Two Guys Detective Agency (humorous mystery series--book 1)

by Stephanie Bond

  And her cut of the proceeds, of course.

  She put the binoculars up to her face to confirm Ms. Reynolds was still asleep, then she pulled out a crossword puzzle book to keep her mind and hands busy. An hour and three puzzles later, she stretched again and was ready to call it a day—and a bust. The woman must have neck issues—who sat around wearing a neck brace simply to hold their head up?

  But just as she was ready to start up the engine, the woman was overrun by four children spilling out the door into the yard with her. She sat in her chair stiffly and accepted kisses from the kids, then watched them play for a while, dozing on and off. One of the children in particular kept coming back to her and climbing on her lap and pulling on her. Even at this distance, Linda could tell the woman was losing patience.

  Then she lifted her hands and removed the neck brace. And swung the little girl up to give her a piggy back ride.

  Linda’s eyes popped wide open. That couldn’t be good for a fractured neck. She lifted the camera and took several shots of the exuberant, jostling piggy back ride, and the ones that followed since all the other kids clamored for their own rollicking ride.

  Poor Ms. Reynolds—she was a good mother, but a bad employee. It was the classic push-pull of motherhood—if you were a good mother, you were probably bad at something else.

  But when was the last time she’d given her kids a piggyback ride? She wasn’t so sure she was good at anything anymore.

  She called Klo at the agency to let her know she’d gotten the pictures the insurance company needed and would email them to her when she got home.

  “Has Octavia checked in?” Linda asked.

  “No...but I wouldn’t expect her to check in with me. You haven’t heard from her?”

  “No. She’s probably busy. By the way, did you ever find that file you were looking for to send to the D.A.?”

  “The Foxtrot file? No, I haven’t found it, and the A.D.A. is hopping mad about it. I’m afraid in all this housecleaning, I might have shredded it by mistake.”

  “Well, then it can’t be helped, can it?”

  “You’re right. I’m almost finished cleaning things up in the main part of the office. I was wondering if you’d like for me to go through Sullivan’s desk for you and box up his personal things.”

  It would be easier to let Klo do it...but also a cop out. “Thanks, but I’ll do. I’ll get to it in a couple days, I promise.”

  She ended the call and drove home. Weighted down with mail, equipment, and groceries, she practically fell inside, stopped long enough to scratch Max, then turned on the ancient laptop computer in the den. While it booted up, she put away the groceries, then came back to connect the digital camera to send the photos from the worker’s comp case to Klo.

  Mission accomplished, she started to turn off the computer, then out of idle curiosity, pulled up a search engine and typed in ‘Foxtrot.’ The results were too numerous to be significant, so she added “Lexington” and “Kentucky” and “crime” to the keywords.

  She was halfway down the results page before an entry popped out at her. Foxtrot was the name of the last mount ridden by jockey great Rocky Huff before he was found murdered last fall in Lexington.

  A murder that remained unsolved. Was this the “big” case Sullivan had been working on?

  She would probably never know. She turned off the machine, calculating she had a little over an hour before the kids got off the school bus. But what to do first?

  She went to stand in the opening between the kitchen and the den and turned a full circle—everywhere she looked was a towering to-do pile of supplies and tools for projects that Sullivan had started, but never finished. There had never been a master plan so she wasn’t even sure of the intended use of some of the items. If Sullivan found a great deal on something he thought he might need, he brought it home.

  She could mow the yard—it certainly needed it.

  Or...

  She looked in the direction of their bedroom and closed her eyes. Don’t think about it, just do it.

  She made her feet move until she had crossed the threshold of the bedroom. Then she opened the closet and began removing Sullivan’s clothes. He was a big man, so his clothes were bulky. The tails and sleeves of his shirts dragged on the floor of the closet where they hung on a low pole. She took them out an armful at a time, then spread them on the bed.

  Max lay down next to a pair of Sullivan’s shoes and watched.

