by D P Lyle
Soon we eased past Tammy’s place, dark except for a single lamp in the den. The nightlight she always left on. She and hubby Walter were either out or had turned in early. Early for Tammy, anyway.
Two houses down sat the massive two-story Plummer home. It was dark.
I stopped and pointed. “That’s it.”
“Who are we spying on anyway?”
“Not spying. Surveilling.”
“Potatoes, po-TAH-toes. So, who are we surveilling?”
“The Plummers.”
“Plumbers live there?”
I laughed. “Not plumbers. The Plummers. Henry and Barbara.”
Now she laughed. “I knew plumbers made good money but I didn’t think that good.”
“You obviously haven’t had clogged pipes lately. I pay my doctor less. Do you know them? The Plummers?”
“No.”
“Henry made a gazillion bucks in software and took up real estate development as a second career. Apparently a very lucrative endeavor. Shopping centers, condo projects, and a couple of gated communities, I understand.”
“Not bad for a second career.”
I began walking again. “We’ll set up among those dunes.” I pointed to a series of sea-oat-topped wrinkles in the sand just beyond the Plummers’ home. “They’ll supply good cover.”
We settled in a sandy depression between two low mounds. While Nicole spread out the blanket and retrieved bread, cheese, and wine from her bag, I set up the camera and laptop Ray had given me. He had said that since I was “going mobile,” meaning not sitting in the car, this rig would help. I screwed the camera to a sturdy tripod, whose legs I wiggled into the sand to stabilize it. Satisfied it wouldn’t topple over, I extended the tripod’s neck until the camera lens rode above the wispy sea oats. I attached a small shotgun mic to the camera, cabling both to the computer, and plugged in a pair of ear buds. I booted up the computer, and once that process was completed, an image of the house appeared on the screen.
Nicole handed me a glass of wine. Not a plastic cup, a crystal goblet. She did have a certain flair. Actually, lots of flairs.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Best way to watch the house without crawling around in the grass. We can stay off the radar, so to speak, and still see and hear everything. Record it, too. Watch this.” Using the up and down, right and left, and plus and minus keys, I changed the camera’s alignment and zoomed in and out.
“Very cool.”
“Ray does have some fun toys. This is standard lighting.” I tapped the “2” key. “This is low light.” The image immediately brightened, revealing the house in greater detail. I tapped the “3” key. The image took on a hazy green glow. “This is night vision.”
“Wow.”
“Not done yet.” I tapped the “4” key. Now the image went darker. “Nothing to see right now. This is infrared. Picks up body heat. If someone was up there, either in or around the house, they’d show up.”
“What’s that?” She pointed to the screen.
A small yellow-orange form moved across the rear patio. I zoomed in, revealing an unmistakable feline shape. “A cat.” I returned the image to the low light mode. The cat’s silhouette faded into the shadows.
“Your spy bag is much cooler than mine,” she said.
“But not edible.”
“There is that. Cheese?”
“Sure. Seems like dinner was a long time ago.”
She laughed. “See, my spy bag has its uses.”
We ate and drank, finishing the first bottle of wine in no time. I placed the laptop on my now empty canvas bag, next to the blanket, and stretched out on my back. “Now we wait.”
Nicole sat next to me, cross-legged, munching on a strawberry. In the moonlight, the strawberry juice glistened on her lips. She then sucked the juice off each finger. Slowly. One at a time. Staring directly at me.
“Are you being naughty?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Thought so.”
“Roll over,” she said.
I did. She straddled my hips and began massaging my neck and upper back.
“Best stakeout ever,” I said.
She continued her massage and then leaned forward and nibbled one ear.
“Definitely the best stakeout ever.”
“Bet you say that to all your beach bunnies.”
“Beach bunnies? Me?”
“Shut up.” She kneaded my shoulders. “You’re all tight.”
“Wonder why?”
“Stress.” Her efforts moved to my mid back, her fingers digging into the muscles along my spine.
“That must be it,” I said. “I’m sure you sitting on me has nothing to do with it.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Not a chance.”
She slid off and stretched out next to me on her back. A soft, warm breeze tickled the sea oats, and I could hear the gentle lapping of the water against the sand. Nicole rolled on her side, snuggling up against me, one arm over my back. Doesn’t get much better.
After a few silent minutes, she said, “Tell me about your dad.”
“Ray? He’s a tough dude. In many ways.”
“How so?”
“Ray and I don’t often see eye to eye.”
“Yet you work for him?”
“No, I’m doing him a favor. He and Pancake are stacked up with cases right now so he asked me to do this little bit of surveillance work.” She didn’t say anything, so I went on. “Except for my baseball career, he thinks I’m somewhat of a slacker.”
“Are you?”
I twisted my head toward her. “More or less.”
“I don’t buy that. I mean, you own a business. You had a pro baseball career. Not exactly underachievement.”
