Her Better Half

“Have you got qualifications?”

“A history major.”

Erin shook her head. “I meant something that would help you get a job.”

I covered my face with my hands. “No. None of those kind of qualifications.” God help me, I was a throwback to the fifties. A stay-at-home mom with no relevance to the real world.

I set my glass on the table and Erin refilled it, only this time she didn’t add any vodka.

“You’re screwed, girl.”

“I know it.” I was going to have to get a job working in a grocery store. Or maybe in a factory. I could just see myself, a week from now, toiling for minimum wage in a sweatshop in a basement on Queen Street where I’d be harassed by the middle-aged, overweight male boss for sexual favors….

I tried to stand and that was when I realized just how much I’d had to drink. Great. Now I was going to cap off one of the worst days of my life by passing out on my new neighbor’s porch.

And to think I’d been the one judging Erin Karmeli when I’d first met her.

“I don’t usually drink in the afternoon,” I tried to say, not sure how the words actually came out sounding.

“Yeah, you wait until the kids are in bed, right?”

“No!”

Erin laughed. “Relax. I know you’re a straight arrow. Believe me, I can always spot the other kind. Why don’t you sit until the dizziness passes?”

“You probably have things to do….” I demurred. But still, I sat. I didn’t really have any other option.

“Nothing pressing. Besides, I think I have just the solution for you.”

“Oh?” I pretended interest. Everyone close to me had given their own well-meaning advice. My mother wanted the girls and me to move back home. My friends thought I should have a wild affair, then sue Gary for child support and force him to come home and get a job. My kids wished I could wave a magic wand and somehow get their father back, along with the house and everything else.

“You need a job, right? As it happens, I have so much business right now, I’ve been turning away clients. How would you like to work as a private investigator?”

A private investigator. Some long-buried sense of adventure burned inside of me at those words.

A private investigator.

I thought of the Sue Grafton mystery series I liked so much. I wouldn’t be Lauren Anderson Holloway, dull mother and divorcée, anymore. I would be like Kinsey Millhone…an edgy, exciting, interesting private investigator.

Wait a minute. Who was I kidding? Kinsey Millhone didn’t cook and do laundry and organize appointments for her family. She ran on the beach, talked tough and knew how to use a gun.

I couldn’t be a private eye. I wasn’t brave enough for starters. I had no investigative skills.

“I can’t, Erin.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Neither did I, until I started. I learned on the job…just like you’re going to.”

“But—” It had to be more complicated than that. “Wouldn’t I need to be licensed?”

“Sure. You have a record?”

It took me a moment to realize she was referring to a criminal record. “No.”

“Then it’s a snap. We fill in the forms and write the check. We can do it tomorrow!” Erin narrowed her eyes. “That’s if you want the job. I don’t want to pressure you.”

Maybe Erin didn’t want to pressure me, but my bank manager soon would. What were my options? What did I really have to lose?

“I’ll take the job.”

I could at least give it a try.

A week later, I was on Dupont Street, searching for the diner where I was supposed to meet Erin for lunch. Erin was planning to brief me on our first surveillance job. It was happening tonight, after dark. Though I would be with Erin, my stomach tightened and gurgled at the very thought of spying on another person.

As Erin had promised, it hadn’t been difficult for me to get my license to operate as a private investigator. And yesterday Erin had helped me sign up for an online course that would teach me the basics of the job. It was all happening quickly and I had the sense that I couldn’t stop it if I tried.

Not that I wanted to. I’d signed an agreement with Erin and the money was way better than I could have hoped for.

On the other side of the road, I spotted the place Erin had told me about. Murphy’s Grill was wedged between a hardware store and a tattoo parlor on the sunny side of Dupont Street. The signage was old and missing one l. The building itself was red brick with a line of rectangular windows facing out to the street. Everything…the sign, the bricks, the glass…looked tired and just a little grimy.

Why did Erin want to meet here?

I crossed on a green light and passed the owner-operated hardware store where I’d gone to purchase cleaning supplies a few days ago. Denny Stavinsky had been keen to offer advice on everything from furnace filters to bathroom caulking. In so doing, he’d managed to slip in the fact that his wife had died seven years ago and that his son, his ungrateful son, only visited once a year around Christmas.

This neighborhood is my life, Denny had told me. The people here are the best. I’m sure you and your daughters will be very happy here.

I stopped at the diner door and glanced farther down the street. Past the tattoo parlor was a pawnshop, then a consignment clothing store. Garbage for tomorrow’s pickup was already lined along the curb. Rosedale, this was not.

Welcome to my neighborhood.

I sighed, then leaned my shoulder into the door. The first thing I noticed was the smell. A fast-food combination of coffee and French fries and grilled meat. Facing me was a long counter lined with stools. Behind the counter stood a broad-shouldered guy in a plaid shirt. He looked more like a lumberjack than someone working in the food services industry.

Was this Murphy? He met my gaze for a moment and I had the odd sense that he somehow disapproved of me.

I surveyed the long, narrow room, disappointed to see there were no booths or tables, just another counter along the window with more stools.

Perhaps Murphy didn’t want to encourage the sort of customers who lingered over their meals.

Or perhaps his weren’t the sort of meals one ever wished to linger over.

I settled on one of the stools facing the kitchen and surreptitiously studied the lumberjack. He had strong features, dark coloring, a grim set to his mouth. In high school he would have been one of the kids in the last row, handing notes back and forth to the girls like Erin.

I had always wondered what happened to bad boys after high school. I should have guessed they opened greasy spoons in suspect neighborhoods.

Something in this diner had to be good, though, because most of the stools were occupied, primarily by men. They were of all ages, most dressed in workmen’s clothing, heavy boots, grimy T-shirts.