In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

  Of course, he’d almost felt sorry for Mo during her firing. She seemed so stricken. However, Ross felt it was unlikely Ms. Hutson would truly fire her hapless employee. If there was one thing Ross Grant knew, it was bad acting. He’d been on the receiving end of it in enough movies.

  However, the boss would probably put enough fear in Mo to send her running to the client. And Ross wanted to find out who was so interested in his comings and goings that they would go to the trouble to track his car and arrange for a break-in.

  It briefly occurred to him that he waited here for Mo Tuttle because he was fascinated by her quirky blend of beauty and feistiness. But then he dismissed the thought. He was only here because her mysterious client might threaten his film project. That was his only interest in Mo, he insisted to himself.

  At midmorning a dozen people milled about. A lone saxophonist had positioned himself on the square’s east side, playing a slightly off-key rendition of an old standard. Several elderly ladies were clustered together on a park bench, nattering amongst themselves. An old man carried a sign warning against an evil something or other while periodically hurling indistinguishable words in the direction of the nearbycourthouse.

  A couple—obviously tourists—with T-shirts displaying their allegiance to some college in North Carolina, stood near the square’s center as they examined the plaque which described its history. Each carried one of the famous Savannah to-go cups. Could they be drinking before noon?

  A young man in an ill-fitting blue seersucker suite and bottle strength eyeglasses, sat on a park bench, reading a newspaper with his legs stretched out in front of him blocking, the way of passers by.

  A squealing of tires caught Ross’s attention. He turned toward the source, a black SUV speeding around the square. The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the agency building and continued to rev. The driver—a block head with a Neanderthal brow—stared at Ross for a second before turning away. What was wrong with that guy?

  The cell phone in his pocket rang. Ross pulled the sleek, black device out to see the caller’s name displayed on the face. He groaned. As much as he didn’t want to, he’d have to answer it. His agent became nervous if he couldn’t reach Ross at all times. Ross hoped he didn’t have bad news from the studio.

  “What is it, Aaron?” Ross schooled his tone to boredom with a hint of annoyance designed to hide his trepidation. Dealing with Hollywood types resembled dealing with wild animals. One could never show fear or they’d tear you apart.

  “I’m hearing good things about your meeting with Nicodemus last night. It’s looking good. This one could really do it for you, Ross. This film could put you back on top of the power pyramid.”

  “That’s great,” Ross said, smiling to himself.

  “The studio suits were blown away by your professionalism.”

  “Do I hear a ‘but’ coming?”

  “If anything happens to make you look personally unstable, this whole deal will fall apart like a house of toothpicks.”

  “Cards,” Ross corrected under his breath.

  “Whatever. It could all quickly turn to a smelly brown substance.”

  “I know you’ve warned me before, but—”

  “You’re trying to prevent leaks about the project.”

  “Exactly," Ross commented. "And you know the old saying about doing things yourself if you want them done right.”

  “Yeah, but you obviously don’t know the old saying about shit rolling downhill. If you’re the only one on the hill, it’s definitely going to hit you. But if you hire some minions to stand around you on the hill you can always duck behind them when the time comes.”

  “Very profound, Aaron. I’ll keep that in mind. Was there anything else?”

  “Yeah. I hear you’re riding on the Nicodemus family float in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.”

  “Any advice?” Ross asked.

  “Yeah. Smile and wave. Simple.” Aaron said.

  Ross groaned.

  “Think of all the goodwill it will get you with the locals. Maybe I can book you to appear at the greening of the goat ceremony.”

  “There’s a green goat?” Ross asked.

  “I’m assured there is.”

  “No goat greening ceremony.” Ross didn’t try to hide his anger. Aaron didn’t realize when he’d gone too far sometimes. “What will you want me to do next? Mall openings?”

  “Don’t be a schmuck," Aaron said. "Until you have a successful new movie, your career could use all the help it can get. A mall opening isn’t a bad idea.”

  “Good-bye, Aaron.”

