Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  “If you mean do I see if a man is likely to be led astray, yes, that's my specialty.” Irritation colored Cíara’s voice.

  “I'm only bringing this up because we have a client, a wealthy heiress from an excellent family, who is about to embark on a marriage to a young man from outside her own social and cultural circle.

  “This young man is handsome, indeed, and could have his pick of any girl in Dublin or beyond. He's from a South African family, highly respectable, but something of an unknown quantity to our own social strata. He’s sworn his love to this young woman – who is, God bless her, somewhat homely.”

  “That’s a heart-warming story,” she said. “There’s hope for the rest of us. But just where…?” Walters ignored her and ploughed on

  “My client may be rich, she may be in love, but she’s not stupid. She wants to know if her fiancé is serious about her, or if he’s just after her money. This young man appears to be of excellent family, as I said. I had an agent check them out. But there is no doubt that my client is considerably wealthier than her fiancé is likely to be for some time and, in order to avoid the unpleasantness and cost of a divorce, she wants to know how he would react to, shall we say, temptation.” Walters spoke quickly, getting the words out as if they had an unpleasant taste.

  So that's where this was going! She sighed.

  Walters cracked what she thought was meant to be a friendly grin, but it didn't work on his hangdog face. She returned his look without even attempting a smile; already sure she knew what was coming. Disappointment gnawed at her.

  “Tell me, Cíara, if you were a wealthy heiress, would you still be sitting here in this office?”

  Her eyes widened at the change of subject, wondering just what this man knew about her. “I doubt it,” she answered his question honestly.

  If she were a wealthy heiress with access to all that money, she’d be sitting in a much plusher office for starters – maybe on the top floor of some building on Grafton Street, or overlooking St. Stephen's Green.

  “No, you’d want to enjoy your privileged life.” Walters voice cut into her pleasant daydream.

  “I guess so. Mr. Walters, where is all this going?”

  “Ah, direct, to the point. I like that. Too many people waffle, you know. They can't come out and say what they mean….”

  “That’s right,” she said, and hid a grin at Walters' sudden suspicious frown.

  “You've built up a certain, er, reputation, in some circles, for – well, specialist activities.”

  Why, the man was positively leering! Any more and she'd throw him out of her office, respected agency or not!

  “We may as well cut to the chase, Mr. Walters. I'm way out ahead of you. Your client wants to know if her fiancé could be lured away by another woman when her back is turned, or if it's safe to let him off the leash once in a while.” Walters gave a whooshing sound that Cíara interpreted as a sigh of relief.

  “Well, well, it seems as though we could do business together. We have, of course, already checked out the young man's family.” Walters raised an arrogant eyebrow. “They are highly respected in the South African diamond trade. But what our client wants to know is: Would he take up with another woman if the opportunity arose?”

  “Isn’t that something like entrapment?” She'd had uneasy feelings about this before, but had smothered her doubts by rationalizing that her work was a service to the women who'd hired her. She'd thought of asking a solicitor for an opinion, but nixed the idea on the grounds that what she didn’t know couldn't hurt her.

  “Not at all,” Walters went on, struggling to be delicate. “Regrettably, wealthy young men, or young men married to money, tend to attract a lot of predatory women. My client wants to know if her young man will be up for that – if he will remain faithful to their marriage vows.”

  “Mr. Walters, are you saying you want me to go out and try to seduce some poor young fella, to fulfill some wealthy neurotic’s….” Cíara’s voice carried her disappointment. Gee, she'd been hoping for real detective work!

  But Walters misread her tone and defensively held up a hand. “I know how it looks, Cíara, but let me assure you this is not an unusual request to come into a private detective’s office. You know that from your own, er, clientele.

  “People are insecure – neurotic, if you prefer. They want to believe that they are loved – but occasionally they fear their loved ones aren't all they’re cracked up to be. If this lady knows that, just once, an attractive woman has approached her fiancé and he refuses, she’ll live happily, at least for a while. And if the client’s happy, we’re happy. And believe me, you’ll be happy with the paycheck.” He tapped his chin with a bony finger speculatively. “And it could lead to other work.” He added the lure almost as an afterthought.

