by Lourey, Jess
The woman grabbed a stack of papers from Mr. Denny’s desk, smiled secretively at him, and walked out. Three minute later, he began class.
“Welcome!” He made eye contact with each of us. His gaze was unnervingly direct. “You’re all here today because you want to be a private investigator in the state of Minnesota. To do so, you must complete a 15-hour certification course, which this is, and 6,000 hours of supervised work. Does that surprise any of you?”
No one spoke.
“Good. I’d like to add a third qualification: to be a private investigator, you must also be observant. Who can describe the person who just removed your personal, private, highly detailed student files from my desk?”
Some of the men began buzzing. One spoke without raising his hand. “Young. Eighteen maybe. Blonde and blue-eyed. An office worker here?”
The man next to him nodded his head. “Same thing I saw. Except she had a lot of jewelry on, too. I heard it clink.”
“Excellent. Anyone else have anything to add?”
You couldn’t have paid me to volunteer my input. Not only was I the only female, I had a rule against drawing attention to myself. It never ended well. I slumped lower in my seat, and in doing so, accidentally knocked my notebook to the ground. Mr. Denny’s hawk eyes found me. He glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk.
“Myra James, is it?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Mira.’ Rhymes with ‘can of beer-ah.’” Wow. Totally unnecessary.
“Mira, then. Did you see the woman?”
“Yeah.” I tipped my head at the clot of guys, reluctantly. “They got it right. She was blonde, lots of bracelets but no earrings or rings, and I’d put her closer to 20, but 18 is good enough.”
He nodded approvingly. “You also think she’s an office worker?”
“No. I think she’s your daughter.” Once I started, I couldn’t stop. “Based on how she’s dressed and smells, she definitely goes to college in a big city, probably on one of the coasts. You two gave each other a look like you’d done this before but not recently, so I’m guessing this is something of a tradition for the first day of class. At least until she went off to college. She’s home on Christmas break?” I clamped my mouth shut. Too much. I had said too much.
He pursed his lips. “She goes to Berkeley. Any guess what she’s studying?”
“Sociology.”
He threw back his head, and to my great relief, he laughed. “Close enough. Psychology. And we’ll save any psychoanalyzing of that choice. Very nice job, Mira. What made you think she was my daughter?”
I tried to form an invisibility shield but that didn’t work. In for a penny. “You both acted too familiar for her to be a colleague or an acquaintance. That meant she’s either family or your girlfriend. I figured a woman who dresses like her would never date a guy who wears a corduroy blazer with corduroy pants, and gambled that you,” here I indicated his wedding ring, “are too decent a person to cheat on your wife. That leaves family, and since you two have the same nose, I guessed daughter.”
Mr. Denny drew his hand over his face. The other students swiveled to stare at me as my cheeks cooked. When Mr. Denny finally pulled his hand away, his eyes were dancing. “Nice work. Gentleman, take note. Body language and interactions can give you as much, if not more, information than written facts. Now, let’s get down to business.”
I was relieved that the rest of the class took the shape of a lecture, with Mr. Denny discussing the definition and goals of private investigation, other foundational terms, the limits of a PI’s rights and jurisdiction, and case studies. There was no need to call myself out again. By noon, my wrist was sore from taking notes and my head was full, but in a good way. For the first time, I was beginning to wonder if I had what it took to be a real-life PI. The seven of us were gathering our notebooks and reaching for our jackets when Mr. Denny made his last announcement for the day, and it was a doozy.
“Most of this class will be a combination of lecture and films, but I have one out-of-class project for you. There are seven students in this class. I’m going to reveal seven secrets. It is your job to match the secret with its owner by the end of Friday’s class. The only way to earn an ‘A’ in here is to match them all accurately.” He crossed his arms and stared at us.
The guy two desks to my right and one forward blanched, and not at the part about acing the class. The other five appeared mildly interested. I wondered if the whole world was about to find out I was sleeping in a room with a Kevin Bacon poster.