  After ending the call, Ross pushed the phone into his pocket. Ross pulled his sunglasses from his shirt neck, before placing them over his eyes. He glanced at his watch. Mo should be exiting the building any minute now.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw the middle-aged North Carolina man and woman were now about ten feet away from him. They stopped and started to argue. She turned from the man and headed toward him.

  “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Ross knew what was coming. He straightened away from the tree.

  “Mr. Dagger?” the woman asked tentatively with a deep southern accent. “Are you Stephen Dagger?”

  “No.” Ross could feel his nose involuntarily wrinkle as the heavy odor of alcohol on her breath hit him directly in the face.

  “I aint stupid." The woman's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer at him more closely. "You’re that spy.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I get it, you’re on a mission,” the woman said in a confident tone. “That’s okay. This won’t take long. How about an autograph? Do you have any of those posters? It’d be great if you’d sign one for me.”

  Did she actually think he might have a poster that hadn’t been printed for ten years? And where would such a poster be? Rolled up in his pocket?

  “How about one of them action figures. You could sign one of those for me, couldn’t ya?”

  Imogene Tuttle bolted from the agency building and then strode away in the opposite direction. Looking each way, she crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk.

  “You don’t have to be mean. I know you’re Stephen Dagger.” The woman grabbed Ross’s arm. He shook her off and tried to go after Mo.

  “Bastard,” the woman yelled at his back. “If it weren’t for people like me, you wouldn’t be a celebrity. You owe me,” she screeched.

  Imogene Tuttle jumped into the driver’s seat of a neon blue Mini Cooper. Ross changed direction, running toward his own car. Unfortunately, that meant he traveled back in the direction of his fan.

  “That’s better,” the woman said as he reached her.

  Ross danced to the side, but the fan maneuvered in front of him again, forcing him to either halt or risk a collision. He decided to halt.

  “Listen, Madam, I am not Stephen Dagger, and I do not have time for autographs.” He pushed past her to continue toward his car.

  “What’d y'all call me?” She screamed at his back. “I’m not no madam. Aint that a prostitute? Are you gonna let him get away with that, DeWayne?”

  Ross reached his car and then pulled the door open. DeWayne pushed the car door shut.

  “Mister, you aint gettin' away with callin’ my wife no whore even if you are some kinda super spy.”

  Dammit. Mo was escaping and he was going to have a fistfight with this lovely southern gentleman.

  “You better apologize, Dagger, or I’m gonna beat your sissy ass,” the man bellowed and drew back a boney fist.

  Ross straightened, readying himself for the blow.

  Then DeWayne leaned toward him. “Look,” the man confided, his breath reeking as much as his wife’s. “I don’t want no trouble. But I gotta make the wife happy. If I don’t, I aint gonna be able to go back home. Y‘all understand, right?” The man's wide eyes pleaded with Ross.

  “I did not call your wife a prostitute.”

  DeWayne leaned back. “All right then,” he
shouted. The North Carolina man swaggered back toward his wife. “He apologized, Marvelene. I guess I showed him who’s tough. Sissy super spy.”

  * * * * *

  Tracking down Clarence would have to wait. First, Mo had to meet Mrs. Jessica Nelson to give her the agency’s report on the investigation of her husband, Walter.

  The couple, in their mid-forties, bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Richard and Pat Nixon. According to Mo’s background information, the two—Walter a respected accountant and Jessica a housewife—had been married for eighteen years and were the parents of two teenage children, a thirteen-year-old boy and a girl of fourteen. Mrs. Nelson had come to the agency a week before to find out if her husband was having an affair.

  “Every woman knows when there is something wrong,” Mrs. Nelson had said. “I’ve been suspicious that there’s another woman for a long time.” Mrs. Nelson’s suspicions achieved a new height when she overheard her husband telling a friend he was worried his wife would learn about Sharlene Lansing. “I just know this Sharlene is some slutty tramp who’s trapped poor Walter into cheating on me.”

  As Mo knocked on the front of the Nelson’s upscale suburban door, she found herself hoping that Mrs. Nelson wouldn’t answer. Mo hefted the leather laptop carrier from one hand to another. She didn’t look forward to her task. This kind of news was never easy to deliver.

