Jenna Mattison
EYE SPY
The Chronicles Of Liza Radley Housewife Detective
Book One
Rochester Books
Eye Spy
A ROCHESTER BOOK
a division of
C.S. Publishing Inc.
Copyright 2012 by J.R. Mattison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted to any form by any means electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher except where permitted by law.
ISBN
Printed in the United States of America
February 2013
DEDICATION
To Mommy who smells sweeter than anyone I know. And to my beloved R.R., without you I could never do anything that I do.
1
All men cheat. At least that’s what I’d always heard but I never believed a word of it.
Until today.
I’m Liza Radley, and I live in a two story gunmetal grey house near the end of a cul-de-sac. Bernie and I couldn’t afford actual cul-de-sac status six years ago when he started his practice here in Andover. Since then we’ve built our lives together brick by brick but now I find myself rifling thru his underwear drawer on a Thursday morning wondering if some young wolfette is trying to blow our house down.
Or blow my Bernie for that matter.
I mean, it’s not like I actually suspect him of the big A, but over breakfast my three best friends staged the suburban version of an intervention and now that the dirty little thought is lurking I can’t resist committing cardinal sin #1 from the Bad Wife Handbook. Snooping. Plus, I want to prove the girls wrong and show them that my Berns and I are still in happily wedded bliss. Okay maybe not bliss…but I don’t know if bliss is even possible after 10 years of marriage so let’s just say we’re content in a frozen-lasagna-sex-once-a-month-with-the-lights-off sort of way.
As I rummage through his tighty whities I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror. I’m a mess. My hair is a mass of auburn curly Qs waving wildly in every direction. I’ve always had big hair but the east coast weather isn’t exactly doing me any favors. Humidity is not my friend.
I’m suddenly reminded of Joyce Lombardo. She was one of Mamma’s friends and a New Jersey transplant. Frosted blonde mullet teased within an inch of its life and capped teeth so big they made her talk funny. And don’t even get me started on the boobs. Sheesh. She hired a private detective to follow her husband and found out he was having sex with farm animals. Big scandal for Savannah. Big divorce settlement for Joyce. It gets me thinking though, that a P.I. might be just the answer for my little dilemma. Plus playing nosy-parker in Bernie’s Fruit-of-the-Loom’s isn’t exactly fruitful…no pun intended. The only remotely damning evidence I’ve found, buried between sagging elastic waists and that ill-advised leopard print male thong, are a short pile of G-rated 1970’s (pre bikini wax era) collectable Playboys.
So I twist my mop into a bun, spear a pencil thru, pull on my worn-within-an-inch-of-its-life tartan plaid flannel robe, and head into the kitchen where the trestle table is still scattered with crusty plates from last night’s potpies and soiled, crumpled napkins. The wood floors have a grimy, dull haze and judging from the pungent funk in the air, I need to take out the trash. Okay, so I’m not a gifted housekeeper. I’ll get to it. I’ve got bigger fish to fry this morning. Priority numero uno is hiring a private detective.
2
Oh how I wish I had a custard-filled (or two) as I thumb through the yellow pages in search of a P.I..Though I figured they wouldn’t be listed because of the whole undercover/secrecy thing, but there they are, with a heading all their own.
I pluck the first listing, “Acme Detective Agency,” and start to dial but think better of it. Wile E. Coyote never had much luck with that company. So I search for a name that “speaks” to me. “The Detection Center,” “The Dicks,” “Spys ‘R’ Us,” and finally decide on “Moonlighting.” Bruce Willis was my first crush. I dial and a woman answers on the first ring.
“Moonlighting, how can I help you?”, she says in the hoarse voice of someone who’s been inhaling way too many menthol cigarettes for way too long.
Damn, it’s the other line. It’s eleven on the dot. Must be Mamma. I have an obligatory phone call with her every Tuesday. When I still lived in Georgia it was Tuesday brunch at this place called Marmalades that serves lemonade in jam jars. She just loves that sort of crap. I guess this is the lesser of two evils. At least she won’t look me up and down in that “I just smelled something foul” way she’s so fond of. I swear that woman has never forgiven me for being the only female in our lineage to not place in the Miss Georgia Peach Pageant.
“Sorry, I have another call.”
“Well, you don’t expect me to hold, do ya?
“No, no. I’ll call back, sorry.” I click over and brace myself. “Hello?”
“Elizabeth Cordelia Beauchamp Radley, you know better that to keep your Mamma waitin’ like that.”
“Sorry, Mamma, I was on the other line and I just couldn’t…”
“Well, that don’t matter now, let’s not make a fuss.”
She has this way of turning me into a bumbling little girl. Like she’s got superpowers. And not the kind that help people and save the day. The evil-plotting-to-take-over-the-world-kind.
“Well, sugar, now tell me what you and that doctor hubby of yours are up to.” She purrs, pouring on her saccharine sweet drawl like a generous helping of maple syrup.
“He’s a podiatrist, Mamma,” I reply as I roll my eyes and set the egg timer to six minutes.
“That still counts as a doctor, Liza. I have just always loved the idea of a doctor in the family. At least someone followed through with thier career. He should be recognized for it.”