  With her heart in her throat, she removed each item from the hangers to fold, letting the memories wash over her. There were T-shirts from college he still clung too, featuring the names of bars where they’d gone and charity events they’d participated in. There were lots of UK shirts and jackets he’d collected over the years, and countless pairs of the Wrangler jeans he preferred, all in various stages of fading and repair. There was the white shirt with the colorful stains he’d always worn when they took the kids out for ice cream. And the leather jacket she’d bought him for their anniversary three years ago.

  His blue police uniform hung under dry cleaner’s plastic, where it had remained since he’d left the force. That she would keep.

  But not the golf shirts and khakis he’d worn every day to the agency, or his dated sports coats.

  There were his many handyman shirts, spotted with paint and solvents.

  And sweaters she hadn’t gotten around to putting in winter storage.

  And exercise clothes he’d bought when he’d gotten the urge last fall to get back into “cop shape,” some of which still had the tags on them.

  Some of the items she pulled to her face hoping to get a whiff of him, and when she did, the tears rolled down her face.

  When his side of the closet was emptied, the different parts of Sullivan’s personality were spread across the bed—avid sports fan, policeman, businessman, dad, and husband.

  But no more.

  Her heart dragging, she gathered cardboard boxes from the garage and folded the clothes neatly before stacking them inside for Goodwill. Some hipster would come across the old “Mickey’s Saloon” T-shirt on a one-dollar rack and think it was such a retro find, never giving a thought to the person who’d originally worn it.

  “You’re getting rid of Dad’s things?”

  She looked up to see Jarrod standing at the doorway, his face a mask of devastation, his hands fisted at his sides. She moved toward him. “Jarrod, sweetie—”

  “You can’t! You can’t get rid of his stuff!” He began to pummel her with small fists, more flurry than fury. Then he burst into tears and covered his face with his hands.

  Her heart broke for him. She gingerly put her arms around his shuddering body, and he allowed her to pull him close as he released two weeks of pent up anger and hurt.

  “It’s not fair,” Jarrod cried against her shoulder.

  “I know,” she said, rubbing his back. “I feel the same way.”

  He pulled back, his eyes accusatory. “You haven’t even been to visit his grave.”

  She put her hands around his face. “Yes, I have. But I’ll take you and Maggie with me next time.”

  He nodded, then tried to wipe his face.

  “Here, Jarrod,” Maggie said from the doorway, holding out a wallowed box of Kleenex. “This is the best thing for crying. They’re nice and soft.”

  Linda bit back a smile as he took a tissue and endured a chubby hug around his waist. She took a tissue for herself and blew her nose, then exhaled.

  “I’m giving most of Daddy’s clothes to charity...but I thought you might like to keep some of his UK stuff, so I kept this box for you.”

  Jarrod walked over to the box, mollified.

  “What about me?” Maggie asked, all frowns.

  She picked up a fedora that Sullivan had worn when he was feeling jaunty and cool, or when Maggie begged him. “I thought you might want Daddy’s hat.”

  “I do!” Maggie exclaimed. “Can I wear it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just ploppe
d in on her head, and was instantly swallowed up in it.

  Linda laughed and tipped up the brim to see her daughter’s happy blue eyes. Lord, she was Octavia, through and through. “You can wear it anytime you want to. Now...who wants to help me make dinner?”

  “Where’s Aunt Tavey?” Maggie asked.

  “She’s working late. She might not be home in time to eat with us.”

  She wasn’t, and the house felt quiet without her. And the call Linda expected to come to pick Octavia up from the convenience store never came. Linda toyed with the idea of calling, but reasoned if she was still working, she wouldn’t want to be bothered.

  And her sister was a big girl.

  “Is Aunt Tavey mad at me for telling about the bad man?” Maggie asked when she tucked her in. “Is that why she didn’t come home?”

  “No, sweetie, I told you—Aunt Tavey is working.”

  “She used to be a cheerleader, with pom poms and everything.”

  “Yes, I know. Go to sleep now.”