  Her thoughts whirled with the panicky feeling that she was becoming typecast, doomed forever to roam the nightclubs trying to pick up other women's strays, and would never have the chance at some real hot cases. She already had to keep the actual nature of her work hidden from prying eyes – most specifically, Granny Somers and the Henleys.

  Maybe the whole thing really was sleazy. Maybe she should shut down the agency and go sling fries in a burger joint. But then a vision of rent checks returned by the bank, closely followed by images of a new career as a beggar on O’Connell Bridge, slipped into her mind, like a sea fog wafting in from the river Liffey and her honorable intentions dissipated.

  “As you say, I have a reputation in certain areas. I'd be willing to take this job on. But only on one condition.” Judging by the way Walters was pirouetting around her office like a Victorian lady afraid to muddy her skirts, it was probably a safe guess that this particular heiress had some kind of hold on him and he was desperate to please her.

  “And what would that be?” The man's little piggy eyes turned hard.

  “That you use the Somers Private Inquiry Agency for more serious work in future.”

  Walters looked as if he were going to laugh out loud. Certainly, he went an interesting shade of red. But he controlled himself – the man must be really desperate - and nodded. To actually speak the promise aloud would probably choke him, she thought.

  “Okay, I’m willing to approach the man, have a drink with him maybe, chat a little to see how far he’s looking to go – but that is all that I’m willing to offer!” she said firmly.

  Walters face broke into a wolfish grin. “That, my dear girl, is as far as we are asking you to go. We’re not exactly pimps, you know.” Then, businesslike, he named a figure that gave her a little adrenaline boost, and handed her a file stamped “Confidential” in big, red letters.

  “So, we’ll be hearing from you soon, I presume?” he said, and left without waiting for a reply.

  * * *

  Jonathon Winters, a.k.a J.V. Winters, writer of super-sexy

  romance novels and voted by his hundreds of thousands of fans as the Sexiest Date On Earth, stretched shoulder muscles stiff from working all morning at his laptop computer and wondered if he dared go out into his garden.

  Word of his plans to leave his native America behind, to immerse himself in the County Waterford countryside while writing a new book, had spread like wildfire. The once quiet, rutted laneway in front of his rented cottage had been turned into a freeway by hundreds of devoted fans out for a glimpse of the man himself, but the brightly shining sun lured him out. Tired of spending so much time at his desk, he grabbed a hatchet, whipped off his flannel shirt and enjoyed the flexing of his muscles as he chopped some logs into kindling.

  As he was finishing, he heard the purr of a prowling car stealthily passing his gateway. He roundly cursed his agent, who he was sure had leaked information about his whereabouts as part of a sales-boosting publicity stunt, then turned to see two middle-aged women gaping through their car window.

  He shivered, feeling suddenly naked under their scrutiny without his usual disguise of dark glasses and Stetson hat that protected his ident
ity as a New York homicide detective.

  * * *

  “My Lord! There is he, there he is!” The woman in the passenger seat squeaked as she waved her arm excitedly towards the side garden of the property. The shriek of brakes was audible a mile away. Winters looked towards the sound, pushing his sweat-damp black hair from his face as, Peggy bravely decided to stop by the gate.

  Winters ambled over to the two women, his strong, fit body clothed in casual cords; sweat gleaming on his naked chest and shoulders. “Hello – is anything wrong?” he asked.

  Both women stared at him, momentarily struck dumb. Then the driver, apparently the braver of the two, replied: “No, nothing at all, Mr. Winters – Jonathon! I'm Peggy O'Keefe, and this is my friend, Ruth Armstrong. We were just passing, and saw you in the garden, and thought we’d be neighborly and stop by to say hello!”

  “Ah,” Winters said. There was a world of meaning in the sound. Peggy and Ruth looked at each other, embarrassed.