KABLAMM! So that was the first official covert gut punch. There’ll be plenty more where that came from, but nothing smarts quite like the first. I come up with different sound effects for them, like on that sixties TV show, Batman. CUPLOW! BOOM!! KAZAMM!!! Shanootz?! It keeps me amused as she carries on her usual tirade. Seemingly without taking a breath.
Looks like Mary Lou’s husband ran off with some tramp from the Piggly Wiggly. Again. And Sue Ellen has just put on so much weight since the new crueler shop opened up on Azalea. And my younger sister Becky sent her some special tea that tastes just like sassafras. She carries on this way, dishing up southern fried nonsense until ding! The timer finally rings its sweet chime of freedom.
“What was that?”
“Uhh, those were the…apple turnovers, they need some...turning over.” I don’t know the first thing about baking.
“Well, it’s about darn time you embraced your feminine duties. I’ve always told you Liza, the way to a man’s heart…”
“Okay, got to go!”
“Fine, now you give that doctor of yours a big, sloppy kiss from your Mamma. God knows what you would do without him.”
ZOONK!!
“Bye now.” I can barely resist curling into the fetal position and rocking back and forth to ease the pain. I grab a piece of pie from the fridge instead.
Mama’s right. I would be nothing without Bernie. When did I become this person? I put Bernie thru school for Pete’s sake. I used to be strong and have ideas. When did I become the kind of person that sits around eating bon-bons and watching soap operas?
I redial the Moonlighting detective agency. Ms. Two Packs a Day answers again.
“Moonlighting.”
“Hi, this is Liza Radley. I called about five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, okay. So what’s the racket?”
The racket? Guess that’s P.I. talk. Neat.
&
nbsp; “Well, I need to talk to someone about my husband.”
“Is he missing?”
“No, no, he’s not. He’s cheating...or at least my friends think he is. I just need proof that he’s not.”
“You wanna prove he’s not cheating? Okay, that’s a new spin on it. You’re either totally in denial, totally stupid, or the first chick ever with an innocent husband. Either way, it’s your dime,” she snorts.
I guess she got it right in a nutshell. A pretty crude little nutshell, but right nonetheless.
“Well, I’ll see what we’ve got on the books. It’s cheatin’ season and Auggie’s busy as all get out. Wait, hang on, I did get a cancellation for 11:30 today.”
“But that’s like twenty minutes from now.”
“Well, it’s either that or next month, sugar.”
Crap.
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
3
Traffic is downright non-existent so I feel like the Force is with me. The convertible top is down and the brisk fall wind whips my hair around like a tornado as I put my pedal to the metal zooming down the turnpike.
I breeze by Fanueil Hall and park in an underground structure. My purse strap gets stuck in the car door then halfway up the second flight of stairs I remember that I left Bernie’s picture wedged between the passenger seat and an empty Styrofoam cup.
Crap.
I trek back down the steps, grab the picture, and breathlessly totter my way up to street level to begin my search for the Moonlighting office address. It’s 767 1/2 Water Street, so I figure it must be part of a brownstone or something. This part of town is practically dripping with history. Something about the combination of stone facades and metal awnings gives it the look of a quaint European village.
As I ponder stopping for a donut (or three) on the way home, I trip over a black cat and land on the stoop of the Moonlighting Detective Agency. I take it as a sign. A sign of what I’m not quite sure of yet, but there is definitely a sign to be had here.
The 1/2 of 767 is up a long, narrow flight of stairs in what looks to be a converted attic. At the top I find the door propped open and a hefty woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips sits behind an old Formica desk. She’s got a headset on and a long flowing caftan in a muted paisley print. She waves me in; getting closer, I can see just the faint hint of a moustache. She whispers into the phone as I sit across from her desk in the only other chair in the room. It looks like a child’s chair, or like someone sawed the legs off and used them for something…firewood?
I cross my legs, attempting to look casual, but end up looking like a contortionist instead. So I go back to slumping over with my knees knocking together. Two Packs finally hangs up and eyeballs me with a hint of amusement.
“Hi there, I’m Dianara. Just like the Greek goddess.” She chuckles to herself. “ You the lady with the wandering man troubles?”
Ouch, that stings.
“The yet unproven troubles. Yes, thanks for fitting me in.”
“No problemo. AUGGIE!!!” She bellows towards the closed door.
I guess this is their idea of an intercom system. Almost immediately a man wearing a really bad toupee swings open the door to the inner office. He looks as if he’s been enjoying a Bloody Mary or some sort of hearty beverage that’s dribbled on his ill-fitting polyester shirt. So this is Auggie the great detective.
“D, don’t yell!” He says sotto voce. “I told you to use the friggin’ phone, especially when we have new friggin’ clients!” Concluding his tirade, he approaches me with a gold-toothed grin and an outstretched hand. “Augustino Delvechio, P.I. at your service. Please, come into my office.”
He leads me inside as I catch Dianara stick her tongue out defiantly. I feel like I’m in really capable hands here.
