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Chapter 2
If you decide you want to become a kickass PI, do not wear dry clean only clothes to work. ~ Phoebe’s rules for becoming a better person
Istudy the boring beige suburban house. According to the case file, Stan Brown lives here. Except Mr. Brown is supposed to be dead. Supposedly, he was killed in a work-related accident. I flip through the file as I keep one eye on the house. Brown is a highway construction worker who ‘died’ when a car smashed into a barrier he was standing next to and went up in flames. His body was never recovered. Shiver. How horrid.
Well, it would be horrid if it were true. Because Stan Brown is apparently alive and well and living in suburbia. Due to rumors, the man was planning to fake his death, the insurance company is dragging its feet paying out the widow. But so far, no one has been able to prove Brown is alive. You Cheat, We Eat is the third investigative firm the insurance company hired.
I never thought I’d be working at a place called You Cheat, We Eat, but I have to admit I kind of love the name. Hailey says since she makes most of her money chasing cheaters, she might as well advertise the fact. Plus, there’s no better way to get revenge on cheating men than by making money on outing them.
I don’t chase after cheaters, though. When Hailey and Suzie agreed to take me on as a future investigator, we decided I would concentrate on insurance fraud cases. Apparently, I’m not inconspicuous enough to chase cheaters. Yeah, right. In my old life, I was practically invisible.
But wearing the clothes of my previous life makes me stick out in my new life. Yeah, yeah, I get it. The Furstenberg wraparound dresses and Louboutin high heels are a bit over the top. But those are the clothes I owned. I wasn’t going to throw an absolute mint in fashion clothing away just because I ran away from my old life. Instead, I brought it all to my new life. Except the clothes make me stand out like a blinking road sign in my new life.
Suzie claims you could wrap me in clingwrap, and I’d still stand out. She’s the queen of exaggeration. Yes, I’m five-foot-nine and I’ve got the requisite curves. Unlike Hailey, I was first in line when boobs and bootie were handed out. But I’ve spent my life starving myself to ensure those curves don’t go out of control. It’s hard to appreciate your body when you’re always hungry.
In addition to my curvy body, I’m blonde with green eyes. I think my eyes look exotic with a slight slant to them, but according to my mother, I’m one in a million blonde-haired girls. There’s absolutely nothing special about me or so she’s told me a million times.
I shut thoughts of my mother down. Thoughts of her will lead to thoughts about the rest of my loving family. Sarcasm intended. Thinking about my so-called family is akin to jumping the fast train to depression. Been there. Done that. Have the bruised heart as a souvenir.
I lean my head against the headrest and force my eyes to stay open. This is my third day of surveillance on Stan Brown’s supposed house and I am bored, bored, bored. Hailey warned me when I begged her for a job that being a PI was boring. I should have listened. What am I saying? I still would have taken the job.
I straighten when I hear an engine. Is Brown finally leaving his home? The garage door hasn’t moved an inch in the past three days. Come on, come on. I cross my fingers and zero in on the garage door. It doesn’t move. Darn. My shoulders drop and I sigh.
A delivery van passes. Ah, that explains the engine noise. I watch as the driver slams on his brakes halfway down the street. The obnoxious beeping sound delivery vans have when reversing starts up and the vehicle backs up the street.
When the van stops right in front of the Brown residence, I squeal and pull out my camera to start taking pictures. As the delivery man slams his door, I keep my camera trained on the front door of the house and wait for someone to open it. Fingers crossed it’s Stan Brown.
The door opens and a woman steps out. Darn. Not Stan then. I take several pictures anyway. I zoom in to get a closer look. The woman resembles Melanie Brown, the widow. At least I’m at the right house. The delivery man approaches dragging a trolley holding the world’s largest television. How in the world does the widow of a construction worker have the money to afford such an obnoxiously sized television?
