Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

"So how about it?" Agnes looked hopeful.
"We need to be going," I spoke loudly, so she couldn't misunderstand me. Well, any more than usual. "It's getting late."

Agnes glanced to a hideous chrome clock over her pilfered boxed TV. "It's only eight o'clock."

"And I have work." Despite my exhaustion, it felt really good to say that.

"You're not going out again tonight, are you?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Oh." Maybe it was my imagination, but Agnes seemed almost disappointed that there wouldn't be another round of late night shenanigans. "Well, I'll pop by in the morning."

"Pop by?" I repeated.

"Maybe you can come down for a movie tomorrow," Mac offered. "You and Nona. It's our turn to host, right, Mom?"

"Er, um…" I said, unwilling to commit.

"Oh that sounds terrific. What can I bring?" My mother pounced on that idea like it was a poor, helpless mouse.

"Whatever. We usually have popcorn and candy, things like that, like a real movie experience without concession stand prices. See you."

I waited until the door to our own apartment was completely secured before rounding on my offspring. "What the hell was that?"

"What?" Mac had moved back into the living room and was booting up her laptop.

"You just invited Nona and my mother to movie night. That's our special night."

"Special? What's so special, the part where you slub around in pants with elastic waistbands or the food orgy that makes them necessary?"

"Come," I said with a lilt in my voice. "Let me sing you the song of my bloated people."

"Mom," Mac said. "She's lonely. They both are. What can it hurt?"

I envisioned our normal carb and sugar fest done Agnes Taylor Style. The popcorn would be smart, the candy sugar free, the movie dialogue filled with interruptions to the tune of "What's he doing now? Why's she going in there? I can't believe they're doing that on film."

"Mac, come on. Things have been totally nuts since we moved in here. I've been dosed with pepper spray twice, and now my mother lives upstairs and can 'pop by' whenever she wants." I made air quotes around the horrific phrase.

Mac rose and put both hands on my shoulders. "Mom, relax. I know you have this insane fear of commitment, but it's one night, not every weekend for the rest of our lives."

"It's the gateway night," I complained. "You think you're only in it for one night then bam, it becomes a routine. You heard her. If we don't watch our step, we'll be signed up for bridge and a book club. Do you think she's going through menopause? And where the hell is The Captain? Why isn't he pounding on her door, demanding she come home and make Salisbury steak or chicken pot pies?"

"Have you called him?"

"I've been a little busy, what with the murder investigation and all."

Mac reached into my shoulder bag and plucked my cell free. "No time like the present."

"No wait!" I lunged, though it was too late.

My daughter had reflexes like a cheetah, and the phone was already ringing when she handed it to me.

"Hello?" a gruff male voice answered.

"Um, hi, Dad. It's, um, me."

"Mackenzie," he said as though there was anyone else on the planet who called him Dad. Although most of the time I referred to him as The Captain, since he was more comfortable in that role than he was being a father.

"How are you?" I asked, testing the waters.

"Fine."

"And Mom?" I asked.

"Fine."

I held the phone away from my face so I could gape at it. He wasn't going to tell me? His own daughter?

If that was how he wanted to play it. "May I speak with her, please?"

There was a great deal of throat clearing and then he said, "She's not here at the moment."

"Where is she?"

"I'm not exactly sure." My father's gruff voice didn't sound uncertain, more like irritated at the inconvenience.

As usual, my temper got the best of me. "Well I am. She's here."

"With you?" He sounded incredulous.

"No, Dad. She's upstairs in one of the apartments in Uncle Al's villa. She bought a piano and some hideous art, and she's acting like whatever is going on between the two of you is permanent."

Silence.

"Dad? What happened?"

"It's none of your concern," he said.

"None of my concern?" I realized that at some point in the conversation I'd begun to pace the length of the room but couldn't seem to stop. "Did you not hear the part about Mom living right upstairs from us? And in what universe is my parents being separated none of my concern?"

"We're not separated," he snapped. "We're getting a divorce."

Burden of Proof—the duty to prove or disprove a fact or idea.

From the
Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living
by Albert Taylor, PI

Another crappy night of sleep and I was up and out of the house early the next morning. Armed with a giant coffee and fortitude, I drove out past Cambridge to my grandmother's old farmhouse situated on the outskirts of Boston.

My father and Uncle Al had grown up in the farmhouse, and I'd stayed with Nan there most summers as well as my sophomore year of high school. The Captain had been stationed in Italy, and he and my mother had offered me the choice between staying with Nan or coming with them. In the end, even time in Europe couldn't compete with the idea of being free from my parents for an entire year. It was an option they'd both bitterly regretted.

I pulled Helga up into the shale drive and parked under the giant red maple that was a sight to behold in October. The swing where I'd spent many a summer day was long gone, but the memory of it still made me smile. Nan had been a terrific lady, fun and feisty, a real true blue Yankee to her core. I'd spent hours with her in her garden, weeding, plucking potatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, and carrots from the earth, which she'd then turn into a delicious meal in a process that was nothing less than magic. Being back in her space, I could almost hear her voice.