  “I have all your books, Mr. Winters, “Ruth said quietly, “And greatly admire your work.”

  Winters felt his face redden under his tan. He hadn’t meant to be discourteous, but he’d lately come to feel he was a prize specimen in a zoo. A description many of his fans would have found apt, given that glorious physique.

  “I think, you know, we just wanted to see you. You are a celebrity and I suppose every woman and girl from here to Cork is going to be passing this way when word gets out,” Peggy told him.

  “Word must already be out, because this road is like a freeway. The real estate agent told me it was so quiet, there was hardly ever a car by.” Winters softened his words with that lopsided grin that appeared on most of his photographs and the back cover of his books.

  “We didn’t mean to intrude,” Peggy said her round cheeks flushed.

  “Not at all. Listen, I was just stopping for a cup of tea and taking a stroll around the garden. Would you ladies care to join me? To tell the truth, I have been feeling a little isolated out here. It’s kinda quiet after New York, and I’d appreciate a little company. Just a little.”

  He emphasized that last word, wondering if he wasn’t getting himself into deeper trouble. The writer in him was always on the lookout for characters and story lines, and he found the world around him a great source of inspiration. But he didn’t want to end up having to entertain all the local ladies and their friends and relatives to tea. The women’s faces were a picture.

  He grinned to himself as he recalled a story about a well-known Irish musician who held a tea party every year for his thousands of adoring fans, and had a momentary vision of himself behind a humungous tea-pot…

  He stepped back gracefully, opened the gate and invited the two still dumbstruck women into his garden. He seated them and then went into the quiet house to fill the teapot. When the tea was brewed he brought out the pot, cups and saucers, and a plate of cookies to offer his guests.

  “This is lovely, Mr. Winters – and so very nice of you,” Ruth said as he placed the tray down on a small wicker table. The two women became silent, nerves tying their tongues now they were finally in the presence of the man himself.

  Then Peggy grinned broadly. “Will you look at us, sitting here like two leftover baked potatoes?” she said. “Do you have any idea how many times we – and probably most of the women around here – have dreamed of sitting down to tea with you?” Well, maybe not exactly tea, but something, the pink on her cheeks suggested.

  Winters, who had a fair idea of what had caused the blush from some of the explicit fan mail he received, tactfully ignored the faint rose color and began to ask questions about the women themselves, their lives, and the area around Dunmore East.

  The teapot finally emptied, Peggy and Ruth got ready to leave. Ruth asked if she could use the bathroom, and Peggy and Winters were left alone for a few moments.

  “We’re really just very ordinary, boring people,” Peggy said, continuing the conversation of a few moments earlier.

  “Oh, I don’t think there is any such creature as an ordinary, boring woman,” Winters replied charmingly, and he meant it.

  Peggy threw back her head and laughed, a husky, carefree sound in the birdsong-quiet garden, giving a swift glimpse of the lovely young woman she had been.

  Winters looked up as a car went by. His cop's instinct picking up on the sudden sound of brakes, but the family sedan slowed and then went on its way harmlessly, as Ruth returned.

  “Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I've a dinner appointment with my agent in Waterford tonight. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “For us, too,” piped up Ruth, blushing in her turn as her companion shot her a look.

  # # #

  Frank O’Keefe climbed the steep and shabby stairs, hoping he wasn't making a fool of himself. He'd never been to a detective before, but something had to be done or he was sure he'd go crazy. Seeing his Peggy sitting in the sunshine with that Winters fella had been the last straw. Especially when she hadn't told him about her visit.

  Lies of omission. Weren't they the most damning?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Miracles never cease, Cíara thought, studying the handsome middle-aged man perched on the edge of one of the clients' chairs across from her desk. A walk-in male client, and twice in one week! She issued a fervent wish to whatever powers that be that this client wanted a real detective, not a seductress, and that he was a paying client. After the pathetic showing of her beloved little MG sports car earlier that morning, she really needed paying clients.

