As funny as it sounds, being a working private investigator involves a tremendous amount of sitting around. Whether it’s on a stakeout, or just waiting around the office for the next client, “sedentary” is a highly accurate description of the job. Sure, there’s reports to write up, court dates to meet, lawyers to talk with, but still lots of sitting on your duff and waiting. It rarely gets as exciting as TV and movies portray it. Just another day, just another client.
She comes through the door to my office as I buzz her in from the reception area. Without saying a word, I learn things about her. She’s dressed nicely, but simply, a basic floral print dress. The shoes are equally simple and stylish, not terribly expensive, but definitely not cheap. Clearly a woman of means who wants to stay as low key as possible. If she was on the lower end of the economic scale, she’d probably either be in her Sunday best or in the least shabby clothes she could spare. Even for somebody like me, people want to make a good impression.
“Please have a seat, Ms. . .” I say slowly, gesturing to the chairs on the opposite side of my desk.
“Mrs. Welling,” she answers in a silky mezzosoprano voice as she lowers herself gracefully into a chair. “Thank you. You came highly recommended, in no small part from making people feel at ease under trying circumstances.”
“A minor talent,” I reply breezily. It’s true that I can get people to open up easily with a kind word and a comfy chair, but then again, pretty much anybody can do the same if they make the effort.
[[Offer refreshment]]
[[Look more closely]]
[[Get down to business]]“Where are my manners?” I ask, standing up casually from behind the desk. “Would you care for some coffee? Tea?”
“Tea, please,” she says quietly. There’s a faint catch in her voice.
I turn on the hot plate in the corner, then take the small tea kettle from the shelf above it and fill it with water. The hot plate does its work and within minutes the kettle begins to whistle. The tea’s not anything fancy, but it’s hot and soothing, and that’s all it has to be. “I don’t have any lemon, I’m afraid. Some honey, perhaps?” She nods and I drizzle some honey into the cup, stirring gently before handing it to her. Her hands are delicate, the fingers like tines on a high pitch tuning fork, no calluses to indicate anything like regular musical practice or prolonged periods spent typing. She’s probably never worked a day in her life.
[[Look more closely]]
[[Get down to business]]My prospective client, upon further reflection, has some very obvious signs about her as well as a large number of ambiguities. It’s clear that she takes good care of her skin, but it’s hard to tell if it’s an olive complexion or just a very light tan. The hair’s dark, faint reddish highlights showing when she shifts her head a little, almost certainly natural. My eyes flick down to the ring finger, seeing the wedding ring, elegant but not excessive in its design. The clutch she’s carrying is small, boutique designer, very expensive. Also not something you can carry much in. Even a derringer would print sufficiently for me to notice. Least I don’t have to worry about being shot.
Her arms are bare from the middle of her biceps on down. No scars, no bruises, not even a mole. The dress goes down to just above her ankles, and from the way she walked into the office, it’s a good bet that she’s probably got some background in dancing, but not ballet. Her eyes are distinctly striking: honest to goodness purple irises. Not tinted contacts, either. Dark as port wine. The eyes don’t hide her somewhat aquiline features so much as shift your focus, almost making you look at them indirectly.
I have a premonition that I’m not going to enjoy this interview at all.
[[Offer refreshment]]
[[Get down to business]]I make myself comfortable behind the desk and smile at her. “So, Mrs. Welling, what can I do for you?” I ask, knowing even before I finish what the response will be.
“It’s about my husband,” she says. “Things have changed at home. I used to believe him when he told me he loved me. But lately, it’s not . . .” She drops her eyes for a moment, frowning in thought. “It’s not convincing anymore,” she says at last. “He used to say it with feeling. It used to mean something. But now, he’s just going through the motions, and I can’t understand why.”
“All right. I’m going to ask some questions and I need you to be very honest with me when you’re answering. I’m not a lawyer, but I am a strong believer in client confidentiality. Whatever you say here stays here.” I lean back in my chair a little further as she nods in understanding.
[[Ask about him]]
[[Ask about her]]
[[Ask about his past]]
[[Ask about her past]]
[[Ask what has changed recently]]“Tell me about your husband,” I prompt gently. “Where he is now in his life, what he does, that sort of thing.”
“Mark works for an ad agency, a department head. I’ve never pried too deeply into his business because it’s not what makes him interesting to me. He could be CEO for all I know or care. I know he makes good money. I’ve never had to worry about the bills being paid on time or if we’re going to be eating ramen for extended periods.”
“What would you say his temperament is like?”
She snorts softly. “There aren’t a lot of shy men in advertising and marketing. Lot of very sociable, charming, and highly driven people in the industry. And Mark’s certainly one of the top talents in town. He can schmooze with the best of them.”
“Any odious habits? Booze, drugs, leaving the toilet seat up all the time?”