  Linda turned out the light and sighed. She would never be able to impress her little girl the way Octavia did.

  She walked back through the house, then stopped when a foreign odor floated to her. Cigarette smoke. She followed the scent to the den and noticed the screen door was open to the back deck, which they never used because it was stacked high with replacement lumber. Yet another project.

  Fear seized her when she saw the glow of a cigarette. Had the strange man returned looking for Octavia? She picked up Jarrod’s baseball bat leaning against the wall, then flipped on the outside light, her heart pounding.

  “Jesus,” Octavia said, throwing up her hand. “Are you trying to blind me?”

  She was sitting in a lawn chair with her feet propped up on the deck railing, still wearing the god-awful striped smock uniform of the convenience store.

  Linda stepped outside. “When did you get home?”

  Octavia took another drag on the cigarette. “A few minutes ago. The owner of the convenience store offered to drop me off, so I figured I’d save you a trip.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “He had to come by the store anyway to fire the person who was stealing from him—his own son.”

  “No, really?”

  “Pathetic, huh?”

  “Well, you know what they say—you can’t choose your family.”

  “Amen to that.” She tapped ash.

  “How was your day?”

  “I smell like nachos, that’s how my day was.”

  “But another case closed.”

  “Looks like it. How did the surveillance go on the worker’s comp case?”

  “Bor-ing. But I got the pictures the insurance company needed.”

  “So we’re batting a thousand?”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Linda said.

  “Probably.” Octavia took another drag, then leaned her head back. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

  Linda scooted a second rickety lawn chair next to Octavia’s and dropped into it. “It’s okay. I reacted because it’s a soft spot of mine—I worry that I’m not a good mother. I mean, what would I know about mothering?”

  “You’re good with those kids. And they adore you.”

  Linda pressed her lips together, half afraid to broach the taboo subject on the tip of her tongue. “What do you remember about her?”

  Octavia was silent for so long, Linda thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  “I remember that she loved that sappy Lee Ann Womack song.”

  “I Hope You Dance?”

  “That’s the one. God, I hate that song. It gives people permission to do stupid things.”

  Linda waited.

  “And I remember the desk you have in your den.”

  “Yes, that was hers.”

  “And I remember she didn’t have the guts or the decency to say goodbye.”

  Linda closed her eyes. She remembered that as well. “You’ve never heard from her?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you don’t know where she is?”

  “Nope. Nor do I care.”

  “I lied to Sullivan,” Linda said. “I told him our mother was dead. It just seemed...I don’t know—easier.”

  “Don’t sweat it—I told Richard the same lie.” Octavia gave a harsh laugh. “Jesus, no wonder we’re so messed up.”

  Linda reached over and took the cigarette for a deep drag. She coughed a little, then took another drag and exhaled. “No more secrets, okay?”

  “Okay. At least not from each other.”

  Chapter Twenty

  OCTAVIA’S ENTRANCE into the dinner at the Waters-Taub Country Club where she and Richard had been members for as long as they’d been married was everything she’d hoped for.

  Voices hushed.

  Forks dropped.

  The pianist hit a wrong note.

  Perfect. And she couldn’t have looked more amazing in a pale blue short Versace dress and silver Valentino sandals, if she did say so herself.

  “Octavia, how good to see you,” Joan Berman said, stepping forward to exchange a fake air-kiss.

  “Good to see you, too, Joan.”

  “No one expected you to be here.”

  She took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, one for each hand. “Really? Why ever not?”

  Joan looked to Katie Lender for help.

  “We just didn’t know you were back from Lexington,” Katie said with a nervous smile. “How is your poor sister doing?”

  And she meant “poor” literally. Octavia took a drink from each glass she held, fortified by the tingling bubbles sliding down her throat. “Remarkably well considering the mess her husband left her in.” Then she laughed. “That seems to run in the family lately.”

  “Were you ever able to er...connect with Richard?” Renee Masterson asked delicately.

