Her Better Half

Though these back-of-the-room girls seemed steeped in self-confidence and sophistication, I—with my high grades, tidy bedroom and a best friend I’d had since kindergarten—had somehow felt superior to them.

At sixteen, I’d thought I had life all figured out. Life rewarded those who made smart choices. Smart choices included obtaining a post-secondary education, marrying a hardworking, responsible man, making a beautiful home, and raising children.

Follow the rules and you’ll be happy.

For more than forty years that philosophy had worked for me. Or so I’d thought.

Maybe the girls at the back of the class had had the right idea all along.

I gulped my first glass of tea and vodka like it was water. The warmth of the afternoon sun seeped through my clothing and skin, right into my bones, and it felt good. I sank lower in my chair, deliberately not thinking about the boxes waiting to be unpacked, the beds to be made, the cupboards to be washed out and restocked with staples from flour to vanilla extract. Artificial extract, now.

Erin mixed me another drink.

“So, Lauren, what’s your deal? You don’t wear a wedding ring. You divorced?”

It was an obvious question, one I should have expected, yet I could feel my defenses rising. I hated telling people I was divorced. It made me feel like such a loser.

After Gary had left me, I’d found myself observing women my age, married women with wedding bands on their fingers. I’d seen them in the shops, on the street, at the girls’ school.

What had these women done right that I’d done wrong? Why did their husbands still love them? Wasn’t I good enough, smart enough, pretty enough?

The fact that my mother kept asking me these questions, too, hadn’t helped.

“My husband left me about a year ago. He’s in India now.”

“India? Why the hell did he go to India?”

People didn’t usually ask me that question. At this point they were usually searching for a new topic of conversation.

But Erin had open curiosity in her eyes. And the next thing I knew, I was saying something completely outrageous.

The truth.

“It all started with the meditation courses. Gary seemed so stressed, I signed him up for a program at our local community center.”

“The sitting cross-legged on the floor and humming sort of meditation?”

“Yes. I thought he needed to learn how to relax.”

“I take it he learned?”

“Oh, yeah. Next thing I knew he was signed up for Karma yoga. He’d go straight from work to the yoga studio.”

“A real convert.”

“Yes. He became another person, with a whole different set of values. Gary started talking about approaching every task with the right motive and doing your best and giving up on the results.”

“Sounds cool.”

“Well, his bosses didn’t think it was so cool. They were actually pretty fixated on results, and when Gary stopped producing them, he was fired.”

“Wow. And I thought yoga was just something you did for exercise.”

“No, no, no.” I waved my free hand in the air, the one that wasn’t holding my drink. My head felt a little spinny and my tongue a little thicker, but these weren’t bad feelings.

In a way, spilling this stuff out to a virtual stranger felt good. I hadn’t been able to confide in any of my old friends or neighbors about this madness. I’d been too mortified.

But Erin was different. There was no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation—and most importantly of all—no pity.

“For Gary the yoga became a life-altering experience. He changed his diet, his wardrobe, even his manner of speaking. Really, he became a totally different person.”

“Sounds like a born-again Christian.”

“That’s what it was like, exactly. Whenever I’d complain, Gary would tell me that yoga is all about reaching a state of consciousness that allows you to achieve union with the divine.”

Erin nodded knowingly. “Or at least union with the hot little yoga instructor.”

I stared at her mutely. How had she guessed?

Answering my unspoken question, Erin said simply, “Men.”

“Gary didn’t want to admit that he was leaving me for another woman. He preferred to pretend that he was seeking spiritual revitalization.”

“What a bunch of crap.”

“Exactly. How can lying to your kids and cheating on your wife make you a better person?”

“Only a man could make that logic work,” Erin agreed. “So what finally happened? Did you tell him you’d had enough and kick him out the door?”

If only. At least then I might have retained some shred of pride and dignity. But I’d figured yoga would turn out to be another phase, like Gary’s mountain-climbing stage. When the girls were little, he’d decided he wanted to climb the seven highest peaks in the world. He’d started with a non-technical climb to see how he would react to high altitudes. After he returned home from Mount Aconcagua in Argentina, he’d never mentioned mountain climbing again.

I had expected the yoga to follow the same pattern.

“I didn’t have to ask. Gary left me. He said he needed space. To travel and be free.”

“Let me guess…his freedom included the yoga babe?”

There was no need to answer what we both knew was a rhetorical question. I lifted my hair off the back of my neck. The heat was getting to me. Or maybe it was the alcohol. How many drinks had I had now?

“So, like, what’s the situation?” Erin asked. “Your husband’s gone. But he left you with money, right? You and the girls are taken care of?”