"It's all about the love, Mackenzie. You put love into everything you do, or you shouldn't bother doing anything at all."

"That's not what my mom says," I'd replied as I licked mashed potato off a beater.

"Stuff and nonsense. Your mother wouldn't know passion if it bit her on the rump."

She'd always referred to Agnes as that pretentious, social-climbing tartlet, a phrase that was as descriptive of her character as it was of my mother's. I wondered if she'd be pleased that my mother wasn't living in her home any longer, but thought that she would be more upset that her only surviving son's marriage of thirty-three years had failed.

Feeling Nan's spirit with me for the two unpleasant tasks I'd come here to handle, I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders and made my way up the steps to the front door.

The Captain pulled it open before I could knock. "I thought I heard a car."

"You did." I offered a halfhearted smile. If I were a guy, we could do the whole manly handshake thing, but the damn double standard that ruled my father's world wouldn't go for that, so we stood there in uncomfortable silence.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee?" he asked.

If it had been anybody else, I would have cracked a joke about my coffee addiction being worse than crack or heroin and called him an enabler. Instead I just nodded and stepped past him into the house.

My father led the way down the dark pokey hallway that spread out into Nan's bright, sun-filled kitchen. The cabinets were white, and each had a different piece of fruit stenciled by the knob that Nan had painted herself. My father went to the pear one and pulled down two coffee cups.

"Milk and sugar?" he asked politely.

"Yes, thank you." I slid my coat off and draped it over the back of my chair by the farm table.

He fixed the mugs and then handed one to me, keeping the other for himself. I was fairly certain that my caffeine addiction came from him.

"So, things going well?" He didn't look at me, his sharp blue gaze fixed on his coffee. My father was a tall man with big, broad shoulders and a nose that looked like a piece of Play-Doh someone had stuck on as an afterthought. Uncle Al's had been the same way. The two men had looked like twins, even though there had been six years between them. Thankfully my nose and Mac's came from Agnes's side.

"Yes, Mac has a genetics project for school."

He sipped his coffee and nodded. "So you said on the phone."

"And I wanted to see you. See how you're holding up."

"Mackenzie, I was in charge of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier with a crew of five thousand. My life's not about to fall apart because my marriage is."

"I know that," I said. "But I'm asking more about the emotional side."

"I don't deal well with emotions. You know that."

I did, all too well. "Dad, look. Mom's putting on a brave face, but I can tell she's missing you." I could tell nothing of the sort, but I wanted to butter him up. "Do you think maybe if you two talked you could—"

He slid his chair back abruptly. "No, Mackenzie. Stay out of it."

I stared up at him, utterly stunned.

"You needed some pictures, you said?" Without waiting for me to respond, he made his way toward the stairs. I left my practically untouched coffee on the table and followed, my head spinning.

The room that had always been mine was exactly how I remembered it. After Nana died and my father retired, Mom had talked of turning it into a yoga studio, but never got around to it. Typical Agnes, talked a good game but lacked the follow-through to do much other than live vicariously through her husband and daughter.

Which made their separation doubly weird. What had The Captain done that she actually left him?

I couldn't quite manage to voice the thoughts that kept tumbling around in my head.
Did you cheat on Mom? Did
she
cheat on
you
?
For one thing, I didn't want to know that much about their sex lives, and for another I doubted either of them would answer. I'd never heard my father crack a lewd joke or even laugh at one. If someone else did, he usually stood around looking gruff and uncomfortable, which, when I thought about it, was pretty much his MO.

Another reason he was my polar opposite.

CDs I'd forgotten all about stood in a little cube container on the white nightstand. Cheap bead necklaces hung from a white sculpted hand that Nan had made in some pottery class, with my sterling toe ring resting in the palm. The lamp had been draped with a purple-and-white polka-dot scarf, and funky bucket hats hanging off the frame of a standing oval mirror attested to the horrific perm my best friend had given me halfway through the school year.

If only that had been my worst decision. Funny, I couldn't even remember the aspiring stylist's name now. Everything that had happened after had erased her from my memory.

My father, probably sick of watching my mental stroll down memory lane, moved past the twin bed and white duvet to the closet door. He crouched down and pulled out a box while I stared in horror at the clothes. Tattered jeans and oh, java, save me from the Great Wall of Flannel that had been my tribute to all things hipster. Thankfully, my fashion sense had bounced back from such a low point.

"In here," he said, handing me the box.

After all the reminders of the insecure teen I'd once been, the last thing I wanted to do was go pawing through old photos and yearbooks in front of The Captain. But it seemed ungracious to just mutter a thanks and bolt. "You should come over for dinner and see the place now that we're settled."
Thanks to Mom
, but I left that part out.

