by Mary Ellis
“You have our word,” Michael replied, while Beth nodded her agreement.
“I believe my husband is having an affair. I don’t think it’s been going on very long, but I want it to stop. Get me photographs of his indiscretion so there can be no denial, along with names, dates, times, and background information on this…woman.” Mrs. Doyle looked from one to the other.
“That shouldn’t be difficult, ma’am,” said Beth.
“Good. I’ve written down my husband’s pertinent information, such as the make, model, and license number of his car, along with the address of his downtown office, the country club, our church, and a few other places Lamar frequents.” She pulled a sheet from a drawer under the coffee table, along with a photograph of the two of them. “If you have any questions, call me on my cell. Never leave a message on the home phone or with a member of my staff.” Mrs. Doyle rose stiffly to her feet.
Beth took the paper to skim. “Thank you. This should be enough to get started.”
“You can trust us to protect your privacy.” Michael extended his hand, which the woman clasped briefly.
Beth dropped their business card on the coffee table. “If you need to get ahold of us, our cell numbers are there. We’ll be in touch in a few days. And you can be assured of our absolute discretion.”
“Thank you. If you would be so kind as to see yourselves out…” For the first time, Mrs. Doyle’s composure slipped. She sounded close to tears.
On their way to the door, Beth stopped abruptly and turned around. “I’m really sorry about this. No wife should have to go through such an ordeal.”
Mrs. Doyle, looking like a wren perched on the sofa, smiled. “Thank you, Miss Kirby. It’s kind of you to recognize what a loss this is for me.”
“Call us if you need anything. And regarding your art collection? I like that painting that was done locally best.” Beth hooked her thumb toward the foyer. “That seascape gives a feeling of freedom, that once the storm passes, a brand-new world will be left in its wake.”
Mrs. Doyle hesitated, as though considering the painting in question. “Very true, as long as a Category 5 hurricane doesn’t take away everything you hold dear.”
THREE
I got the distinct impression Mrs. Doyle was no longer talking about the house,” said Beth once they reached the car.
Michael started the engine and then reached for the document Beth was holding. “What are you talking about?”
“The hurricane she referred to as we were leaving.”
Michael glanced up from his perusal of Lamar Doyle’s particulars. “Why not? She just showed us the heavy-duty shutters that appear at the first sign of a storm.”
Beth shook her head. “Never mind. I keep forgetting men don’t think like women.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? Otherwise, the world would be very dull. Now that you’ve met the client, do you still feel that we work for Sleaze Incorporated?”
“Not so much. Mrs. Doyle deserves a major chunk of whatever assets they’ve amassed.”
“You sure changed your tune. Was it the artwork that softened your heart?”
“She was really nice. And it’s not fair when older women are put out to pasture after giving their best years to their families.”
Michael looked about to comment but changed his mind. “Are you ready to find the dirt on Mr. Slimeball? According to Google, Doyle’s office is in the historical section, not far from our hotel. Can I pick a location or what?”
“You’re downright amazing, but after spending yesterday in the car, let’s take the afternoon off. There’s no hurry. If the boss gave us a full week, I’ve no intention of wrapping up the case and twiddling my thumbs. Or worse, rushing back to Natchez.”
“What about Six Flags?” Michael opted for a juvenile inflection.
“I checked. The closest amusement park is Wild Adventures in Valdosta. I made you a promise, but if you start whining, there will be no cotton candy once we get there.” Beth unfolded her two-sided tourist map. “Since we’re already on Tybee Island, let’s walk the beach. I want to feel sand between my toes.”
Fifteen minutes later, they parked the car and left their shoes, Michael’s sport coat, and Beth’s indispensable leather tote in the trunk. With pant legs rolled up, they crossed over the dunes on the boardwalk and headed toward the water.
“Tide must be going out,” Michael declared. “Check out the dry mark on the sand.”
“Try to relax for a few hours, Professor. There will be no quiz tomorrow.” Beth shielded her eyes from the reflection off the sand.