If I had money, would I have moved into this neighborhood?

The proceeds from selling our house were financing Gary’s travels and this new house on Carbon Road. Our retirement funds and small investment account were earmarked for the girls’ education, not everyday living expenses.

My shoulders slumped. What was the point in pretending anymore? “The situation is kind of depressing, to tell you the truth. I need to get a job. And quick.”

“Have you got qualifications?”

“A history major.”

Erin shook her head. “I meant something that would help you get a job.”

I covered my face with my hands. “No. None of those kind of qualifications.” God help me, I was a throwback to the fifties. A stay-at-home mom with no relevance to the real world.

I set my glass on the table and Erin refilled it, only this time she didn’t add any vodka.

“You’re screwed, girl.”

“I know it.” I was going to have to get a job working in a grocery store. Or maybe in a factory. I could just see myself, a week from now, toiling for minimum wage in a sweatshop in a basement on Queen Street where I’d be harassed by the middle-aged, overweight male boss for sexual favors….

I tried to stand and that was when I realized just how much I’d had to drink. Great. Now I was going to cap off one of the worst days of my life by passing out on my new neighbor’s porch.

And to think I’d been the one judging Erin Karmeli when I’d first met her.

“I don’t usually drink in the afternoon,” I tried to say, not sure how the words actually came out sounding.

“Yeah, you wait until the kids are in bed, right?”

“No!”

Erin laughed. “Relax. I know you’re a straight arrow. Believe me, I can always spot the other kind. Why don’t you sit until the dizziness passes?”

“You probably have things to do….” I demurred. But still, I sat. I didn’t really have any other option.

“Nothing pressing. Besides, I think I have just the solution for you.”

“Oh?” I pretended interest. Everyone close to me had given their own well-meaning advice. My mother wanted the girls and me to move back home. My friends thought I should have a wild affair, then sue Gary for child support and force him to come home and get a job. My kids wished I could wave a magic wand and somehow get their father back, along with the house and everything else.

“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?”

He shrugged. “If you say so.”

As soon as he’d moved on to give our orders to the kitchen, Erin squeezed my arm. “So? Are you excited?”

My stomach started up with the gyrations again.

“Your first stakeout.” Erin sounded like a proud mother. “I remember my first time. It was kind of a letdown to tell you the truth.”

“Must have been with the wrong guy,” Murphy said, returning to his position behind the counter.

“Oh shut up and cook eggs or something. For your information we weren’t talking about sex.”

The guy next to Erin was openly staring now. Erin turned her back to him.

“Um.” I leaned in close to her so I wouldn’t be overheard. “What is our assignment, exactly?” Erin had been very sketchy with details up to this point.

“It’s a simple adultery case.”

Oh, really? Simple adultery. As compared to what…complicated adultery? I wondered if I would ever take this work as cavalierly as Erin appeared to.

I took another sip of my coffee and it was all I could do not to make a face. It was so bitter and sharp compared to the lattes I preferred. How did Erin drink such quantities of this stuff? Still, I supposed I’d better get used to it. On my budget I could no longer afford Starbucks. “So what do I do?”

Erin removed an envelope from the canvas pack she’d been carrying. “Sherry Frampton hired me a week ago. She thinks her husband’s been cheating on her and she wants us to prove it. I’ve got all the background information in here, but what I want you to focus on is the photograph of her husband. You need to get to know that picture. In the dark it can be hard to make sure you’ve got the right man.”

I studied the candid shot of a nice, ordinary-looking man in a suit. He was probably in his late thirties, clean-shaven, with brown hair.

“We’re going to hang out at the home of his suspected girlfriend. If he shows up, we shoot some video. It’s not complicated.”

Was she kidding? I searched her expression for a hint of humor, but Erin really seemed to think this was all humdrum stuff.

Murphy arrived with the food. “Eat every bite,” he admonished Erin, before leaving to serve another customer.

Here was advice that I agreed with. Erin was far too thin. Yet, she tucked into the sandwich with what seemed to be a healthy appetite.

I compared her plate to mine and too late I realized I’d made a mistake with the BLT. I’d never seen anything that looked as limp and greasy.

“So how do we do this?” I asked.

“Just pick it up and eat it. No fancy table manners required at Murphy’s.”

“No, I meant the stakeout. What do we do if a neighbor notices us hanging around?” They could call the police, and what would we do then?

“Neighbors are pretty clueless as a rule. But if they do go so far as to phone in a complaint, I’ll handle the cops, no problem.” She cut into her sandwich then looked at me. “You aren’t eating.”

