Snoops in the City (A Romantic Comedy) (2 page)

“Isn’t finding out stuff the hard part?”

“Usually. But this job’s a snap. Access public records, maybe follow the guy and write down your observations. What do you say?”

Tori watched the fruit punch on the floor form a red puddle vaguely in the shape of a warning sign. “I say this doesn’t sound like something I can do.”

“Look, this client has major bucks. I can’t risk referring her to another agency and losing her business. And have I mentioned I’ll pay you?”

Despite Tori’s growing resolve to refuse the job, she couldn't keep from asking, “How much?”

He named a figure high enough to cover her rent for the next three months, which would temporarily solve her cash-flow problem. But she couldn’t do this. She had zero experience and about that much expectancy of being good at PI work. She didn't even need to look into her silver disco ball for advice.

"Sorry, Eddie. My answer's still no," she said.

The door knocker sounded, giving her an excuse to cut off his protest and ring off. Two more knocks later, she pulled open her door to a warm wind and the cold stare of Helen Grumley, the female half of the married team that managed the apartment complex where she lived. The back of Tori’s neck prickled with foreboding.

With her gray hair and round figure, Mrs. Grumley looked remarkably like Tori’s paternal grandmother. The resemblance ended there. Not only did Grandma understand that gray-haired women shouldn’t wear the color olive, she liked Tori.

“Hello, Mrs. Grumley,” she said politely. “What can I do for you?”

“You can pay your rent on time. You’re two days late,” she said flatly. Behind her, the fronds of the palmetto trees that buffered the four-story apartment building from the parking lot swayed violently in the wind.

“I certainly plan to do that next time,” Tori said. “But Morty gave me a two-week extension this month.”

“Morty?” The sun at Mrs. Grumley’s back threw her in such stark focus that her nostrils flared. “You call my husband Morty?”

Tori clamped her lips together. Morty Grumley was sixty-five, if he were a day. “I meant Mr. Grumley.”

“Well,
Mr. Grumley
didn't consult me about this. If he had, I would have informed him it’s against the policy of Seahaven Shores to grant any tenant more than two extensions in a year. This is your third in five months.”

“I'm grateful you and Mr. Grumley have made an exception in my case.”

Mrs. Grumley was a few inches shorter than Tori but straightened her spine until it seemed they were eye to eye. “I’m revoking your exception.”

“But... but Morty, I mean Mr. Grumley, said—”

“Mr. Grumley was mistaken. If I don’t have your rent payment by the day after tomorrow, you’ll have to leave Seahaven Shores.”

The shock of the older woman’s threat didn’t wear off until Mrs. Grumley reached the halfway point of the long outdoor corridor that stretched in front of the row of apartments.

Morty
, Tori thought,
would catch hell
.

Tori closed the door and leaned heavily against it while she considered her options. Even if someone hired her today, she wouldn't get paid in time to cover her rent.

Eddie's offer seemed to be her only way out of this mess, but could she take it? She picked up her key chain by the silver disco ball, shook and turned it over.

Signs point to groovy
.

That decided, she went to the phone and dialed.

“Eddie, it’s me,” she said, ignoring the spilled cranberry juice turning the floor red. “If I agree to be a PI, what would you say to an advance?”

After all, how hard could this PI business be?

Margo Lazenby drummed her fingertips on the surface of the restaurant’s rustic wooden table before it occurred to her that rat-a-tat-tatting wasn’t the best way to treat a French manicure.

She folded her hands in her lap, only to start tapping the toe of her sling-back Prada shoe against the weather-beaten floor.

Displays of excitement weren’t dignified but she couldn’t help it. Any minute now, a real-life private eye would walk through the restaurant door.

Her expectations probably shouldn’t be this high, considering her disappointment when she’d first seen Eddie Sassenbury.

She’d been at an obscure strip shopping center indulging her secret passion for
George Armstrong's Custard
when she spotted Sassenbury's office. She'd impulsively ducked inside, her palms sweating even though running into someone she knew in that section of town were remote.

She imagined being greeted by somebody like Tom Selleck, who’d been so mouth-watering in
Magnum P.I.
Or the potently capable Robert Urich in
Spenser For Hire
. Or possibly even, sigh, the debonair Pierce Brosnan from his James Bond films.

Instead she’d gotten a scaled-down version of Peter Falk, who’d played the rumpled Lieutenant Columbo in that old TV series.

Hearing that Sassenbury had assigned a female PI to her case was almost a relief. She’d seen
Charlie’s Angels
. Females could kick ass as well if not better than men.
So where was her ass-kicker?

The diamond-encrusted face of Margo’s slim gold wristwatch showed ten minutes past the appointed meeting time. As head of the Lazenby Cosmetics empire, she wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

But then nothing was usual about this rendezvous.

The
Sea & Swallow
didn’t remotely resemble any of the dining establishments Margo typically frequented. The restaurant overlooked the vast blue beauty of the Atlantic, but its decor was rustic, its atmosphere casual, its menu pedestrian.

Meeting at one of Margo’s regular haunts in ritzy Palm Beach was out of the question. Seahaven served as a better location for their clandestine assignation, but as a precaution she'd avoided the downtown.

The center of town gave her the willies anyway. Even though some of the original shops had been refurbished and a few new ones added, its downtown was almost frighteningly quaint.

A scant twenty miles north of Palm Beach, Seahaven wasn’t quite the place to be. Yet. It would be. Developers were knocking on the town’s door, making regular appearances at Seahaven City Council meetings clamoring for zoning changes and special favors.

And why not? The town encompassed one of the last underdeveloped stretches of coastline in eastern Florida. Margo herself planned to build the new site for Lazenby’s corporate headquarters on the fringes of Seahaven.

