by Mary Ellis
He leaned toward her, his smile fading. “No more jokes. It’s a simple question, Beth. Was this just dinner between work partners or the first of what I hope are many dates? I’m a big boy. I can handle the answer. But it’s time to make up your mind.” He settled back and thrummed his fingers on the leather sleeve.
Beth shifted as a blast of air-conditioning hit her neck. She knew what she should say based on her last experience. She also knew that every magazine warned against work relationships—too much friction after the breakup. And her dear mother’s words rang in her ears like a radio jingle: “Don’t you ever learn, Betsy?”
Maybe one day she would.
But that day wouldn’t be today.
“Slap down the personal platinum, Preston. This meal is on you.”
Michael laughed at her string of p words. “Does this mean I made the cut?”
Beth shook her index finger. “Look, I think we get along well in a yin-and-yang kind of way, whatever that means. So we should probably date and see if our toes start tingling. But don’t count on any mushy good-night kisses in the elevator. That is waaay down the road.”
Michael scrubbed his hands down his face. It was a gesture she’d seen her father make many times. “That’s the last thing on my mind, Kirby. What I really want is dessert, so stand up and catch the waiter’s attention. Put those five-inch heels to good use.”
FOURTEEN
Michael had been far too keyed up to sleep when he returned to his hotel room last night. Not only had dinner gone better than he dared to hope, but the food had been pretty good too. At least that’s what Beth told him. He must have eaten some of the one-hundred-twenty-dollar meal, because his plate was empty except for a smear of marsala sauce. He was so happy she let him pay, he wouldn’t have cared if the bill had been five hundred dollars. One thing he did remember was how good Beth had looked in that long dress with her wavy hair fanning across her shoulders. Even though they had worked together for weeks, he still couldn’t take his eyes off her. If it hadn’t been for the car’s warning signal, he would have backed into a concrete pillar.
Michael had paced his room for an hour, then tossed and turned for two more before he fell into a fitful sleep. Now as he waited for candidate number two to arrive in the Lodge, fog filled every nook and cranny of his brain, until the appearance of his partner broke through the haze like a ray of sun.
“How ya feeling today?” Beth slipped into the booth. “Still stuffed to the gills but poorer in the pocketbook?”
“Will the letter p be your favorite for two days in a row? And where is that cool dress from yesterday?” He pointed at her oversized shirt. “I was hoping you would sleep in it and come straight here.”
“What kind of impression would that make? I’m the senior investigator, and so far Nate hasn’t sent any more potential applicants. I believe our next victim is headed this way. Let’s hope he’s a winner.”
Michael swiveled around to see a sixtysomething man with thick gray hair, a full beard, and deep creases around his mouth and across his forehead. Here was a Southerner who didn’t believe in high SPF factors or sunglasses. “Mr. Faraday? Hi, I’m Michael Preston, and this is Elizabeth Kirby. Thanks for your interest in Price Investigations.” This time when Michael pulled over a chair, it was intended for the interviewee. He remained across from Beth. “Please have a seat.”
Surprisingly, Faraday turned the chair around backward, straddling it like a cop in a 1940s film noir. “So you’re not Nate Price?” he asked Michael. “I was hoping to meet the boss right off the bat.”
“Mr. Price is in Natchez at our home office. But because there is so much work here, thanks to referrals, he wants to hire a permanent Savannah-based investigator. While Miss Kirby and I are on assignment, we’ll hire someone on a trial basis. If he or she proves a good fit, Nate will fly out to meet them. I take it you’re from Chatham County.”
“All my life, born and raised. I’m curious about your current case. It must be something pretty juicy to come all the way from the Mississippi River.” Crossing his arms over the back of the chair, Faraday leaned in Beth’s direction. “Care to fill me in?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations,” she drawled. “But we are interested in you. Tell us more about your previous experience. Did you work in a local forensic lab or the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?”