  A relic of the 1960’s, the sporty MG had long ago passed its scrap yard due date, yet Cíara loved it. She'd tenderly restored the bodywork herself to gleaming cherry red glory, and loved to drive it with the top down in the summer and enjoy the envious glances from all the lads in their sensible modern compacts. But keeping the little car on the road cost a fortune.

  That very morning, just when she thought the car would run for a few months without visiting Harry the Mechanic, she hit a bump while going through those damned construction works on the North Circular Road and the muffler started to scream like an animal in pain. Had screamed loudly, in fact, all the way to Harry’s garage.

  When she left the little car in Harry's tender care, he tipped her a wink and rubbed an oily rag over the black seams on his face. “I can put an exhaust bandage on there, fix it up so it's not too loud and you can drive it. But you'll have to have a new system, soon,” he declared.

  After making notes with a stubby pencil on the back of a crumpled envelope, he warned that the new exhaust parts were very, very expensive because they had to come all the way across the sea from England, and wouldn’t arrive for at least two weeks.

  “Seven working days they say, but you know that lot – seven working days plus tea breaks, plus supper and ciggie breaks, plus the strike on the railways, I figure that makes up to at least two weeks,” Harry said darkly.

  Dragging her thoughts away from her own problems, she focused on the middle-aged man fidgeting awkwardly on the other side of her desk. His suit was expensively cut and he obviously wasn't short of a Euro or two, although his hands were rough and workmanlike as if for part of his life he’d worked the land. She pegged him as a farmer, probably gone on to other things. There were a lot of wealthy business types with rough, work battered hands in Dublin since the farm economy had gone to bits and they put their survival genius into businesses like IT, land development, or import/export.

  “Ahem, ah, it’s difficult for me, Miss Somers.” Frank O'Keefe began hesitantly, looking like a man surprised to find himself at a loss for words.

  “I’ve found that it’s usually the difficult problems that bring people to this office, Mr. O’Keefe. So don’t be concerned, just fire away and tell me why you’re here. You won’t embarrass me,” she reassured him.

  “I think my wife’s having an affair, and I want someone to find out,” he said, the words ending with a strangled sound like a cross between a gasp and a sob
.

  “What makes you think that? Sometimes it's easy to misunderstand people…”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think there's any misunderstanding.” The man looked even more miserable and, gathering his courage in both hands, launched into his story.

  “My wife's always been fond of books by J.V.Winters – you know, the American fella that writes those books women buy. Anyway, I saw her alone with him in his garden…”

  “Slow down, Mr. O'Keefe. First of all, what's this Winters guy doing in Ireland – and what's so wrong about your wife being in his garden?”

  “He's over here on a sabbatical to write another book, and he's living near us in Dunmore East. Well, when I saw them in the garden, the two of them alone and Peggy laughing like a schoolgirl, I nearly drove off the road. At first, I told myself there was no harm in it, and waited for her to tell me all about it….I thought she’d be so excited I’d be hearing about Wonderful Winters for days….”

  But Peggy hadn't told Frank about her visit to the author, he contunued. He’d seen her there with his very own eyes, alone in the garden with the man voted the sexiest man alive in some magazine he'd glanced at a while ago. And not just in the eyes of other, anonymous women – his wife had every book the man had written, and read them over and over again.

  She kept a scrapbook of press cuttings about him and only a few weeks ago Frank had had to get his own tea – the first time in years – because Peggy and her friend Ruth had gone to stand in line at a bookstore in Waterford, willing to wait in the rain for a chance to get a signed copy of Winters’ latest offering. Come back into the house late they did, their eyes shining, the pair of them chattering like magpies on a warm chimney pot…

  “Of course, I told myself there was sure a perfectly good explanation. Peggy was probably collecting for some charity or something like that, jumble for the church sale, or maybe selling tickets for the old people’s trip fund draw. And she’d stopped by Winters’ house and the man offered her a cup of tea…and they were, after all, out in public, out in the garden…even if it is a lonely road...”