Owing to the lavish contribution she’d made to the city’s development-mad mayor’s re-election campaign, Margo wasn’t entirely anonymous in downtown Seahaven. So she'd dressed in an Oscar de la Renta suit in please-don’t-notice-me black and arranged to have the PI meet her at this unpretentious place across the bridge on Highway A1A.

She reached into her Gucci handbag and pulled out her cell phone, intending to call Eddie Sassenbury and ask where the hell her PI was, when the front door of the restaurant flew open.

It let in a stiff, salty breeze and a young woman with thick shoulder-length hair in a deep auburn who looked to be in her mid-twenties.

Margo dropped the cell phone back into her bag and clasped her hands together as she watched the woman approach a waitress. The waitress nodded toward the table where Margo sat.

Yes! This stylish creature, this female version of James Bond, was her PI.

Margo had seldom seen a woman with that coloring who knew how to capitalize on it but this woman had managed it beautifully. Her golden-hued skin was smooth and flawless, complementing her hair so well that Margo wagered she was a master of foundation choice.

If Margo analyzed the woman’s colors, she’d label her an Autumn. Women with skin and hair like hers typically looked best in warm colors that were yellow based, and she obviously knew that.

She’d chosen a blouse in a lovely shade of gold which she’d paired with cinnamon-brown slacks. Even her lipstick, with its brownish undertones, was perfect.

This was a woman with a sense of style and color, which the world had far too few of to Margo’s way of thinking.

A woman who would look good while kicking ass!

Margo had a feeling the young woman would do. Oh, yes, she would do very nicely.

***

TORI CONSCIOUSLY SLOWED her momentum so she wouldn't rush over to the Woman in Black’s table.

Now that she was on the case, she was eager to get started. She needed to view this as an opportunity rather than an ordeal. Not only would the advance payment help toward proving she could make it on her own, but Tori might discover she had an aptitude for private detecting.

She doubted she was a natural, owing to the fact that she'd always been a bust at the board game
Clue.
She was, however, a fast learner.

After she'd read the writing on her magic disco ball, she'd headed straight for the bookstore for help. She hadn't yet read
So, You Want to be a PI
cover to cover, but felt more secure with a reference book in her purse.

“Are you Victoria Whitley?" the Woman in Black asked in a stage whisper when Tori got to within a few feet of the table.

Her face was fine-boned and beautiful, the lines bracketing her mouth the only giveaway that she was probably on the down side of sixty. Her dark hair was salon-perfect and her makeup was not only expensive but expertly applied to bring out her large, wide-set dark eyes.

"Y—," Tori began, but didn't get the word out.

"Quick. Sit down," the woman ordered in a quiet voice that managed to pack an authoritative punch.

Tori sat in a chair catty-corner to the woman.

“I was going to say that everybody calls me Tori," Tori whispered back. “I’m sorry. Eddie didn’t tell me your name.”

“I know.”

Tori waited for her to expand on her reply. She didn’t. “What
is
your name?”

The Woman in Black cast a furtive glance around the room before lifting her menu and shielding her face from the diners at the next table. She peeked at Tori from around the side of the menu.

“You can call me... Ms. M,” she said, still in that loud whisper. “Yes, I like that. It’s a good name for a PI’s client. It reminds me of James Bond’s colleague. He goes by the one letter, too.”

“James Bond isn’t a private detective,” Tori said slowly. “He’s a secret agent.”

“Close enough,” Ms. M said.

Tori nodded, as though this wasn’t the oddest conversation she’d had in, oh, forever. She leaned forward. “Why are we whispering?”

“I know how you private eyes operate. I don’t want us to attract attention,” Ms. M said.

Too late
, Tori thought. They possibly could have gotten away with the stage whispers, but the other diners had started staring when Ms. M hid her face behind the menu. Not to mention the only other person Tori had ever seen wear an expensive black suit on a sunny day at the beach had been carrying an urn.

“I think we should stop whispering and that you should put the menu down,” Tori said in her regular voice. At the woman’s crestfallen expression, she added, “Sometimes you’re more conspicuous when you try not to be.”

Ms. M brightened. “Oooo, I didn’t think of that but it’s brilliant. I knew I was doing the right thing when I hired an expert like you.”

Tori stopped herself from cringing. She was a PI now. She had a reference book. She could claim a little expertise.

“I hope you won't be disappointed," she began, then stopped. That was lame. How could she inspire confidence in her client if she didn't have any in herself? Tori tried again. "I mean, you won't be disappointed."

Ms. M leaned forward, her gorgeous eyes narrowed as they focused on Tori. "Can I ask you something?"

Oh, Lord. She'd want Tori to recite her credentials, which was within her rights. Tori managed to nod while she tried to come up with a way to make her non-existent experience seem impressive.

"What brand of makeup do you wear?" Ms. M asked.

Makeup? O-kay.

“My foundation and powder are by Lazenby. My eye makeup is from Revlon,” Tori said slowly, wondering where Ms. M was headed with this. Would she shift into a discussion of the use of makeup in various disguises?

Ms. M sat up straighter, like she had a board at her back. “Revlon’s a drugstore brand. What’s wrong with Lazenby’s eye makeup?”

Okay, Tori could play along.

“It’s not worth the price difference. Revlon has a wider choice of colors and a smoother texture, not to mention a softer brown shade of mascara.” Tori registered the woman’s intent expression. “Why do you ask?”

“I was interested.”

Tori waited for her to elaborate. Instead Ms. M waved off an approaching waitress and bent to lift an expensive-looking calfskin briefcase off the floor. She pulled out a piece of paper with a photograph printed on it and set it down on the table between them.