  She brushed a piece of lint off the brown, linen skirt and adjusted the short-sleeved, peach blouse. She’d styled her long hair in a high ponytail with the front piece slicked back and to the side. Just a touch of make-up completed what she hoped was a professional veneer.

  Mrs. Nelson opened the door almost immediately. Her face pinched and white with stress, Mrs. Nelson rubbed each palm nervously against the sides of her white cotton pants and then pulled at the bottom of her pink cardigan.

  After ushering Mo inside, the client made the obligatory offer of coffee. Mo declined with a shake of her head. Mrs. Nelson led her to the kitchen table.

  “Tea then?” Mrs. Nelson said with forced brightness.

  “No thank you. I think we should get right down to business.” Mo pulled the laptop out of the carrier, and then flipped up the top before she switched on the machine. While the computer powered up, she took out a manila file folder. “We found some information on Sharlene Lansing.”

  Mrs. Nelson sat down hard onto the seat across the table.

  “Your husband isn’t having an affair with Sharlene.”

  Mrs. Nelson relaxed into a smile. “That’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how grate—”

  Mo stopped her with a hand signal. “No. I’m sorry, but it’s not all good news.”

  The computer had fully powered up. With a mouse click, the Internet browser loaded on the desktop.

  “We found that Sharlene Lansing has a website. I think you should see it,” Mo said as she typed in an address. She turned the laptop so the screen faced Mrs. Nelson.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Click on the profile and photo to pull it up.”

  Mrs. Nelson clicked the mouse on the laptop keyboard.

  “Aaaaaaaggghhhhhhh.” Mrs. Nelson popped up and the chair crashed behind her. “My husband isn’t having an affair with Sharlene Lansing—”

  “No—”

  “— because he is Sharlene Lansing.”

  Mrs. Nelson stared down at the screen in horror. Mo knew she was seeing her husband's sloping nose, bushy eyebrows, and long forehead. There was no mistaking that Nixon-like face even when topped with a Tina Turner wig.

  “This has got to be a joke,” Mrs. Nelson cried from behind the hands she had clamped over her mouth.

  Mrs. Nelson picked up the chair from where it had fallen to sit on the seat. Hesitantly reaching toward the laptop as if it would bite, she touched the built-in mouse and clicked through the other photos in the profile. Each one depicted her husband in drag, including full make-up and high heels.

  “My life is over.” Mrs. Nelson’s head dropped into her hands and she sobbed.

  “You should also know that Sharlene spends a lot of time at a strip club across the river called Hoochie Mama’s House. Last week, Sharlene participated in an amateur drag queen contest there.” Mo wished she’d accepted the tea. A cup to fiddle with would be a useful occupation for her hands about now. She never knew what to do while the client had hysterics.

  The doorbell chimed. Mrs. Nelson continued sobbing and ignored the visitor at the door. More chimes sounded. The fluctuation of the high and low notes quickened.

  Mrs. Nelson glanced up, her eyes red and puffy as she continued to blubber unintelligibly. The doorbell chimed again, even more insistently. At the sound, Mrs. Nelson’s frenzy increased.

  “Why won’t they leave me alone?” She cried.

  Mo stood awkwardly. “I’ll go answer the door. They can come back some other time.”

  Mrs. Nelson nodded before her head dropped down, resting her forehead on the table.

  The crying sound faded as Mo walked from the kitchen, down the hall and to the door. The tormenting bell song continued as if someone was leaning on the button. What kind of cheese head kept ringing like that? She grasped the handle to draw the door open and found her answer on the other side. Ross Grant stood on the threshold.

  After a momentary visceral reaction to his gorgeousness, Mo remembered he'd tried to ruin her life and anger made her cheeks hot.

  “You!” Mo demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m happy to see you too.” He pushed past her and then strode down the hall. “I’m sorry about your position by the way,” he called over his shoulder.

  “My what?”

  “Your job.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she drawled. “I wasn’t really fired.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m sorry."

  “Listen, you can’t just barge in here like this.” When he walked three quarters of the way down the hall, Mo grabbed his arm to pull him to a stop.