“I worked in the lab at St. Joseph’s Hospital here in Savannah, but occasionally we got work from the Chatham County Coroner’s Office, like prepping slides and whatnot. I’m interested in hands-on investigating, like stakeouts, surveillance, and undercover work.” Faraday’s smile stretched across his craggy face. “I have some great ideas that could make your agency lots of dough.”
Michael tried not to laugh. “I’m game. Let’s hear one.”
“I set myself up online as the owner of a national chain of bridal salons. I supply wedding parties with everything from designer shoes, bridal gowns, handbags, luggage, jewelry—all that overpriced stuff that women buy just because of a designer’s name. The fine print on my ad stipulates I’m only interested in high-end merchandise at deeply discounted prices.” Smirking, Faraday peered from one to the other. “That should draw the counterfeiters and knockoff manufacturers out of the woodwork. We compile a list of the counterfeiters and sell it to companies like Coach or Louis Vuitton for a fat commission.”
“That sounds a lot like entrapment,” Beth said, frowning.
“No, it’s not because we ain’t cops. We’re investigators, offering a service to manufacturers.” His irritated tone stretched the boundaries of polite conversation expected in an interview.
“Interesting idea, but right now we have more than enough cases to keep us busy.” Michael pulled out the man’s résumé. “Getting back on target, I see you went to the University of Georgia. Did you graduate with a degree?”
“Nah. I didn’t want to get in too deep with college loans, so I left and went to work in store security.”
“Yes, that’s why I chose you for an interview.” Beth took the sheet from Michael’s hand. “Ah. Here it is…surveillance and loss-prevention experience. Could you elaborate on your position?”
“I worked the security desk at a department store in West Palm Beach. I helped the store clerks keep track of merchandise in the fitting rooms. You have no idea how many times six garments go in but only four come back out on hangers. And you can’t believe which ones are pulling this stunt.”
“Young, naive college girls?” Michael asked.
“That’s what I would have guessed too!” Faraday punctuated the air with his fist. “But usually it was middle-aged gals—every one of them looking like they could easily afford the clothes hidden beneath their coats.”
“Dishonesty has no upper age limit,” mused Beth. “How did you catch them—strip-search women in the center aisle?” Her tone clearly indicated sarcasm, which was lost on candidate number two.
“No, that wasn’t allowed. All we could do was call the police and wait for a lady cop to confirm the theft.” Faraday huffed with disappointment. “I suggested to management we monitor everything that happens in those fitting rooms. The thousands saved in loss prevention would pay for those hidden cameras in no time at all.”
Beth tucked the résumé back into the folder. “Another great suggestion promptly ignored. Oh, those pesky privacy laws getting in the way again.”
This time Faraday picked up on Beth’s mockery. “A store is private property. If a person doesn’t like the rules, they can shop elsewhere.”
“Management probably feared that’s what ladies would do if word got around.” Beth’s sweet drawl returned.
“Funny how criminals these days have far more rights than law-abiding folks.” After Faraday delivered this summation to Beth, he scooted the chair around to face Michael directly. “If you got the time, Mr. Preston, I’d like to share another lucrative idea I have for the agency.”
Michael di
dn’t know if he was more flabbergasted or intrigued by the man’s effrontery. Curiosity won out. “By all means. I’m interested in how you would make money for Price Investigations.”
Beth’s eyes turned as round as an owl’s as Faraday turned his back on her.
“I’ve done my homework on PIs. I’ve wanted to get into the business since I was a kid. I know that messy divorces are an agency’s bread and butter. I’m willing to bet that’s what you’re in town for.” Faraday offered a smile that was the epitome of smarmy.
Michael was afraid his partner’s head might explode.
“I thought I had made it quite clear that we won’t discuss ongoing cases—” Beth began.
“Let me finish,” Faraday interrupted. “Mr. Preston wanted to hear my ideas. He’s the one in charge until Mr. Price comes to town.”
