Secrets in Stockbridge

1 If you were a professional accountant, would you agree to prepare your ex’s taxes? For other than revenge purposes, I mean. If you were a baker, would you agree to make his wedding cake? For other than revenge purposes, I mean. If you were a plumber, would you agree to fix his toilet? For reasons other than a court order to fix the damage you had inflicted, I mean. You get the idea. So what the hell was I thinking when I allowed my ex-boyfriend Bran Woodford (yes, that’s his real name) to hire me to do an investigation? I wasn’t thinking about revenge, but I wasn’t thinking smart either. I guess I just wasn’t thinking. I’m a private investigator in Tallahassee (which is in north Florida or south Georgia, depending on who you ask). Bran lives in upstate New York. We dated long ago when we were both living in Boston after college. Our breakup wasn’t particularly acrimonious. At the time, I decided the occasional perks of dating a trust fund baby didn’t outweigh the everyday reality of dating a trust fund baby. He didn’t take it personally. Of course, he didn’t take anything personally. Did I mention the trust fund baby part? Don’t get me wrong—Bran wasn’t a bad guy. He’d just never really had to be a good guy. I’d heard a little about Bran and his exploits (from friends, not tabloids—the trust fund wasn’t that big) but hadn’t actually heard from him in over ten years. He called out of the blue recently, opening with a few minutes of casual chitchat before segueing into “so I hear you’re an investigator” and culminating with an offer I didn’t have a good reason to refuse. His request seemed simple: a background check into a man his aunt Jeanette was dating. Also in his favor, he called at a time when my coffee kitty, along with the rent and other less important funds, was dwindling. On top of that, I hadn’t been vaccinated in a while (yes, that’s a euphemism), so my resistance to his considerable charm was pretty low. So let’s summarize. An old friend, with whom I just happened to have been intimate, currently living a thousand or so miles away, asked to pay me real money for work that I regularly do, work that would require no more contact between us than a brief phone call from me advising that a report was on the way. An old friend whose check wouldn’t bounce. Still think I was stupid? Of course I was. The background check was relatively straightforward, as I had hoped. The brief phone call advising that my report was on the way was not straightforward. In fact, that’s where things got complicated. “Bran, hey! It’s Sydney.” “Sydney—thank God!” A more enthusiastic response than I was used to, but maybe it meant I’d get a bonus. “Listen, I wanted to let you know that I finished my report. No major red flags, but I can give you the highlights if you’d like. I was wondering whether you preferred your copy by snail mail or email.” “I’d like it in person.” “You mean like Fed Ex?” “I mean like you. Coming up here. In person. Today.” “Bran, you haven’t gone all Howard Hughes on me, have you? Tell me you’re not serious.” “I’m not crazy, and I am serious. They’re talking about getting married. We have to stop it.” “I assume you mean Jeanette and James. With alliteration like that, it’s obviously meant to be. Look, stopping weddings is a little outside my job description. And you’re not my only client right now.” (Little white lie.) No response. Waiting people out is an investigative tool I’d spent years honing. Unfortunately Bran is a savant, and he outlasted me. “Bran, I can’t just drop everything and fly to New York.” Another little white lie. I could go; I just didn’t want to go. And I was not going to speak first this time. Seconds ticked away. Metaphorically. Where’s a good old-fashioned non-digital clock to stare at when you need it? Obviously not in my office. Maybe I should buy one. And some new blinds for the front windows that face the street. Mine were looking a little tatty. My office chair was on its last legs (so to speak) as well. Every once in a while the chair would start slowly creeping toward the floor on its own, so slowly that it gave me Lilliputian panic attacks. I probably wouldn’t get them if I were a little taller to begin with. I continued to silently inventory the state of my office furnishings. This time Bran caved first. “How about tickets to a Red Sox game?” I quickly flipped open my day planner, skimmed through it, and glanced at the calendar on my desk. I really could fly up there. Put off some paperwork. Take a break from the Florida heat. Avoid the legislators and their circus—wait, they weren’t in session now. Okay then, help a friend in need. “I can get you in a Dugout Box, close enough to smell the sweat,” he offered. “Okay, but I can’t leave until tomorrow. And I have to be back on Monday.” I tried to sound grudging in my acceptance, but I don’t think I was very successful. Bran knew there’s very little I won’t do to go to a game on the rare occasion I’m within a couple hundred miles of Fenway. Make it a Dugout Box and the list gets even smaller. “Great! Thanks, Syd. I really appreciate this. And my fiancée is looking forward to meeting you. My assistant will make the arrangements and email you the details. ” That evening I nearly wore a groove in my floor walking between the closet and the bed, deciding what to pack. I tried to tell myself it was because I was going to a different climate, but come on—summer is summer. No weather in New York would be more challenging than the juxtaposition of Tallahassee’s heat and humidity with the extreme air conditioning de rigueur for all buildings in the capital. It wasn’t the weather I was trying to dress for; it was my ex-boyfriend. Or more accurately, his fiancée. Bran and his fiancée and his aunt Jeanette and her fiancé James and who knows who else—oh yeah, me, with no fiancé—would be staying at the Woodford house. I wasn’t sure what cover story Bran had for me, but experience had taught me great respect for Bran’s abilities of fabrication. Which brought me back to—fiancée! Who the hell would marry Bran? Impossible to say, since he’d managed to hang up without even giving me a first name. Come to think of it, meeting the woman who could get Bran to the altar was worth the entire trip. Although I hear he’d had a few near-misses, so she shouldn’t count her half of the trust fund until it hatched. I laughed out loud and felt my wardrobe dysfunction melt away as I threw my usual road uniform (jeans and button-down white shirts) into a carry-on. My only fashion concessions were to pack some nicer camisoles, a couple of scarves to tame my crazy red hair, and one cool summer dress, in case the heat and/or social pressure got to be too much for me.