He shifted, looking as ill at ease as I'd ever seen him. "Well, I don't think—"

I scrambled to think of a decent enticement. "Mac will be there. You haven't seen her since the summer, and she can grill you for questions about Nan for her project."

I could see him hedging, and inspiration struck. "Oh, and my new boss will be coming over. He's a lawyer, but a real decent guy despite that."

He blinked, clearly surprised. "You got another job? Working in a law office?"

"Come over, and I'll tell you all about it." I wouldn't, not really. The Captain would likely burst a blood vessel when he found out his only daughter was an aspiring private investigator, just like his "deadbeat brother."

"All right," he said, surprising us both. "What time?"

"Seven thirty?" I asked, figuring that if the meal didn't go well, at least everyone would have the excuse of school or work the next day to make a hasty exit.

"Sounds good," The Captain said and then picked up the box for me and headed down the stairs.

"Where'd the car come from?" he asked as we exited the house, heading for Helga.

"Oh, she was part of the inheritance."

"Albert must have been doing well for himself." My father set the box on the passenger's seat and then stepped back.

"I got the feeling he loved what he did." I said.

The Captain frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing. Just a hunch."

"Albert was no better than a Peeping Tom, following cheating spouses and stirring up trouble." He squared his shoulders with military precision.

"He helped people, Dad. Found lost kids and reunited them with their families. You should be proud of him." I never understood the animosity between my father and his only sibling. Sure they were different, but blood was blood. "Nan was proud."

"Your grandmother had no idea what he did. It was better that way." The Captain didn't back down, instead choosing to retrench. "I'll see you tomorrow. Give my best to Mac."

Dismissed, I slunk around the side of the car, settled in behind the steering wheel, and turned the engine over. Just to unnerve me, my father watched me back out of the driveway. He looked lonely, standing there by himself. No men to order around, no wife to nudge him back inside for a hot cup of coffee. My father wasn't the sort of man who did well on his own.

Helga, sweet little ride that she was, came equipped with Bluetooth, and I ordered her to dial Mac. She answered on the first ring with a, "Ground control here. That you, Major Tom?"

Sometimes I loved that kid so much it hurt. "Affirmative. One mission down, one to go. We have a couple of parents to trap."

*   *   *

I swung by Len's office on my way back into Boston for the promised paperwork tutorial and to invite him to dinner. Bad enough I was planning to spring my parents on one another, but that was a fib of omission. If Len wasn't actually in attendance, that would have been a flat-out lie.

Luckily, Len was eager for the invite. "Oh, what should I bring?"

"Um…" It was slowly dawning on me as I was inviting all these people over for dinner they were under the misguided notion that I'd be preparing some sort of meal. "Whatever you want, Len."

"How about wine. I have a right nice wine cellar here. Red or white?"

Depending on how the evening went, we might need both. "Surprise me."

Len hummed as he got down to brass tacks and pulled up a complicated-looking spreadsheet. "Okay, so when it comes to your expenses, anything that falls under the cost of doing business qualifies. Gas, food you buy while out on a case, even phone and internet service, you want to bill for."

"How about my cell phone?" I asked, surprised that the PI gig would be so lucrative.

"Absolutely, as long as you're using it for purposes pertaining to the case. I find that the more meticulous your record keeping, the less likely a client will be to challenge. If you have car trouble, charge the cost of repairs not covered by warranty. If you travel for a case, charge the cost of the room, plus any taxes and fees. Best to steer clear of any adult movies if you plan to present the invoice to the client though." He winked.

"No
Debbie Does Des Moines
. Got it." I winked back.

"Do your best to keep it within reason. Most clients won't put up a fuss, but occasionally it'll happen."

"What about background checks?" I asked, recalling the one I'd shelled out fifty bucks to obtain on Paul Granger.

"Absolutely. Though I hope you aren't using one of those hokey internet searches," Len cautioned. "You can do it yourself with more accuracy for a lot less. Plus you still have to verify that the information you found is legitimate as well as current."

"So how do I go about that, then?" I asked, feeling a little overwhelmed.

"A lot depends on what the client is looking for. Some things, like criminal or civil charges, are often a matter of public record. You can check federal or state sources for financial purposes like tax liens, judgments, and bankruptcies as well as notices of default and assets people try to hide."

"Wow." I'd decided about halfway through that I should write down what he was saying.

"Of course these days you want to check with social media as well. I had a case last year where a woman was scamming a charity even though she had photos of a massive in-ground pool and hot tub and admitting to having a pool service on Facebook. That judgment is still pending, but you can bet your boots the people running the charity look a little closer now than they did before at their applicants."

I wrinkled my nose. "That's heinous and disgusting."

"People do worse. The point is that the more information you have about your subject, the better, but all you really need is a few pertinent details."

"What about adoption cases?" I asked.

"Depends on the case. In Massachusetts, any records before April of 1974 are open and can be obtained with a few forms. Why do you ask?"