Despite the entertainment factor, Michael couldn’t tolerate the man’s rudeness. “Wait a minute, Mr. Faraday…”
Beth held up her hand like a crossing guard. “No. I absolutely must hear the rest of this.” Her tone of voice, along with the applicant’s, was attracting attention from the surrounding patrons.
Faraday continued to address Michael. “It doesn’t matter which case brought you to Savannah. Bundles of money can be made outside those chic clubs along the river. First I create a database of every mover and shaker in the city, those with society connections and deep pockets. Then I find a good vantage point across from one of those clubs, maybe from another building or even up a tree. Then I photograph any well-dressed gentleman leaving with a woman who might not be his wife. I have a sixth sense about that kind of thing. With a good telephoto lens, I could make the agency a great deal of money.”
Michael shoved the folder away. “The woman might be his daughter or granddaughter or a myriad of other logical relationships. Even if the older man was dating a younger woman, how is that our business?”
“Hear me out. I contact the guy using an email address that can’t be traced to the agency. Pretending to be a journalist, I ask for permission to use pictures I took in an article about nightlife in Old Savannah.” Faraday chuckled, pleased with himself. “If the man has nothing to hide, he can either agree or disagree, but he’ll never hear from us again. If he was up to no good, he might be willing to pay to make sure those photos never see the light of day.”
Michael felt himself tense. “Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Faraday. What you’re suggesting is called blackmail, which is not only illegal but the lowest form of income generation in the world.”
“If those men have nothing to hide—”
“I’m not finished!” Michael snapped. “Not only am I revolted by your ideas, but if I ever get wind of you putting this scheme into practice, I’ll give your fiction-filled résumé to law enforcement. They’ll be eager to track you down for a chat.”
Faraday stood, almost knocking over the chair. “And I thought you were the logical member of the team.”
Beth rose regally to her feet. “Since we don’t need a professional Peeping Tom, I think we’re done. If you hurry, you can still catch the bus to Sleazyville.” Honey dripped from her words.
“And just for the record, I’m the senior investigator here. Maybe you should rethink the sexist pig routine before your next job interview.” With her hands balled into fists, Beth glared until Faraday vanished from sight. Then she slumped down and dropped her face into her hands. Odd sounds emanated from beneath her mass of hair.
Michael patted the top of her head. “There, there. Don’t cry. We still have candidate number three to look forward to.”
Beth lifted a streaky face. She had laughed herself hysterical. “Does everyone lie on job applications? I only fudged a few pounds off my weight.”
Michael reflected a moment. “I might make myself taller, but that’s because I don’t own a tape measure. Are you going to be all right, Kirby? For a moment there, I thought you might strangle Faraday with your bare hands.”
“I am going up to call Nate and give him the blow-by-blow before I forget a single detail. He was first to vet Mr. Faraday. Nate needs to provide more viable candidates, or you and I will be stuck here until Christmas.”
Michael left a generous tip on the table and followed Beth into the lobby. “After you update the boss, what else is on your agenda for today, Ms. Senior Investigator?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me last night. You could be on to something. Plenty of guys work even though they don’t need the money. Doyle might have liked the camaraderie of an office and enjoyed hawking insurance as a hobby, but what’s the incentive for his boss to have him around? I’m heading to Town and Country to see if the guy will talk to me. If you give me your notes, you can goof off for a few hours.”
“The boss’s name is Joseph Reynard, but if you’re going, so am I. The agency assistant is already eating out of my hand.”
Beth hooted. “As helpful as that could be, you don’t have to do this. We both know what Nate said. For some reason, he wants to leave Mrs. Doyle swinging in the breeze, at the mercy of a defense lawyer who might not be any better than the last.”
Michael pressed the button for the elevator. “I don’t think it’s that. He just has faith that the Tybee Island police will do their job. As out-of-towners without contacts on the force, we’re at a disadvantage.”
“I understand, but as I said before, it’s none of Nate’s business if I want to help a friend in my spare time. You don’t need to get in trouble on my account.” Beth stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.