“Wasn’t that house beautiful? If I lived there, I’d never leave that living room.” Michael pulled his sunglasses from his pocket.
“All the rooms probably have great views. The master suite is probably in one of the wings, with the guest rooms in the other.” Beth marched into the surf up to her knees. “I have never been in a house that spectacular. Our last client owned a bigger home, but it’s just wealthy suburbia by comparison. Mrs. Doyle’s house is architecturally unique, situated on the best spot on the island.”
“Could you imagine growing up here instead of in backwater Mississippi?”
“Natchez is a charming town on the Mississippi Delta. If you want to see backwater, you need to travel a hundred miles inland.”
“I stand corrected, but tell me the truth. Ever dream about living in a place like this when you were a little girl…or maybe last week?”
She laughed. “You can’t covet what you don’t know exists. I grew up believing that having my own bedroom made me akin to the Rockefellers. Of course, the fact I have no sisters played a role in that lucky twist. What about you? Any aspirations of creating your personal Biltmore to pass down to your heirs?”
Michael dug his hands in his pockets and stared out to sea. “Now that you mention it, I would like to move up the economic and social ladder.”
“Do you ever not talk like a college professor?”
He smiled, looking over the top of his sunglasses. “This is me dumbing down the rhetoric, Kirby. Try to keep up.”
“Okay, didn’t know. Go on.” As Beth started walking, Michael kept pace at her side.
“When I thought Rachel and I would get married, I crunched the numbers for our combined incomes and researched the best neighborhoods with the best schools. I had everything figured out except which college our future offspring would attend.”
“What? You would let a son or daughter go somewhere other than Ole Miss or Mississippi State?”
“There’s a whole world out there. Since I’m still single, I plan to broaden my horizons. My parents are content where they live, but I’m not settling for their brand of mediocrity.”
Oddly, Beth felt a frisson of loss. They hadn’t been partners for long, yet now that they’d adjusted to each other, she hated the thought of him leaving. “Sounds like you’re putting Price Investigations in your rearview mirror.”
“Not necessarily. I’d like to take our agency up a notch. We shouldn’t confine ourselves to small-potato cases like that missing college girl last month, who sneaked off to Nashville for a bachelorette party. Now this month we’re spying on a philandering husband? You’re right. We are Sleaze Incorporated.”
“Are you forgetting we solved a murder and the largest scam to hit Mississippi churches in decades? That wasn’t small potatoes.” Beth kicked water in his direction.
“Not at all. It was a great case, but how many of those will there be? Personally, I don’t want to become a cop, and you already tried that once. Of course, you could always apply in a different town. It’s not like you killed somebody.”
“Hey, confine your ambitions to your own career. I’m happy working for Nate.”
“I am too, for now. But maybe I can help take his agency to the next level. Bigger clients would offer more lucrative cases. I don’t think Nate and Isabelle would mind getting rich along with me.”
“Do you ever listen to yourself, Prest
on? Stick in a pin and let out some hot air.”
Michael threw his head back and laughed. “Okay, I might sound puffed up, but there’s no treading water in the business world. You’re either actively advancing in your chosen career, or you’ll soon be replaced by someone with more ambition. Nobody works for the same company for fifty years, receives a gold watch, and then retires to Orlando anymore.”
“Golly, I hope Nate doesn’t find out this half day off was my idea. He’ll start interviewing for my replacement.”
“He won’t hear because I won’t tell him.” Michael slapped her on the back. “Now let’s get something to eat. According to your map, there’s a seafood house in the next marina, and I’m starving.”
Beth was happy to halt their upwardly mobile conversation. Truth was, she tried not to think much about the future. Since leaving the Natchez Police Department in disgrace, all she wanted to do was work at something she enjoyed. Right now, right here, she was happy. There was no point in putting too much stock in the future. What good did all those happily-ever-after plans do Mrs. Doyle?
Once they climbed up to the deck overlooking the marsh and found a table, Beth started to relax. “Order me a bowl of she-crab soup while I wash up.” When she returned, a huge bucket of peel-and-eat shrimp with melted butter and cocktail sauce sat in the center of the table.