“Tell that to Ray. When baseball disappeared, Ray wanted me to join him. Do the PI stuff. Not exactly my thing.” I smiled. “Though you make it a little more palatable.”
“Palatable? Never been called that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I think I’ll let that one slide.”
“And your mother? What about her?”
“We lost her when I was in college. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Wasn’t easy, but that was a long time ago.”
She started to say something, but I stopped her with a raise of my hand. The computer screen had flickered to life.
“Here she is,” I said.
We sat up, side by side. Car lights flared, flashed across the screen, and then disappeared into the garage. A minute later an interior light popped on. I zoomed in as Barbara Plummer entered her kitchen. She was slim and attractive in a silver dress that appeared to be silk. She opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass, and headed upstairs. An upper light snapped on. I tapped the keyboard, adjusting the camera angle. Bedroom. The curtains were open, but sheers covered the French doors. Barbara’s silhouette moved in and out of view.
“Looks like she’s headed to bed,” Nicole said.
“Or prepping for a visitor.”
“Let’s hope.”
“You’re quite the voyeur,” I said.
“You’re the one with the camera.”
She had a point.
Barbara came back down to the kitchen, refilled her wine glass, and then flowed into the den. I settled one earbud in place, Nicole the other one. After adjusting the filters to dampen the noise of the breeze, soft jazz filled my ear.
“The trap is set,” Nicole said.
“Trap? You women are all alike.”
“Poor baby.” She mussed my hair. “Helpless and vulnerable. Adrift in a world of wanton women.”
“My favorite kind.”
“You and the others of your ilk.”
“Ilk?”
“The half of the planet’s population with dicks.”
Hard to argue with that logic.
For the next fifteen minutes little happened. Barbara refilled her wine glass once more, but mostl
y sat on the sofa, head back against the cushions, apparently enjoying the music.
Then a shadow moved across the screen. I adjusted the zoom and lightened the image. A man. Maybe six feet, slightly overweight. Shorts, golf-type shirt. He climbed onto the broad deck that faced the beach and extended the length of the house. As he reached the back door, Barbara opened it for him. They embraced.
“Showtime,” I said.
“Now who’s the voyeur?”
“Strictly business.”
“Right.”
They entered the kitchen where Barbara poured a glass of wine for her visitor. His back was toward us so I couldn’t see his face. Barbara laughed at something he said. Adjusting the gain on the shotgun mic, I honed in on their conversation.
“Any trouble getting out?” Barbara asked.
“None. She drank a bottle of wine with dinner. She’s zonked out.”
“How long do we have?”
“A couple of hours, anyway.”
“What if she wakes up?”
“The usual. Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk on the beach.”
They embraced again. He spun her around and they kissed. When the kiss broke, he stepped back and looked at her. Now I could see his face.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“What is it?” Nicole asked.
“It’s Walter. My ex’s husband.”
“No way. He’s her secret lover?”
“Sure looks that way,” I said.
“Not who you were expecting, huh?”
“Not even close. Walter’s mostly a wimp.”
“Even wimps have erections,” Nicole said. “And those always lead to trouble.”
“Sounds like the voice of experience.”
“I’ve raised a couple in my life.”
“Only a couple?”
“I’ll take the Fifth.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I said. “You raise more than a couple simply walking across the street.”
“That’s good to know.”
Like she didn’t know it. Get real.
Back to work. We watched Walter and Barbara climb the stairs to her bedroom. Barbara slid back the sheers and opened two of the French doors that looked out over the deck and the beach. The lights went out.
For the next two hours there was little to see, but the shotgun mic picked up a few unintelligible murmurs, soft laughter, and several “Oh, Gods,” but mostly a rustling of the sheets and heavy breathing. They surely made the most of their two hours together.
To say it was a bit uncomfortable listening to my ex-wife’s husband doing the dirty with his lover didn’t quite cover what I was feeling. I kept telling myself it was a job, nothing more, but mostly I felt dirty and intrusive. Nicole apparently felt my discomfort. And didn’t pass on the opportunity to tweak me.
“He’s an animal,” she said.
“Not exactly my image of dear old Walter.”
“The evidence is what it is.”
Finally, thankfully, they fell silent and a few minutes later Walter came back down stairs. He flicked off the kitchen and den lights, stepped out the back door, looked up and down the beach, and hurried back up the sand toward home.
We waited a few minutes but saw no further movement and heard nothing else from the Plummer residence.
“After a workout like that she’s going to sleep like a log,” Nicole said.
“You aren’t going to let it go, are you?”
“Of course not.”
I stood. “I think our work here is done. Let’s pack up and get out of here.”
Back at Nicole’s we finished the second bottle of wine, while sitting on the sofa. After a few kisses and some handsy explorations, Nicole asked, “Hot tub?”
“I didn’t bring a swim suit.”
“Me either.” She stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. You won’t rust.”