  He faced her. “I’m already in and I’m not leaving until I talk to the client who hired you to break into my car.”

  “I’m here meeting with another client," Mo said, standing with hands on hips. "I don’t know why the agency’s receptionist assigned me to break into your car. I already told you that. This client has nothing to do with your car.”

  “Of course. I’ll just go, right?” His tone oozed sarcasm. Ross drew away from her and then continued down the hall. When he reached the kitchen, he halted in front of the table to stare at the weeping Jessica Nelson. “Bugger. You were telling the truth."

  “No shitake, Sherlock. Brilliant deduction. No wonder you’re a super spy.”

  Mrs. Nelson’s head snapped up. She straightened, her eyes wide. “You’re Stephen Dagger.” She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

  “Um.” Ross cast a pleading look toward Mo.

  “Stephen Dagger, aka Ross Grant, this is Jessica Nelson. Mrs. Nelson owns the house you just invaded,” Mo said.

  Mrs. Nelson jumped out of the chair before coming around the table. She grasped Ross’s hand in hers and gave it a vigorous shake.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you. SpyMatrix was my favorite movie of all time. Could I have a kiss?” Without waiting for his reply, Mrs. Nelson rose on tiptoe to plant a smooch directly on his lips. She pulled back, giggling. “Oh my, I can’t believe you’re here. Wait until I tell my husband.” More giggles erupted from her.

  Mo couldn’t believe it either. Incredibly, the excitement of a celebrity appearance had canceled out the trauma of her husband’s cross-dressing. Unnoticed by Mrs. Nelson and Ross, Mo turned off the computer and replaced it in its carrier.

  “You were so sexy. Macho and strong, but vulnerable and emotional too." Mrs. Nelson still held Ross by the hand and arm as she babbled. "And when you said to Francesca, ‘You’re my air. I can’t breathe without you,’ I cried.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mo muttered. “No man in the real world would say somethi
ng like that unless he was trying to get some nookie.” Mo's comment earned a glare from Ross.

  “Stephen Dagger would. He was a gentleman,” Mrs. Nelson said.

  “You’re sweet, but I—” Ross tried to draw away and Mrs. Nelson pulled him back.

  “I named my daughter after you.”

  “You named your daughter Ross?” The actor seemed as perplexed as Mo.

  “Ross? Why would it be Ross?” Mrs. Nelson’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I wouldn’t name my daughter Ross.”

  “Oh, I see. Your daughter’s name is Stephen,” Ross said.

  Mrs. Nelson giggled. “No silly. Stephanie.”

  “I’ve got to be going.” Mo could stand no more.

  “Yeah, you run along now.” Mrs. Nelson’s eyes never wavered from Ross.

  “I’m coming—” the actor began with desperation.

  “It would be wonderful if you could sign an autograph for me,” Mrs. Nelson interrupted.

  Mo strode to the door. With any luck, she would be in her car before Ross could escape poor Mrs. Nelson.

  “Oooooo,” Mo heard the woman squeal as she exited. “You know what would be perfect? If you could sign one of those posters. You know the one where you’re holding the big gun? I just loved that gun, it was so—”

  Mo shut the door. She almost felt sorry for the poor guy…until she saw that his Mercedes had blocked her Mini in the Nelson’s driveway.

  She heard an engine start nearby and glanced up. Half a block away sat a rusted rattletrap of a compact car, which had faded to a pale red color. A massive black SUV, with heavily tinted windows, idled behind the rustmobile. Then the SUV’s engine revved.

  Turning back to her dilemma, Mo moved to stand near the driver’s side of the Mercedes to evaluate whether she would be able to maneuver her car around Ross’s without hitting the mailbox planted at the curb.

  Before she could decide, the sound of tires squealing across the pavement came from behind her.

  The sound startled Mo since this neighborhood wasn’t the type where you would expect teenagers to be drag racing. She glanced back in time to see the SUV careening down the street in her direction. The vehicle mowed down the Nelson mailbox. The American flag that had been mounted in a pole holder attached to the mailbox post flew through the air like a spear as the SUV barreled across the lawn.