“We needed something fast,” he said.
“You did mention you were hungry.” She tucked a napkin into her shirt.
“What does your gut instinct tell you about Evelyn Doyle?” Michael asked after several minutes of devouring shrimp. “Do you believe she’s only interested in preserving her marriage?”
Beth wiped her hands on a napkin. “Hard to say. She wouldn’t exactly pour out plans to filet the guy financially to people she just met.”
“But we’re the private investigators she just hired.”
“Even so, a woman her age would have pride and a sense of dignity—maybe women of any age would in that position.” As the server delivered a steaming bowl of soup, Beth leaned over and inhaled deeply. “What choice does she have? If her husband is having an affair, I can’t see him coming home and her forgetting all about it.”
Michael stopped eating. “One mistake and the marriage is over? What if Mr. Doyle regrets his behavior and wants to give their relationship another try?”
She shook her head. “A mistake is overdrawing the checking account or forgetting someone’s birthday. Both can be excused after plenty of groveling and a few expensive gifts.”
“I hate it when I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
Beth picked up her soup spoon. “That’s part of my charm. Anyway, neither of us has been married, so we’re talking through our hats. Tomorrow we’ll stake out his office and find out what Doyle is up to. Maybe it’s all a big misunderstanding. Let’s finish up here and get back to the hotel. I want to hit the pool and sip something fruity by the fire pit. I plan to enjoy myself if I’ll soon be replaced by someone more ambitious.”
Michael smiled. But during the drive back to mainland Savannah, Beth caught him looking at her oddly. Each glance implied that despite weeks of partnership in which they’d gotten along fairly well, they were still essentially strangers.
Michael had waited as long as he could. “Are you finally awake?” he asked when Beth picked up on the sixth ring.
“I’m not only up, I’m showered and putting the finishing touches on my toilette.”
“What’s your toilette—brushing teeth and applying Chapstick?”
“Why the hurry, Preston? Nobody fools around before noon, and it’s not even nine o’clock.”
“I can’t wait to tell you what I found out. Meet me in the Lodge. I’ll pick out breakfast today—nutrition in keeping with my training for the Ironman. The competition is less than two months away.”
“I’ll be down in ten minutes. Make sure there’s coffee.” Beth ended the call and then appeared twenty minutes later.
Because her wavy red hair was still damp down her back, Michael was fairly certain he had woken her up. In a long print skirt, cotton top, and high-heeled sandals, Beth looked dressed for a garden party. “Why the fancy outfit?” he asked. “We’re staking out Doyle’s office, not infiltrating a ladies’ bridge club.”
Beth reached for the coffee and filled her cup. “These clothes are cool and comfortable. Should I choose to apply for a job or request an insurance quote, I’m ready. Is this our entire breakfast?”
“Yogurt and hard-boiled egg for protein, whole-wheat bread for carbs, and, of course, fresh fruit. Everything we need to start the day.”
Beth nibbled a piece of dry toast. “Impress me with what you’ve already done this morning.”
“Twenty minutes in the gym, followed by a two-mile run to learn the best route to Mr. Doyle’s office, and a quick shower. While waiting, I learned that he works at Town and Country Insurance Agency, the largest agency in the state of Georgia. They insure thousands of clients for billions of dollars.”
“Well done, early bird.” Beth spooned up some blueberry yogurt.
“Mr. Doyle works there as an employee.”
She met his gaze. “He doesn’t own the agency?”
“Exactly. How does your run-of-the-mill agent afford a house on Tybee Island? Mrs. Doyle didn’t appear to work for a living.”
“Maybe they got money the old-fashioned way—they inherited it. Why didn’t we think of that?” Beth smacked her forehead with her palm.
“Maybe, but why wouldn’t he buy an agency?” Michael finished his fruit and pushed away the bowl.
“Look, I know you’re a great forensic accountant, but forget about the money trail for now. We need to figure out if Mrs. Doyle has competition or not. Stay focused.” Beth scraped the inside of the container.