The hot tub, a redwood rectangle that could hold an entire football team, sat in one corner of the deck, beneath a canopy. She peeled off her tank top, revealing a pair of small firm breasts. Then her tights, leaving behind black thong panties. Those disappeared, too. No tan lines. Guess the point of The Point was perfect for nude sunbathing. She eased into the bubbling water, cool blue from the underwater lighting.
“Don’t be bashful,” she said.
I had to admit that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t turned out as expected. Not even close. Sleeping on her sofa last night and now this. Was this a dream? Seemed to me that exchanging a couple of broken car windows for this was a pretty good deal. Maybe I should thank Tammy. After all, it was her insanity, her bashing my car, that lit Nicole’s curiosity.
I stripped and settled in the tub, across from where she sat on one of the underwater benches. Still not sure exactly where this was going.
She glided through the water, climbed into my lap, straddling my legs. Her lips settled over mine. When the kiss broke, I asked, “Is this a good idea?”
“You seem to think so.” She reached down and grasped my already full erection.
“I hate it when he does that.”
“No you don’t.”
Her lovemaking could only be described as aggressive. She rode like a rodeo star. Water sloshed over us. The deck, too. Little I could do but hold on and try to make it last.
I failed.
Later, after another round of bumping in her super king bed, we were both frosted with sweet sweat. She pulled open the drawer of the bedside table, retrieved a joint and a purple gas station lighter, and fired it up. She took a long hit. “Want some?”
I did.
After we each took a couple of hits, she balanced the remainder of the blunt on the edge of the nightstand and slid into the crook of my arm, her head resting against my chest.
“You aren’t the shy type, are you?” I asked.
“I’m a California girl. Hookups are in our nature.”
“Nice to be a hookup.”
“Better than being off the hook,” she said.
“Shut up and come here.”
“Hmmm. Bossy.”
Round three. Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms, catching our breath.
“You’re kind of fun,” she said.
“More than your bartender boyfriend?”
“Much more.”
“I know he wouldn’t want to hear that.”
She laughed. “He’s in the archives now, anyway.”
“Archives?”
“You know—history. Out of here. Past tense.”
“Cold.”
“Honest.”
“At the risk of examining something that might be better unexamined,” I said, “why did you go out with him?”
“He was funny. Witty and charming. Great in a crowd. Not so much one on one.”
“So, what do I have? Maybe a week before I’m in the archives, too?”
“We’ll see.” She pinched me. “But so far, you’re okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Let’s say very okay.”
I was smart enough to let that lay. Or is it lie? Never could keep those straight.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, I opened my eyes at exactly 8:11. According to the bedside clock. I rolled over. No Nicole. The aroma of coffee filled the air. I found my sweatpants wadded on the floor, stepped into them, and staggered to the kitchen. Too much wine last night. Maybe too much Nicole.
She stood over the marble cooktop island, spatula in hand. She wore an oversized t-shirt, black, AC/DC logo on the front. Her perfectly tanned, perfect legs bare. Feet, too.
On second thought there was no way to have too much Nicole.
“Guess you worked up an appetite last night,” I said.
“Proud of yourself, are you?”
“Something like that.”
A tongue of steam rose from the skillet before her. “You do deserve an ’atta boy.’”
“That’s what I strive for.”
She pointed the spatula a
t me. “Actually, you were magnificent.”
“As were you.”
“Thank God. I’d hate to think I was merely adequate.” She smiled. “Or is it palatable?”
“Definitely the latter.” I pulled out one of the island stools and sat down. “What are you making?”
“Pancakes. That okay?”
“Love a woman with an appetite.”
“That’s me.”
She slid a large pancake from the skillet onto a plate and sat it on the counter before me. “Now shut up and eat.” She handed me a squeeze bottle of syrup.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sloshed on a dose of syrup and took a bite. “Perfect,” I said around the mouthful.
“Me, or the food?” She poured more batter into the skillet.
“These are great, but I think I like you better.”
“All of me?” She grinned.
“Some parts are better than others, but I can’t say I found any faults.”
“You obviously haven’t looked hard enough.”
“Really? I thought I looked everywhere.”
She laughed. “That you did.”
“You’re beautiful, smart, funny, and you can cook. The whole package.”
“Pancakes aren’t exactly gourmet fare.”
“Works for me.”
“But you’re easy,” she said.
“You noticed. I’m flattered.”
My cell phone chimed. I could barely hear it since it was still inside my “spy bag” over by the French doors where I had left it last night. By the time I retrieved it, the call had jumped to voice mail. The screen said I’d missed three calls and two text messages. All in the last hour. All from Ray.
Ray answered after a single ring. “You don’t answer your phone anymore?” No “hello” or “how are you?” So Ray.
“Sorry. Didn’t have the phone nearby.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At a friend’s place.”
“That explains it.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I was fixing to ask you that same question. You got anything to tell me about last night?”
“Actually, I do. Barbara had a visitor. You’ll never guess who.”
“Don’t have time for games.” Also so Ray.
“Walter Horton.”