“He’s a social drinker. I know he’s . . .dabbled with coke from time to time, but it’s never reached a point where he’s constantly using.” Her eyes drop, a flash of something almost like shame flickering across her expression. There’s something more she’s not telling me about him.
[[Ask about her]]
[[Ask about his past]]
[[Ask about her past]]
[[Ask what has changed recently]]“Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Welling,” I ask, my voice quietly neutral. I need information about her to help me understand how she fits into this scenario. The way she clears her throat and clasps her hands together tells me she doesn’t like talking about herself. It’s going to be a bit of a challenge.
“There’s not a lot to tell, really,” she says slowly. “I run a dance studio. Back office, these days. It’s not much, but it keeps me from being just another idle housewife who does nothing but rack up credit card bills at department stores.”
“I notice that your fingers aren’t callused much if at all. Not a lot of typing or writing involved in your day to day activities?”
She flushes heavily at the question. “No,” she replies, the mezzosoprano voice becoming very hard and clipped in tone. “I have a particularly severe degree of dyslexia. I learned how to dance by doing, not by reading. I had to have a friend guide me here. They’re waiting in a car outside for when we’ve finished.”
Definitely a sore spot, though there’s something else hiding in there. Who runs a dance studio without being on the floor with the students? Need to find more about that.
[[Ask about him]]
[[Ask about his past]]
[[Ask about her past]]
[[Ask what has changed recently]]“What was your husband like before you two married?”
Her lips purse in a faint moue of disappointment, recalling in an instant how good things used to be compared to the dismal now. “In a lot of ways, he hasn’t changed much since I first met him. He had all the charm he does now, though it was somewhat less polished back then. He was more willing to look silly, more accepting of it. I won’t say he didn’t have any cares, but he certainly didn’t let them get in his way.”
“Same social habits back then as now?”
“More or less. Mark’s always been one to have a good time. Always saying he likes to work hard and play hard. He’s maybe taken the ‘play hard’ part a little more rigorously since he started with the agency.”
“I know this may seem indelicate, but did he screw around on you while you were dating?”
She shakes her head. “Not so far as I know. If he did, he was very careful about it, and covered himself sufficiently that I wouldn’t suspect him of doing so.”
“All told, how long have you two been together?” I ask.
“Between dating and marriage, about eight years,” she replies. Her expression changes, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think he’s got a ‘seven year itch’ that he’s scratching?” she asks, the tone of her voice faintly chilled.
“I’m not prepared to say anything one way or the other, Mrs. Welling, until I take the case and gather the evidence.” It’s a bit of verbal weaseling, I admit, but it does have the virtue of being honest. I’m not about to assume anything, and I don’t want her assuming anything, either. That said, though, there’s about four filing cabinets worth of history in my office that suggest it is a legitimate probability.
[[Ask about him]]
[[Ask about her]]
[[Ask about her past]]
[[Ask what has changed recently]]“What all did you do before you met your husband?”
“I was a professional ballroom dancer, and I occasionally did some tap when a friend needed a dancer for a stage production.” There’s a momentary flicker of remembered joy in her eyes, one that is smothered almost instantly.
I raise my eyebrow slightly in curiosity. “What happened?”
“Basically, I blew out both my knees during a number. It wasn’t even competition. Just a rehearsal. The surgeon who first operated on me screwed up the procedure. His replacement managed to undo most of the additional damage, but he made it clear that I wouldn’t be able to dance the way I used to. And if I couldn’t do that, there was no point in continuing.”
“Is the studio yours or a joint venture with your husband?”
“Mine. He helped me get the initial funding, but it was paid back pretty quickly.” She smiles at this. Whatever her other problems, she’s not exactly helpless when it comes to her business.
“And your husband doesn’t feel abandoned by the demands of the studio? Doesn’t complain about the hours or anything?”
Her brows knit together in thought, perhaps mingled by a bit of surprise. “Not that he’s ever mentioned. I know he doesn’t necessarily enjoy some of the dance recitals we put on, but he’s never once said anything about me spending too much time at the studio.”
It all seems pleasantly domestic when she puts it like that. But if everything was as smooth as she makes it sound, she wouldn’t be here in my office in the first place.
[[Ask about him]]
[[Ask about her]]
[[Ask about his past]]
[[Ask what has changed recently]]I steeple my fingers thoughtfully. “Have you noticed anything different about your husband’s behavior lately? Sudden spike in spending? Working longer hours?”
“Mark’s always worked long hours, but short weeks. And no, nothing unusual showing up in our bank statements.”
“Has he been delaying anything? Cancelling or rescheduling events with you? Unexpected trips out of town?”
She shakes her head, the long hair swirling around her shoulders as she does. “He’s been out of town a few times, but he’s informed me well ahead of time.”