The inner office is a cross between 1960s and shabby chic…minus the chic. At least the chairs are adult-sized. I plop down in a puke-green vinyl number across from Auggie as he sizes me up.
“So what’s the story?”
“My friends think my husband’s cheating on me.”
“’Tis the season. It’s like this every fall,” he says with a grin, fingers steepled, not even bothering to mask his glee.
“Good to know. Anyway, he’s not though, cheating that is.”
“Well how come your friends think he is?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Crap.
“ I didn’t stick around to find out.”
Auggie chuckles. “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”
We lock eyes. “Anyway, I just need solid proof, like pictures or something…just to prove them wrong, you know.”
“You’re here to prove your husband’s not cheating on you?”
I fidget nervously as he eyes me with a cocked brow. “I know that probably sounds weird, but yes, that’s it.”
“Yeah. I gotcha. That’ll be five grand.”
Gulp. I have about eight hundred and change in a plastic travel soap dish tucked behind my sock drawer for a rainy day.
“Five. Thousand. Dollars?”
“Plus expenses, of course.”
“Wow, I just didn’t expect...I didn’t know it would be so much.”
“Well, this is a professional operation we run here,” he says, gesturing to the yellowing wallpaper and dilapidated furniture as Dianara’s booming voice filters in from the waiting room.
“Fucking fuck, this goddamn printer!!”
Auggie rolls his eyes. “Pardon D, she’s got a touch of the Tourette’s.”
“Well…um...Mr. Delvechio, I guess I’ll just have to shop around, since, well, the truth is, I just can’t afford that.”
“Well, I can save you some time there, lady. That’s pretty much the going rate anywhere in town. Especially during high season.”
Double Crap. Now what?
“Okay then, thanks for your time.”
“Wish I could help.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Maybe if you could wait another month or two, I could knock off a grand.”
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” I respond, managing a faint grin.
Defeated, I slump to the outer office where D seems to be attempting some Jedi mind trick on the printer. As I totter down the wood steps and onto the stoop, I ponder my next move.
What in the Sam heck do I do now?
4
I walk down the down the street dodging pedestrians like they’re the blue and red ghosts in the Atari game I used to like so much. Except I feel like the ghost. I hate feeling hopeless. I have to do something…I just need to know…I just need to take action… I just need…OH NO! I just stepped in a giant, steaming pile of dog pooh. Or it could’ve been a small pony judging by the size of the smelly heap.
I try scraping it off with a discarded newspaper but the pungent odor lingers. Things are feeling really sucky so I decide to indulge in a couple of donuts and promise myself with a pinky swear that I’ll exercise in the not-too-distant future. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts about two blocks from here. I know this because I have intimate knowledge of almost every location of the famed donut shop in the greater Boston area and surrounding suburbs.
I grab four maple-glazed and devour the first one before leaving the shop, then plop down on the curb like a homeless person, clutching a brown paper bag filled with my own little vice. Traffic moves brisk on West Street. It’s lunchtime and the bustle of the city is in full swing as the office workers taste a few moments of freedom. A young sharp-dressed couple cross to my side of the street but do their best to avoid me with upturned noses. Maybe I should put out a cup and make a few bucks. I must look like a hopeless cause. I wonder if I’m destined to lose my husband, sans career, and be a loser forever just like Mamma’s face told me I was after the Peach Pageant debaukle.
When did my life get so sucky? I can’t help but think Bernie maybe/sorta has considered cheating. I mean, look at me. How am I remotely desirable? I
can’t cook and I don’t clean. Two housewife prerequistites, right? And I literally aspire to nothing. How did I become that person? Maybe if we’d had kids like we were supposed to it would’ve been different…but that’s all water over the bridge now. Things are gonna be different. I’m taking charge.
As I stand and dust off sidewalk grime from my sore backside I notice a wooden sign that hangs from a two-story brick building that reads, “Eye Spy.” And underneath it in small hand painted red letters is, “A Spy Shop.”
Hmmm…is this a sign?? Well, obviously it’s a “sign” in the literal sense, but I’m thinking in the existential here. I mean, what are the chances of me sitting on this very stoop on this particular day and looking up and seeing that particular sign? I think the universe is telling me something. I think it’s telling me to investigate this on my own. Yeah! I mean heck, I read Nancy Drew as a girl, how hard could it be?
5
I march with zest and fervor across the street (even though the traffic signal has the red hand flashing), then throw open the door of the shop a little harder than intended.
Oops.
The large, heavy door hits a rickety old chair, which crashes to the ground. As I’m bending over to turn it upright, checking for damage, a dark haired guy rounds the corner from the back room.
“Hey, nice derriere. What’s going on here? You wreckin’ the joint?”
Derriere? Who talks like that?
Glancing at the cobwebs and threadbare rug, I cock a brow in his general direction.
“It was an accident. Everything’s fine, see?” I say, motioning towards the chair with a Vannah White wave of my hand. He locks his dark eyes on mine and smirks.
Gulp. I’m getting a fluttery feeling in my nether regions like I did when Bobby Costanza cornered me in the gym in fifth grade and put his hand on my boob.
“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.
Eye Spy Page 1
