ve had just about enough of this crap.

  “Okay, listen little boy, I’m really not in the mood for this renegade-gang-cool, you-should-be-scared-of-me-because-my-pants-are-falling-off crap today. I’m greasy, my head hurts because this stupid wig is too tight, and my husband might be cheating on me. So give me a freakin’ break kid! Okay!” I can see my spittle glistening on Poncho’s face as the frizzy-haired kid shifts his eyes nervously.

  “Okay Lady, take it easy.”

  “No, you take it easy!” I don’t even know why I said that because he’s actually whispering, but I seem to be on some sort of deranged autopilot. And before I know it, I’ve kicked the frizzy-haired guy square in the nuts and he’s doubled over in pain.

  I jump into the car as Poncho looks on in shock and speed away. Tears blur my eyes. I have no idea where that came from, but I realize a mile down the road that my hands are shaking. Hard. I can’t believe I actually said my husband might be cheating on me. Freudian slip? Either way, I’m pretty shaken up. I pull over in front of a 7-11 to catch my breath. And while I’m catching that I decide to grab a Slurpee. Nothing calms my nerves like sugar and crushed ice.