Melanie ushers the delivery man in. Before she slams her door, she scans the neighborhood. Huh. In my experience, you want your neighbors to know when you’ve bought a big-ticket item. Bragging rights and all. Melanie’s behavior is more than a bit suspicious.
I need to take action. Sitting on my butt in a vehicle parked outside of the Brown residence for days on end isn’t going to prove Stan Brown is alive and well. And I don’t get paid unless I get the proof. I hook the strap of the camera around my neck and exit the SUV. I start tiptoeing down the sidewalk but stop when I realize I look suspicious, not to mention stupid, tiptoeing in broad daylight down an average street in suburbia.
I casually stroll around the block instead until I’m standing near the Brown’s backyard. A fence surrounds the yard. But this is not some charming white wooden picket fence. No, this is a privacy fence clearly designed to prevent peaking into their backyard and back windows, which is strange since this is suburbia and no one else has a fence around their yard. Considering it also looks brand-spanking-new, my suspicious radar is on high alert.
Since the temperature is around freezing and there’s a light snow falling, no one else is out and about. Perfect. I look around one more time to make sure I’m truly alone out here. Yep, I’m all alone. Everyone is probably tucked up in their homes where it’s cozy and warm while I’m outside discovering why people flee the Midwest for the West Coast. The wind whipping off the lake sure is cold in this city.
I study the fence for a moment. I’m guessing it’s higher than six feet, maybe seven. I’m five-nine, I can totally do this. All those stupid gymnastics classes I was forced to take as a teenager are finally going to come in handy. I take a running leap at the fence and grab the top. My legs flail for a moment, but I manage to get traction and haul myself over.
I land on my feet inside of the Brown’s backyard. For a moment, I have the urge to throw my hands in the air as if I just landed a double layout with a full twist. A feat I never managed in my short gymnastics career. I squash the urge and kneel down. I see a hedge and maneuver myself behind it to get my bearings.
Once my heart rate is back under control, I peek out from behind the hedge for a look at the house. My jaw drops. This side of the house does not look like the boring beige suburban ranch the front does. Not at all. The entire back wall is windows, and the ceilings are vaulted. On one side, there’s a kitchen to die for with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances. On the other side is the open living room where someone is installing a television nearly as large as the wall.
My suspicious radar is now beeping in the red alert area. There is no way Melanie Brown can afford this house. Unless she happens to be expecting a great big paycheck from say an insurance company.
I slowly make my way to the other side of the yard, camera at the ready, with my eyes fixated on the house. My foot slips and I look down to see I’ve walked onto a tarp. A tarp? Why is there a tarp in the middle of their yard? I scan the area and realize the tarp covers an inground pool. Oh shit. I stand perfectly still, wondering if the tarp can handle my weight. My feet begin to sink. I guess it can’t. I leap toward the edge of the pool. The tarp collapses before I can reach safety.
Suddenly, I’m waist-deep in water. I grab the camera and hold it above my head as I slog my way to the stairs now visible in one corner of the pool.
“Hey! Get out of my yard!” A man shouts.
There’s no need to yell, I’m leaving already. I take a running leap at the fence and vault over it. As soon as my feet land on the other side, I’m moving. I run as fast as my feet will take me to my vehicle. I don’t take time to catch my breath once I’m inside. I switch on the engine and tear out of there.
I keep my eyes peeled on the rearview mirror as I fly out of the suburb. When I don’t see a vehicle chasing me, I slow down and crank the heat up. I am absolutely freezing. Being drenched in thirty-degree weather will do that to a woman.
By the time I park in the underground parking garage of the building where the private investigator offices are located, my teeth are chattering. I may have managed to keep most of my coat dry, but my pants are soaked through as are my cheap canvas shoes. At least I wasn’t wearing my Louboutins.
I squish my way to the office, dripping water all over the place as I go. I open the door and Lola, Hailey’s dog, immediately rushes out of Hailey’s office and comes barreling toward me. This dog loves me. Way too much if you ask me. I push her snout away.
