Twelve
Now that we were no longer deemed a threat to society, Officer Berry drove both of us to the nursery in one patrol car. We rode in the backseat, Grant lost in his thoughts and me lost in mine.
I’d said I’d “do some digging” to spite Mike, to suggest that, once again, I would do his job better than he could; but now I wished the words had never left my lips. Grant Sturgis seemed relieved that I’d agreed to help him, but he didn’t need me; he needed a lawyer, a private investigator. Damn it, a psychic would be more useful than a freaking gardener.
Once Berry had dropped us off, we were able to talk freely.
“Grant, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any promises. This is really out of my league. I’ll give it some thought and be in touch. What’s better for you, e-mail or phone?”
“Phone.”
I plugged his cell number into my phone and he thanked me profusely. I hadn’t done anything, except perhaps given him an ally and some hope, but maybe that was all he needed.
By then, I really was ravenous. I drove to the Paradise, slowing down to check out the parking lot first. No news trucks was good news for me, so I pulled in. Babe was alone behind the counter reading the Bulletin. A handful of familiar faces were scattered around the diner, but none bothered to look up as I entered.
“Where have you been?” Babe asked.
“For the last two hours…downtown at the Springfield police station.”
“Let me guess. You’re not really Paula Holliday. You’re Princess Diana and you’ve been in hiding all these years.”
“That’s hilarious,” I said, faking the cupped royal wave. “When are you getting your own HBO special?” I climbed onto one of the stools at the counter and reached my arms over my head in a long catlike move. I pushed down on each elbow for a deeper stretch.
“That’s a good one. Neil stretches me like that.” Babe offered me coffee, but it was too late for caffeine.
“Got any herb tea?”
“Sure, indoor plumbing and everything.” She swept aside the newspapers and laid out a setup for me-place mat, paper napkin origami-ed around the utensils, and a mug.
“Any of that cake left?” I asked, really wanting food but needing a treat.
“Dream on.”
It was after 11 P.M. but I ordered a turkey wrap and looked at the headlines on the Springfield Bulletin while I waited for Pete to create his latest culinary masterpiece, Instant Thanksgiving-turkey, cranberry sauce, and a sliver of sweet potato wrapped in a piece of flatbread. One bite and you could almost hear a football game and bickering relatives in the background.
For the last week the Bulletin had been all Caroline, all the time. Any brief flirtation the newspaper’s management had had with serious journalism left when Jon Chappell departed for the Denver Post and his boss, who’d come of age when newspapers were a nickel, retired. Truth be told, even Jon’s conversion was short- lived.
Jon and I had gotten to be pals a few years back, and I’d like to think I’d steered him onto the path of journalistic integrity, but, let’s face it, the Caroline story was just too good to pass up. A blond suburban housewife arrested for being on the lam from a drug rap-it was so juicy Jon was probably writing about it in Denver as an insider who’d known the fugitive. And his successors here were milking it. I pushed the papers away.
“I may have just done something very stupid,” I admitted.
“Join the club. Most of the people who come in here at this hour have done something stupid.”
“What do you mean, it’s not that late.”
“Doesn’t matter. Most normal people are home with their families now, or they’re brushing their teeth. They are definitely not just about to sit down for a meal. Unless they’re in Barcelona.”
“Thank you.”
“Sad but true.” Babe leaned in. “See that guy over there? He got wasted at a business function tonight and hit on his boss-who was all too happy to take him up on the offer. Now he’s afraid to go home and he’s afraid to go to work tomorrow. He’s been in the john five times already-probably trying to get the woman’s scent out of his hair and off his clothes. He may be here all night if she was wearing Shalimar or something heavy.”
I sneaked a look at the guy. He was not much older than me but probably had the wife, the mortgage, two kids, and a dog. And he’d jeopardized it all with one drink too many and one dance of the horizontal hora. He reminded me a little of Grant Sturgis, sandy hair, bland good looks-like a soap star, handsome but not memorable. There were millions of these guys whose regular features would open doors for them and who were, more often than not, confused as hell after they walked through them and didn’t know what to do next.
I used to think of Caroline that way, too, with her subdued palette, the sweater tied artfully around her neck, and her Audrey Hepburn ballet flats. I do remember thinking there was something about Caroline that was different-an inner spark. I just didn’t know it was coming from an inner hash pipe. I instantly hated myself for thinking that and groaned out loud.
“So what stupid thing did you do?” Babe asked. “We know you don’t have a boss.”
“I volunteered for something.”
“Always a mistake,” she said, slapping the counter. “Send a check if you must, but don’t volunteer. And never let yourself be put on any committees. It’s a wonder there isn’t more bloodshed at committee and board meetings.”
Babe was delivering one of her insightful, Babe’s rules monologues, and I let her go on. Buried in her speeches was always something useful, some nugget of wisdom. And it was refreshing to hear chat that wasn’t about Springfield’s newest archcriminal. Besides, it gave me time to think. It was too late to back out. I’d told Grant I would find the person who’d informed on Caroline. I just had to figure out how.
It wasn’t hard to find someone if you knew who you were looking for, but what if you didn’t know? I stared at the counter, waiting for a bolt of lightning or a Saint Paul moment knocking me off my stool and revealing what I should do next. Eventually it came but not from the sky or a religious epiphany. As if coming out of a trance, I heard Babe’s voice, first faint, and then louder.
“Hello, are you listening to me?” Babe said. “There aren’t any answers in that mug.”
No, there weren’t, but there may have been one under it. On the place mat, next to the two-inch ads for unpainted furniture, pictures of pets plastered on T-shirts, and gold-tone trophies for your bowling team was a small ad that read “Think the Rat Is Cheating? Call Nina Mazzo, reasonable rates, discretion guaranteed. Free consultation.”
Thirteen
With enough time and money you could find almost anyone. You could also trace any call, e-mail, or Web site visit, but I didn’t have to make it easy for Nina Mazzo to discover my identity and to figure out what I was doing. If the tipster could be anonymous, I could be anonymous too. I didn’t need to burnish my reputation as a snoop. The next morning, I drove to the main branch of the Springfield library and logged on to one of their public computers to check out Nina’s Web site without leaving a trail from my home computer. Her home page was a basic template, turquoise and gold, not a lot of bells and whistles. More tasteful than I expected, given her stock in trade. It fit with her credentials as a nonpracticing attorney and former child advocate.
Nina’s specialty was tracking down deadbeat dads and getting the goods on spouses who strayed, whatever the goods were. I could only assume she, or one of her employees, was the one who stood in the bushes snapping pictures of couples in flagrante delicto while guys in designer suits made the real money from the subsequent divorce settlements. Like most things, there was a pecking order in the adultery business.
Two or three high-profile attorneys, including Arthur Horowitz, known in some circles as the first wives’ best friend, had provided enthusiastic blurbs that Nina had blatantly incorporated into the banner on her Web site.
So why was she advertising on a place mat?
“Same reason we’re here,” she said in a throaty voice, spreading her arms. She sat opposite me in an