“Secret 1, someone here served in the military.”
Harmless enough. My money was on the guy who wore his hair in a heinie.
“Secret 2, someone in here is cheating on his wife.”
The blancher went so white he was almost blue. Bingo.
“Secret 3, someone here has a drinking problem. Secret 4, someone here was fired from their job a month ago but still pretends to go to work in the morning. Secret 5, one of you was born in Albania. Secret 6, someone in here has a wooden leg, and Secret 7, one of you is on the FBI watch list.”
Shit, I hoped I was secret 3.
A 50-something guy with unnaturally black hair raised his hand. He had introduced himself as Leo and had been the one chatting with the buzz-cut older guy at the start of class. “Isn’t some of that information private?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Denny said, with no hint of sarcasm.
“What if we don’t correctly match the seven secrets with the seven students?” asked Gene, Leo’s friend.
“Nothing, except that the highest grade you can earn is a ‘B.’ It won’t affect licensing as you just have to pass this class to fulfill the requirement.”
Since I’m inquisitive by nature, I was jazzed about this assignment, but I could tell I was the only one. The expressions on the guys’ faces ranged from annoyed to “something is crawling in my underwear.”
“Any more questions?”
Nobody had any. I grabbed my coat and casually strolled to the women’s bathroom. I waited in a stall for six minutes. When I exited, the classroom was empty except for Mr. Denny speaking at the front with the blancher. I stood to the side of the door so they couldn’t see me and tried to eavesdrop. I only caught the student’s name—Edgar—and some mention of a lawsuit. The conversation ended abruptly, and I ducked into the nearest unlocked classroom. Fortunately, the lights didn’t turn on when I entered, allowing me to watch Edgar storm out, followed by a calm Mr. Denny.
I counted to 25 and left the classroom, following the signs directing me to the main office in the center of the building. I passed three classrooms on the way, all of them dark. The beige Berber carpet swallowed my footsteps. An office worker with a face as creased as a winter apple looked up as I entered the office.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I hope so.” I rested my purse on the counter and leaned forward, with what I hoped was a friendly smile on my face. “I’m taking the PI licensure class.”
“How exciting!” She sounded genuine.
“Yeah, it’s only the first day, but I really like it. Mr. Denny seems like a great teacher.”
She nodded but didn’t offer anything on that subject.
“The reason I’m here is kind of embarrassing.”
She leaned in toward me.
“You see, everyone in class introduced themselves at the beginning, but I was sort of out of my element and too nervous to pay attention.” It was true that everyone had introduced themselves, but only first names. I needed first and last names, correctly spelled, to begin researching them. “I can’t remember anyone’s name. Of course they all remember mine because I’m the only woman in there.”
She nodded knowingly. “You want the class enrollment list?”
“If possible. I don’t need any student IDs or personal information, obviously, just first and last name so I don’t feel like a loser when I come to class tomorrow.”
“Not a problem.” She typed swiftly
on her keyboard then swiveled in her chair to face the printer. “I can print names, addresses, and phone numbers, unless they’re unlisted.”
“Thanks!” I took the paper she handed me. “You’ve been a great help.”
She smiled. “Happy holidays.”
I waited until I was in my car to look at the register. It was easy to place names with faces with the list in front of me. Next to Edgar’s name, I wrote “Cheater.” Gene received the label “ex-military.” There was no Leo on the list, but there was a Leotrim Hamza. Next to his name I wrote “born in Albania.” Three down, four to go. I still wasn’t sure if I was drinking problem or FBI watch list. I definitely had a problem; I just didn’t believe it was public information. I penciled both possible secrets next to my name with a question mark and left the rest blank.
The rush from the class assignment and my successful research put me in such a good mood that I drove to the Kandi Mall to buy my mom two Christmas presents: a set of navy blue plates and a new quilt for her bed. It took half my savings, but I couldn’t bear to have her sleep under the same bedspread that she’d slept under with my dad. I was walking out of Sears when I spotted Kent from class. He hadn’t said a word all day, which drew its own sort of attention. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his khaki pants, and he was meandering toward the appliances and tools section.