In every hundred instances of somebody cheating on their spouse, there’s maybe one or two out of that hundred that are careful enough to make sure that every possible angle is covered to ensure their spouse never finds out about it. It’s entirely possible that Mark Welling is just that careful. It’s also possible that nothing’s going on, and a nice woman is about to waste a lot of money on tailing her husband for no good reason.
She looks at me expectantly, dying to know what I plan to do.
[[Accept the case]]
[[Defer until later]]
[[Refuse to take the case]]
I lean forward, propping my elbows on the desk, and smile reassuringly at Mrs. Welling. “I will take your case, ma’am. Now, let’s discuss my fee structure . . .”
*
In the days that followed, what happened next was almost not worth mentioning. My suspicions (and Mrs. Welling’s) were amply confirmed. Mark Welling was photographed screwing his agency’s latest intern in a cheap motel out by the airport. As it turns out, he was also pilfering from the petty cash drawer to make sure that his wife wouldn’t be any the wiser about his infidelity. Mrs. Welling filed for divorce and absolutely took him to the cleaners. Meanwhile, the agency sacked him and filed charges for embezzlement and malfeasance. The intern escaped without charges being filed, but can probably look forward to having the scandal following them wherever they happen to apply for the rest of their life. As for me, the case made sure rent for my office was paid up for the next month. Just another day, just another client.
THE END
Maybe I’m feeling lazy. Maybe I’m just not in the mood right now to deal with what I’m morally certain is going to happen. Sure, a job is a job, and how you get the money is less important than the fact you got the money. But for some reason, I’m just not feeling sufficiently invested to accept the case. Of course, I’m not feeling sufficiently demotivated to tell her I won’t take the case. I stand up and hand her my card. “Mrs. Welling, I would like a little time to consider this carefully,” I say, looking right into those deep purple eyes of hers. “Why don’t you give me a call in a couple days to follow up, and we’ll discuss further. All right?”
It’s not the answer she wants, but it’s also not the answer she might have expected. Most people don’t know what to do when presented with a strong “maybe.” She takes the card and thanks me for my time, promising to call in a couple days, then leaves the office without another glance behind her.
*
A week goes by without any word from Mrs. Welling. I’m surprised when a detective from the Homicide squad shows up at my office. He asks me if I knew Mrs. Welling, and I honestly tell him that she came in for a consultation, but that I hadn’t decided to take the case or not. He snorts and tells me I won’t have to agonize over the decision anymore. Apparently, a few days after our meeting, Mark Welling found my card laying out and asked his wife why she was talking to a PI. Her response led to a heated argument, followed by what the cops are calling a murder-suicide, though they’re being awfully cagey about which half of the couple did what. In a flash of insight, I realize she hadn’t called because her dyslexia made it impossible for her to dial out. It’s not the first time I’ve known somebody who died, but it is the first time that they weren’t a client or a close friend, and it’s arguably the first time that something I’ve done has indirectly but very traceably led to a person’s death. As I sit in my office, I wonder if I should have been a little more decisive. I suspect that I won’t like the answer if I ever figure it out.
THE ENDI open my mouth to tell her what I’m going to do when it happens. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, something snaps with the force of a gunshot. I’m pretty sure I know what will happen here, at least insofar as Mr. and Mrs. Mark Welling are concerned. I think about all those files, the same story told over and over again, the names changing, the fine details always a little different, but the basic outline of the story as constant as sunrise.
“Mrs. Welling,” I tell her, “I am not going to take your case. Honestly, the best thing you can do is go talk to your husband. Let him know you know something is wrong and that it needs to be sorted out by the both of you. I don’t have any magic words that’ll make it any easier, but it’s the best thing you can do for yourself, your husband, and your marriage.” I reach into my drawer, handing her the card of a guy I call on when I have to farm out work. “This is the card of a colleague of mine. Your friend can take you to meet him, if you want, but I gotta tell you that hiring him will have the same result as hiring me: nobody is going to come away happy.”
She looks at me like I’ve just whacked her with a 2x4. Her delicate fingers take the card and she walks out of the office, shaking a little, possibly in shock, possibly in outrage. I’m past the point of caring either way.
*
Six months later, I’m sitting in a bar, officially retired from the PI business. As I’m sipping my old fashioned, I catch sight of Mrs. Welling at a table in the far corner, sitting next to a man, laughing and smiling. It occurs to me that I’ve never seen a picture of Mark Welling, and from where I’m sitting, I can’t see the hand which had that very elegant wedding ring on it. She catches sight of me and gives a minute nod, just to let me know she’s seen me. I nod back, tilting my glass in salute. After finishing my drink, I leave a twenty on the bar and head out, her companion clearly asking her who I am as I turn towards the door. “Somebody I met once,” is probably the answer I don’t hear. Maybe that’s her husband. Maybe it’s the friend who drove her to my office. Maybe it’s some dumb schmuck she chanced across. I’ll never know, and it feels strangely indecent to me to think about going over to ask.
THE END