Michael blocked the door open with his foot. “Let’s get something straight. You’re not tracking down Doyle’s killer without me, partner. While you talk to Nate, I’ll call that assistant and sweet-talk my way into an appointment with Reynard. Then I’ll review my notes on Town and Country on my laptop. Come downstairs whenever you’re ready.” He withdrew his foot.
As the elevator closed, Beth met his gaze with her luminous blue eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Michael strolled to his favorite couch in the lobby, his mood significantly improved since Faraday had left. As much as Nate wanted them to hire another investigator as soon as possible, there were worse fates than staying in charming Savannah until Christmas.
FIFTEEN
There ought to be a limit to how many times a person was allowed to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” within a fifteen-minute period. Because Nate Price sounded like a mynah bird by the time Beth finished describing Faraday’s interview.
“I assure you, boss, the quality of the applicants you sent us is no laughing matter.”
“Sorry about that, Beth. I’ll have Maxine contact a Savannah headhunter to see if they have any experienced investigators looking for work. Let’s have them do the initial screening since résumés can’t be trusted for accuracy. Did that guy really want to spy on women in store fitting rooms?” Nate’s skepticism rivaled his contempt.
“Yes, but let’s change the subject. I want to forget I ever met nasty George. He’s the reason some folks have low opinions of PIs.”
“Agreed. I’ll never bring him up again, but I must tell Isabelle. She thinks that stalker back in Memphis was one of a kind.” Nate made a tsk sound with his tongue. “Take the rest of the day off, Beth. You earned it. Go do something fun like parasailing or hang gliding.”
“You know I hate heights. Let me pick my own pastime.”
“How are you and Michael getting along? I notice you haven’t referred to him as ‘Wonder Boy’ or ‘Mikey’ in a long time, to my supreme joy.”
“And you never will again. We’re getting along fine—nothing for you to worry about. Give that headhunter my personal cell number and have them call anytime, twenty-four-seven. I want to move this interview process along in a positive direction.”
“Will do. Stay in touch. And make sure you have fun in Savannah. That’s part of the reason you’re there.”
After Nate ended the call, Be
th stared out the window for several minutes. Wonder Boy? It had been awhile since she had such little respect for her partner. Michael had made great strides in his quest to reinvent himself. His new buff physique had bolstered his self-image, but Beth hadn’t found him unappealing before. His new confidence and assertiveness on the job, even under pressure, were amazing. Michael hadn’t stammered or blushed in ages. These days, if she had to pick a moniker, it would probably be Wonder Man, but she wasn’t ready to tell Nate they were dating. Too much could go wrong as they got to know each other.
Beth took out her makeup bag for the second time in two days and dabbed on blush and lipstick. If she was to meet the manager of the largest insurance agency in Georgia, she should look her best. Or at least that’s what she told herself.
Michael shut his computer the moment she reached the lobby. “Are we still on the payroll?”
“We are. Nate felt so bad about Faraday’s résumé that he ordered us to take the afternoon off. We are free to do whatever we like.”
“Then we’re free to take our chances at Town and Country Insurance.”
“I take it the conversation didn’t go well with the assistant.” Beth tucked her hair behind one ear.
“It went…adequately.” Michael shoved his laptop in his bag. “She assured me Reynard would be in the office this afternoon, but he was booked solid with meetings and appointments. If we want to wait, she will try to squeeze us in.”
Beth walked through the revolving doors into hot afternoon sunshine. Although the time of year was officially declared autumn, the blast of humidity begged to differ with the calendar. “Looks like we’ll spend an otherwise perfect day in an office waiting room. Last chance to change your mind.” She paused on the sidewalk as passersby skirted around them.
Michael checked his watch and pulled out his map of the historic area. “Let’s leave the car and walk instead. That way the air-conditioning will feel good once we get there. And with a small detour, we can see two squares we might have otherwise missed—Chippewa and Orleans.”