I decided to follow.
Tailing someone on foot is impossibly hard. It seems easy in movies. You just stay out of your target’s sightline while keeping them in yours, yes? People are erratic, though, and sometimes you have to duck and hide, which allows them to slip away. Compounding the difficulty was the fact that I was lugging two unwieldy bags, one containing dishes and the other one stuffed with a jewel-toned quilt. I darted behind racks of green and red sweaters, peered through mannequins’ arms, and generally did my best Inspector Clouseau impression, but Kent didn’t engage in any unusual behavior. He peered at a price tag on a deep fryer, walked another ten feet before picking up a power drill, and ran his fingers over a table saw, but that was it. Christmas music jingled merrily from hidden speakers, and tinsel and festive ornaments accompanied every display. I was about to give up on him when he turned abruptly, forcing me to drop to my knees behind a table.
“Can I help you?”
I peered up. An angular, pockmarked teenager wearing a blue Sears shirt and a Santa hat was glancing down at me. I grabbed blindly at the table and held up the first solid object I touched. “Can you tell me how this works?”
A puzzled line sprouted between his eyebrows. “A hammer?”
Kent strode past, his face forward. After fifteen minutes of wandering, he suddenly seemed to have a destination in mind. I stood, setting the hammer on the hand tools table. “Sorry, I must have been looking at it upside down. Thank you.”
I darted after Kent, but a group of women crowded the Housewares aisle, cooing over a set of margarita glasses with stems shaped like cactuses. I pushed my way through, but my awkward bags held me up. When I reached the other side, Kent had vanished.
———
Back at home, Mom and I hand-decorated Christmas cards in her scrapbooking room and I studied for the test Mr. Denny had promised first thing tomorrow. Mom had lots of questions about the class, and I was excited enough about it that I answered them all. I didn’t tell her about the seven secrets challenge, though. It had made perfect sense in class but felt a little seedy outside of it. Sure, much of a PI’s job involves catching cheaters and liars in the act. It just seemed in poor taste to talk about it.
For supper, Mom and I ate her amazing tator tot hotdish and French-sliced green beans doused in a warm bacon and vinegar sauce. It was fabulous, and I ate too much. At 8:00, however, I realized I was going crazy. Again. I looked at her bent over the sink, washing plates that she would then hand to me to dry. She was an amazing woman who’d dealt with my father’s alcoholism with grace and tolerance and maybe a dash of head-in-the-sand, and she’d always been there for me. I loved her, but I was beginning to realize that four conscious hours in this house was my limit. I decided I might as well take the leap and confront the rest of my past. “I think I’m going to run into town and see if there’s anyone I know at Sir Falstaff’s.”
The fear-chased-by-disappointment look on her face shamed me, but I couldn’t stay here any longer. The walls were closing in.
“Sure, honey. You know Patsy Gilver works there now? Just drive safely.” That had always been our code, and we both knew what it meant: don’t drink and drive. Ever. I’d been stupid enough to violate that rule in the past. Actually, I’d made an Olympic sport out of assifying myself under the influence of alcohol, which is why last August I’d finally declared a moratorium on drinking. I’d done great through September and even refused the many temptations of Octoberfest season. Come November, though, I’d slipped and done some shots. Then I’d been shot at. That horrible night had left me with occasional nightmares and an inclination to overreact to loud noises. Subsequently, I was feeling due for a real nice bender, and what better place for that than the town that had taught me to drink and then gave me a reason to?
I brushed my hair and slapped on honey-flavored lip gloss before giving my mom a hug. The slicing December wind almost changed my mind, but I knew my car would heat quickly. I got her rumbling and took a left out the driveway, wondering if I really wanted to head to Paynesville’s only bar. I could instead choose one of two bars in the nearby town of Lake Henry. Lake Henry’s bars had sat on opposite sides of the street from one another since the dawn of humankind. I’d swallowed my first drink, a lime vodka sour, in one of them, back before they carded teenagers. Sneaking into a bar was a rite of passage when I was in high school, an embarrassingly easy one, and after my dad’s death, I found that the more I drank, the more friends I acquired, at least for the night. That memory was lonely.