I nibbled at the tasteless white bread, fried with too much grease, not enough heat. Would it have killed the produce budget to add a thicker slice of tomato? I fought the urge to spit the food back onto the plate.

“Try some of this, honey.” Erin pushed the ketchup bottle closer. “And next time you might want to order the steak sandwich.”

“But I don’t eat red meat.”

Erin looked at me as if I was nuts. Then she snapped her fingers. “Ah. Because of Gary?”

“Well, actually…” I hated to admit it…. “Sort of.” Eliminating red meat from the family’s diet was the one concession I’d made when Gary had started demanding the family eat vegetarian.

Though I had to admit, the steak sandwich looked good. Or it would if I weren’t so darn worried about my job.

“Are you sure I can do this, Erin?”

“You’re talking about the job, right? Not the sandwich?”

“Right.”

Erin put a hand on my arm. “You can do it. The hardest part is going for hours without peeing. You might want to consider bringing an empty plastic ice-cream container, just in case.”

CHAPTER 3

N ine hours later, I met Erin back at Murphy’s Grill. Shelley was spending the night at our place, with Devin and Jamie sharing babysitting responsibilities. Per Erin’s instructions, I had brought a large insulated travel mug, but no ice-cream pail. I was hoping Erin had been joking about that. I placed my cup on the counter next to Erin’s and watched as Murphy emptied the coffeepot into both of them.

Given the lack of washroom facilities, as previously outlined by Erin, I wasn’t sure the super-sized coffees were such a great idea. But Erin seemed to think a person could never get enough of Murphy’s coffee.

Even as I had that thought, Murphy’s dark brown eyes settled on me. “Want room for cream?”

“Oh, yes. Lots of room, please.”

Murphy paused, looked at me intently, then turned to Erin. “She has nice manners.”

Erin seemed oddly proud. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“What’s going on with you two? Is it a crime to say please in this neighborhood?”

Erin ignored my question, just pushed the cream pitcher my way. “Okay, we’re set. Let’s make tracks.”

Although it was dark outside, the temperature was still hot, the early August air oppressively muggy. I slipped into the passenger seat of Erin’s Toyota and had no sooner inserted my mug into one of the cup holders than Erin handed me a package of batteries.

“Put those in the glove compartment, would you? Nothing worse than running out of batteries at just the wrong moment.”

I unlatched the glove compartment. A flashlight rolled out to the floor. I groped in the dark, found it, then jammed everything back into place.

Erin already had the car in motion. She U-turned at the next intersection, now heading east on Dupont. The street was narrow with cars parked solidly on both sides—even at this time of night. I kept expecting us to clip off a few side mirrors, but Erin knew what she was doing.

“Okay, here’s a little background,” Erin said. “Our client, Sherry, is a big-shot VP at one of the downtown banks and travels to New York a lot.”

“She’s there now?” I guessed.

“Yup. Left this morning. She’s been worried for some time that her husband, Martin, has been sneaking around on her.”

“Did she try asking him?”

Erin gave me a pitying look, as if she couldn’t believe anyone could be so naive. “He denied it. Told Sherry he still loves her. But Sherry’s pretty sure it’s her six-figure income he’s really crazy about.”

Erin turned left on Spadina and as we passed Casa Loma, I peered out the window at the grand stone structure. “When the girls were little they used to love visiting this place.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to take Shelley sometime.”

I was surprised Erin hadn’t already done so, especially since the castle was close to where she lived. But then I thought about the admission rates, and the fact that Erin worked two jobs as well as looked after her daughter on her own.

We were now in the Forest Hill neighborhood, driving along winding roads bordered by majestic trees and gracious stone and brick mansions. Devin and Jamie’s school was just up the way on Avenue Road, but Erin kept to the side streets. This was one of the few neighborhoods in Toronto that rivaled Rosedale, and I gazed out the window longingly.

“Nice, huh?” Erin said.

“Oh, yes.” I wondered if Erin would be surprised to find out that until recently my girls and I had lived in a home just as splendid as these. We’d had so much, and now we had…

Enough. We had enough. I had to stop whining, even if it was just to myself.

“Where are we headed?” I checked out a street sign as we cruised slowly through the next intersection.

Erin recited the address.

“Martin’s girlfriend must be well-off to live there.”

“She should be. She’s Sherry’s boss.”

“Her boss?”

Erin grinned, her crooked teeth gleaming in the light from the dash. “Kinky, isn’t it?”

Now I really felt sorry for Sherry. Not only was her husband cheating on her, but so was her boss. Not that it was technically cheating in the boss’s case, but it was certainly a betrayal.

Erin took her foot off the gas. “Here’s the house.”