“I’m way ahead of you. During my run, I found the employee parking lot. It’s small with less than a dozen spaces. Hopefully, Doyle has earned one of those premier spots.” Michael snapped a lid on his to-go mug. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Can’t I finish my gourmet cuisine? Like I said, not much happens in the marital infidelity world before lunch. I hope you have lots of reading material.”
Michael was glad he let Beth finish breakfast, because as usual she was right. After he determined Doyle was inside the building on the ninth floor, he kept his eye on the late-model Lexus from inside his cramped car for three hours. Beth, on the other hand, read a paperback and sipped Snapple across the street from the front entrance. Her park bench under a shady live oak was definitely a cooler vantage point. Just about the time he needed to find a men’s room, Beth texted him a message: “Mr. Doyle just left the building on foot, heading east. I’m going to follow him.”
Michael hopped out of the car and rounded the building. A restroom break could wait. This would be his first surveillance on foot, and he didn’t want to miss it. One thing he knew for sure—Lamar Doyle couldn’t outrun him. He easily caught up to Beth midway down the block. Dressed in her summery outfit, she looked like an office worker on her way to lunch.
“He’s twenty feet ahead in a charcoal suit,” she said.
“Are you sure that’s him?” Michael fell in step beside her. “That man’s hair is grayer than in the photo.”
She barely glanced up as they passed two elderly women. “It’s him. Mrs. Doyle said the photo was taken at their twenty-fifth anniversary. They’ve been married almost forty years. And slow down. We don’t want to run the guy over.”
“Savannah residents walk even slower than people in Natchez.” Michael skirted around a young mother pushing a stroller.
“Perhaps their plans for the future don’t include major coronaries at fifty.”
“Mine either. That’s why I exercise and eat right.”
“You sound like an infomercial.” Beth grabbed his arm as Mr. Doyle turned into a Cool Beans coffee shop on East Congress Street. “Good, we can recaffeinate. Now stop staring at him.” She gave his arm a
pinch.
“Get in line. I’m heading to the restroom.”
When Michael returned, Beth was on her way to a table with two large lattes and two pecan rolls. Doyle sat in a booth reading the Savannah Morning News. A croissant sandwich sat untouched in front of him.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Michael whispered.
Beth leaned forward and bobbed her head toward their target. “While you were indisposed, Doyle held up the line by making small talk with the Cappuccino Girl.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “I thought his smile was going to crack his face in half.”
Michael assessed the woman at the milk steamer. “You can’t be serious. She’s half his age. Besides, every guy flirts with pretty girls while standing in line. It’s just a way to pass the time.”
“I don’t think so. Doyle called her by name, twice.”
Michael studied the front counter. “All the employees wear name tags. Since Mr. Doyle’s office is five minutes away, he’s probably here often. You of all people should understand. Aren’t you a regular at that chicken and biscuit joint?”
“Let’s wait and see. So far he hasn’t touched the sandwich he bought. He might be waiting for someone.”
Michael picked off the pecan topping. “It could be a client. What middle-aged man would rendezvous at Cool Beans?”
“Lamar Doyle, that’s who.” Beth’s gaze flickered over his shoulder.
Helpless to stop himself, Michael turned and stared until she dug her nails into his hand. The pretty cappuccino creator had sat down in the same booth as Doyle. With a sandwich identical to his, she was having lunch with him. “Okay, they apparently know each other, but that doesn’t mean they’re romantic. She could be the daughter of his best friend.”
Beth rolled her eyes. “Could you get us more napkins? I sense a big mess about to happen.”
Michael hopped up with his pecan roll and headed to the service bar. From his new vantage point, he could watch the pair unnoticed. Not that it made much difference. Neither Doyle nor the employee was paying attention to their surroundings. As Michael studied the calorie count of baked goods, the pair shared a meal. There were no stolen kisses or holding hands under the table, but the woman kept touching Doyle—a pat on his arm, a brush of their fingertips. His gaze on the woman didn’t seem like fatherly affection for a family friend. Feeling uneasy, Michael threw his roll in the trash on his way back to the table.