The idea of catching up with Patsy in Paynesville wasn’t that much more enticing, however. She’d been a sweetheart in high school, kind to everyone, including Manslaughter Mark’s wild daughter. I suppose she was the closest thing to a friend I’d had here, but the idea of seeing her again filled me with dread. I didn’t know which I feared more: her not remembering me and needing to flush the single positive memory I possessed from high school, or her remembering me, which would in turn force me to face the person I’d been.
I slapped my steering wheel. I was behaving like a sissy pants, as Mrs. Berns would say. I was 30 years old, I had a bachelor’s degree and a decent job—no one had to know what it paid or that I was faking it—great friends in Battle Lake, and a sweet boyfriend. For now. I tapped my right blinker, choosing the turn to Paynesville rather than the left to Lake Henry.
The drive was hauntingly routine. I probably could have made it with my eyes closed. I counted off the houses, initially spaced far apart and then in clusters as I neared town, remembering who had boarded the orange ISD #741 bus from each. I passed the Skjonsby house, the Notch house, the Miller house, crested the hill to the golf course as the landscape abruptly morphed from winter-scalded prairie to a hardwood forest and hills, and finally, there it was. Paynesville. The town was laid out in the small valley below, a flat plate of a village meandering along with no real plan, home of 2,300 or so people, five miles from the nearest lake. Christmas lights glittered like jewels scattered across the otherwise dull vista.
As I drove down the hill and into town, I spotted the familiar lit-up candy canes and wreaths festooning the streetlights, and huge snowflake lights strung across the main intersections. St. Joseph Catholic Church’s life-sized nativity scene had been erected on the edge of downtown, waiting for the actors to take their places for the three nights leading up to Christmas. Amazingly, the predictability of it all thawed me a tiny bit. I’d expected the opposite reaction.
Sir Falstaff’s Bar and Grill had changed hands a few times since I’d left town but it still had the same knocked back, small-town charm I remembered. The outside was plain, but
when I exited my car, laughter and the smell of French fries and fresh-tapped beer wafted out.
This was it.
I was going to step back in time and face my high school demons. I shored up my walls and drew open the door.
Nine
Walking through the tinseled doorway of Sir Falstaff’s, I became aware that my shoulders were hunched and my face turned to the side as if anticipating a blow. I willed myself to relax. Nobody had even glanced up when I’d entered. Immediately inside the door were a dozen or so tall tables circled by stools. Two pool tables and four dartboards made up the rear, and a huge circular bar dominated the far right. Three women sat at a tall table nearby, drinking daiquiris and leaning in close as one of them shared what I gathered from their laughter was a racy story. In the rear, a couple was playing darts and smiling at one another in a carefree, constant way that suggested they were early in their relationship. Four men posted spots at the circular bar, none of them sitting next to each other, all of them amiably watching one of three TVs and tipping their beer mugs. I didn’t recognize the bartender, or anyone for that matter, and I felt strangely let down. I was about to leave when the swinging kitchen doors between the tall tables and the game area opened, and Patsy Gilver sailed through, cradling a plastic basket of steaming French fries.
She carried herself as though she’d had a few hard years, but mostly, she looked the same. She still frosted her hair and wore it in a ponytail, though she’d grown out the scrunchy bangs. Good move. I don’t know why America forgot to send rural Minnesota girls a memo back in the ’80s about the unattractiveness of dividing your bangs into two equal parts, one a tube that curls upward and the other a claw that grasps down, but some of us still carried a grudge. Patsy’d always been petite but pear-shaped and still was, carrying a few extra pounds in her hips. My belly nodded sympathetically. It could relate.
