Jackie’s face went feral in the best of ways. “Okay, then.”
“And I hired a private investigator who’s going to get the proof, like with pictures and stuff. I hope that’s okay, but I sort of failed at getting an incriminating picture myself.” My mind flashed back to me hopping out from the side of Stephanie’s house and accidently taking a selfie. My white-lipped, wild-eyed face still stared back at me from my phone. For some reason, I couldn’t tap the little garbage can and erase the memory of that night. I needed to see and remember that I wasn’t helpless . . . even if I hadn’t gotten what I had set out to get.
But now I wasn’t alone. I had Jackie, a private investigator, and Ruby to back me up.
Jackie lifted a shoulder. “I have some guys I use, but if you have your own and he’s licensed, then go with your guy. Louisiana is a no-fault divorce state, but I want indisputable proof. You may think your husband will go along with an easy divorce, but don’t be surprised if things turn ugly. Better to have proof of infidelity when it comes to custody issues and dividing assets. So let’s talk about a timeline.” Jackie moved some papers around on her desk, pulling out a legal pad, which I found very appropriate.
And then after we ironed out what would happen, I paid her a retainer and walked out of her office, resigned but determined.
Until we had proof, I would remain as I was—pretending everything was normal. Hey, I’m a woman. We’re good at plastering on smiles and getting through things. It’s what we do. Scott could be fairly oblivious, so I felt certain he wouldn’t suspect that I knew he was cheating on me. After the private investigator got the goods on Scott, I would start packing his bags and tell him to leave the premises. I needed him out of the house because that was some legal thing. Jackie told me to make him leave. And I knew too well that he had a place to stay. Jackie would file the divorce papers, we’d serve him, and then we’d get a court date. Easy peasy.
But I didn’t want to go longer than a week, so I texted Patrick Vitt and told him to get going. I had Venmoed him the initial fee, along with Scott’s particulars. I needed that proof. It was my insurance against getting screwed in the divorce and my way of protecting Julia Kate.
Reeling with conviction, I called into Printemps and told Jade that I would be in later that day. Ruby had class on Tuesdays and only worked mornings, so Jade might appreciate an extra body in the store. Besides, it was time for me to leap back into the land of the living and go about my life. Now more than ever, I needed to focus on my daughter, my business, and protecting my assets.
But first I was going to bring my mother lunch because she had a sore throat, and that meant staying in bed, drinking whiskey, and sneaking episodes of The Real Housewives, though she would turn it to Masterpiece Theatre if she thought anyone was coming over.
Look at me being the good daughter.
After arguing with my mother over the thermostat—veritable sweat-lodge level—I finally made it to Printemps around three thirty that afternoon, after ensuring that my daughter had a ride to soccer and dropping off the cleats she’d left in her bathroom.
Printemps looked as it always had—clean, cheerful, and full of possibilities—and it gave me comfort to walk in the back door to the familiar smell of overwarmed coffee, beeswax, and old wood. As I suspected, Ruby wasn’t there and Jade had done some decent business—selling a cupboard, two serving tables, and a ceramic peacock that I had spied in an English antiques catalog. Knew someone would want the peacock. Two crates had arrived that afternoon from our buyer in France, and with nowhere to put them, Ruby had stored them in the attached garage. I needed to construct a better storage facility, perhaps one that was temperature controlled, since many of the antiques that arrived were sensitive to the Louisiana humidity.
Wanting to get the fragile items inside and on the floor, I grabbed a crowbar and went outside to unpack and start cataloging our new inventory.
After logging in a small pie safe that I knew Jenny Martindale would want for her aunt’s kitchen remodel, several sculpted bookends, a snuffbox that I was certain was worth more than it had been priced, and a mahogany Hepplewhite mirror that would look good in my own dining room, I found a packet of books. étienne had written a note.
Procured these from an estate sale in Calais. Thought as an American you might find these amusing. No charge.
étienne
I dug into the box and pulled out dusty books that bore several decades of use.
“The Case of the Negligent Nymph?” I muttered, frowning at the cover featuring a young, nude blonde clinging to a canoe. I selected another titled Revelations of a Lady Detective, and then several pulp-fiction detective magazines, which I stacked beside me as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the garage. I pulled out a few more dusty detective books and found a bundle of penny dreadfuls, including a few that looked to be from The Mysteries of London. They were in horrible shape, but I still felt a trill of excitement holding old publications that had intrigued Victorian Londoners with stories of adventure on the streets and that were part of what many believed to be the longest-running novel. The other stack within the box held books titled How to Be a Successful Detective and The Sherlock Holmes Handbook.