C.J. Carmichael - Her Better Half

“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.

I glanced back at the big, broad-shouldered guy behind the counter. He hadn’t shaved in about two days. His hair was on the long side, but it had been brushed, and his hands looked clean, too, I was relieved to note when he slid a coffee cup in front of me. He proceeded to fill it without even asking if I wanted any.

“You’re Erin’s new neighbor, I take it?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. I don’t get many customers who wear pearls.”

I put a hand to my throat. Gary had given me the necklace for our ten-year anniversary. For some reason I hadn’t been able to take it off since I’d signed the divorce papers. I’d removed my rings, storing them in the deposit box at the bank for the girls when they were older.

But the pearls I hadn’t been able to part with. They were the last link to my past, to the person I’d been.

“You okay?”

Murphy was looking at me as if he found me strange. Gathering my composure, I held out my hand. “Lauren Holloway.”

“Murphy Jones.”

His grip felt overwhelming, calloused, warm.

“Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Was that a smirk at the corner of his mouth? It came and went so quickly, I couldn’t tell for sure. “Thanks.” I cleared my throat. “This is a nice place. Have you been open here long?”

“A nice place, huh? I’m glad you think so.” Murphy tossed me a menu. “Take a look and give me a shout when you know what you want.”

I watched him head for the kitchen, noting narrow hips and long legs. An order pad and a pencil peeked out the back pocket of his jeans.

I glanced around again, and several of the other customers quickly averted their heads. No doubt I stood out from the usual Murphy’s Grill patron in my skirt and heels. Perhaps I should have gone for a more casual look.

Bells above the door jangled and Erin entered. Now she was dressed exactly right for this place, in a tight faded jean skirt and several layered tank tops. Her left wrist was covered in silver bangles and her dark hair curled madly in the late summer humidity.

“You found it okay?”

“Hard to miss.” I moved my purse and Erin scooted onto the stool next to me. The guy on the next stool over took great interest in Erin crossing her legs.

“And was I right about the coffee? Better than Starbucks, huh?”

“Twice as strong and half the price,” Murphy said, appearing in time to fill Erin’s travel mug just as she finished unscrewing the lid. “You gals want steak sandwiches?”

“Have you got anything better to offer?” Erin asked.

“What do you think?”

“I’ll have a steak sandwich. Have you met Lauren?”

“We’ve met. What do you say, Lauren? Steak sandwich?”

I wondered about the relationship between these two. There was a tension in their body language that belied the nonchalance of the conversation. I opened the menu and scanned the lunch selections. “How about a BLT?”