  “No. His phone seems to be dead. Wherever he is, he apparently doesn’t have service.”

  The women exchanged looks.

  Octavia rolled her eyes. “Good grief, if you know something, now’s the time to tell me. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

  “Well,” Renee said, “there are rumors that Richard has gotten mixed up with some unsavory people.”

  “What kind of people? Who?”

  They all shrugged.

  “But almost everyone in this room was...approached,” Joan said.

  “Approached by whom?”

  Joan glanced around, as if she was afraid they would be overheard. Indeed, a crowd had gravitated around them, even as everyone avoided making eye contact.

  “Spit it out, Joan!”

  “Approached by a thug who wanted to know where Richard is.”

  Octavia felt the blood drain from her face. “A stocky blond guy?”

  They all three nodded.

  Her mouth tightened. “Which one of you told them where to find me?”

  Joan and Renee drank from their glasses and slid glances toward Katie.

  Katie blanched.

  Octavia leaned in until they were nose job to nose job. “You led him to my sister’s house? He attacked me in front of her kids, you mindless twat.”

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Octavia lifted one of the champagne glasses and tossed it back. The other one, she tossed in Katie’s face. She gasped, and so did everyone around them.

  Octavia stopped a waiter and traded both empty glasses for full ones. “Where’s Patsy?” she asked Joan and Renee. She could always count on Patsy Greenwald to tell her the truth—they had swapped stories about their inattentive husbands in the club sauna more times than she could count.

  They were still staring at Katie, who was sputtering. Both of them took a step back.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Um, Patsy...seems to be missing, too,” Joan said.

  “What do you mean, missing too?”

  “Her husband hasn’t seen her since...”


  “Since Richard disappeared,” Renee finished, then flinched.

  Octavia saw red. Patsy, the woman whom everyone said could be her sister, who groaned when Octavia shared her grievances about Richard’s lovemaking.

  Octavia emptied another glass of champagne down her throat, tossed the second glass on Katie, dousing her again for good measure, then marched up to the piano.

  The pianist saw her coming and stopped playing, his eyes wide. She grabbed the microphone and faced the crowd. “Attention, everyone. As most of you are no doubt aware, my name is Octavia Habersham. Does anybody know where the fuck my husband is?”

  The room fell silent and no one moved.

  “Okay. Can anyone tell me about the people he’s messed up with?” She scanned the room. “Nobody? Okay, well, for those of you who haven’t heard, he’s been screwing Patsy Greenwald behind my back. Also, we’re totally broke and probably can’t afford this place anymore, so before I go, I’d like to say something: Every married man in this room who’s tried to sleep with me, if you raise your hand right now, I won’t call out your name.”

  Everyone froze. Someone in the back dropped a glass they were holding and it crashed against the floor.

  She identified the man and waved. “Yes, Steve Royce, thanks for being honest. I’m sure you and Ailene will have a lot to talk about on the way home. Come on, who else?” She smiled wide. “I’ve got all night, fellas.”

  She surveyed the room, her gaze stopping on every man who’d tried to get in her pants over the years until they sheepishly raised their hand. “Don’t be shy, Joe Nikko—remember the incident at the Delaneys’ Christmas party?” The man’s face turned scarlet, but he lifted his fat hand. One by one, hands went up all over the room, including Joan’s and Renee’s husbands’.

  When she was satisfied, she nodded. “I think that about does it for me. Goodnight everyone—enjoy your dinner.”

  As she walked out, the crowd parted for her. From the looks on their faces, she’d burned a lot of bridges. It struck her that these people had never been her friends—tennis partners, dinner partners, and neighbors—yes. But never friends.

  How quickly her life had disintegrated.

  She exited the club and waved off the valet, snagging the keys to the van off the board herself. It wasn’t hard to find the vehicle since it was the only minivan in the entire parking lot. After tearing out of there, she swung by the house to empty the mailbox and to check if Richard had been there. Her key still worked, so the bank hadn’t taken possession...yet.