“But you will. And people are going to ask where I got this dress. They’re going to ask where you got your dress. So maybe you need an answer for that. Perhaps this is an opportunity, Ruby. You’re taking business classes, and, obviously, you’re extremely talented. What does that mean? What do you want?”
Ruby opened her mouth and then closed it, with a sigh. “I don’t know.”
My mother walked toward Ruby and patted her cheek. “You need to find out, dear girl.”
I wanted to ask, Who are you, lady? but didn’t dare because my mother wasn’t the sort to answer existential questions. But she was acting oddly. Why was she acting oddly?
But I didn’t have a chance to siphon out why my mother was showing up unannounced and encouraging me to wear sexy dresses.
Marguerite made her goodbyes, which is to say she said, “My best, girls. I’m off to play bridge,” and then she left.
I was left with no answers to my questions about my mother. Those would have to wait, anyway. I had much to do that day, starting with figuring out this private investigator situation.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CRICKET
After my mother left and Ruby slunk off to get work done, I went back to my office, took off the refashioned dress, and pulled on my short-sleeved blouse, too-tight jeans, and comfy slip-on sneakers. After taking off the glamorous gown, I felt positively frumpy. Bluh. But then my eye caught the private investigator’s form Ruby had given me the night before. Resolve moved inside of me. Or maybe gas from the PMS. Either way, I picked up the form.
Juke Jefferson.
Sounded like a football player.
I sank into my chair and picked up a pen. After filling in all the information needed, I stared at the instructions. Fax to 318-555-PEYE.
Um, no. I wasn’t doing this via phone, fax, or email. This time I was going to lay eyes on the guy who would, God willing and the creek don’t rise, get the goods on my jerkface husband.
So I shoved the form into my bag, went to the kitchen to heat up my overpriced coffee that had grown cold while I tried on the dress, and hollered to Ruby that I was going out.
On the way to Juke’s office, I called to make sure he was available. Because halfway down the road, I realized that a private investigator might not keep bankers’ hours.
A man answered with a muffled, “’Lo?”
“Mr. Jefferson?”
“Speaking.” He sounded like I had woken him. I glanced at the van clock. It was 9:52 a.m., for heaven’s sake. But maybe he’d spent the night on a stakeout or something. I didn’t really know exactly what a private investigator did on a day-to-day basis.
“This is Cricket Crosby, a friend of your cousin Ruby. She recommended your services for collecting some photographic proof. I would like to stop by and visit with you before giving you a retainer.”
“Fine by me.”
“Perfect. I’m on my way now. I’m assuming you’re in the office since you answered the phone?”
“Uh, yeah. But now? I’m not exactly . . . that is to say, can we set up an appointment?”
I sighed internally. The old Cricket would have agreed. This current version of Cricket had to be assertive. Time was of the essence. I mean, technically, Scott could go underground, and I could end up with a whole lot of nothing as my proof of his infidelity. “Actually, if you can’t meet with me presently, I will have to move to the next private investigator on my list. I’m running out of time.”
“No, don’t do that. If you can give me twenty minutes to, uh, finish what I’m working on. I have a report that is, uh, due. Say, ten thirty? That work?” He suddenly sounded more alert, and I thought that I heard a toilet flush.
So at that point I was halfway to his office—maybe ten minutes away. But I could sit outside his business and check my phone messages until the appointed time. I had been putting off PTA and other committee business that I could catch up on easily in the van. “Sure. See you in thirty minutes.”
Ten minutes on the dot, Waze told me I had reached my destination.
I rarely had cause to visit the area of the city that sat north of downtown, and I found it busier and more industrial than I remembered. Oil-field-supply companies, used-car lots, and pawnshops shoehorned in between fast-food restaurants, tax-return places, and discount stores. People clustered at bus stops and walked down the busy highway that would take one to Caddo Lake or the small towns that had once flourished under oil booms. This area felt like another world compared to the maintained flower beds, stately trees, and well-designed shopping centers that dominated south of town, but at the same time there was something so matter-of-fact and grounded about the business community embracing the two-story brick building that housed North Star Investigations. Here was no pretense. No baskets of petunias and boxwoods to obscure what went on behind them. What you saw was what you got.