Chapter 5
Kix was a proud scholar at Roanoke’s finest Montessori school.
I could not afford the school but Ronnie could, and she dressed him in Sperry boat shoes and khaki pants and a blue collared shirt with the school’s crest. You know, like real men were raised in the bronze age.
The school was smallish and private, newly built, walls of windows and dark wood paneling.
He clung to me tightly every drop off, tiny fist gripping my shirt until he saw other kids playing with toys that implicitly belonged to him and he would release me and I could slip out.
His teacher, Mrs. Buchanan, a sweet woman with permed hair going gray, smiled and watched and welcomed Kix into her toy-land kingdom of higher ed.
Today, after releasing Kix and before I could slip out, the school’s new receptionist beckoned me with a crook of her finger.
Mrs. Armstrong. She was the new receptionist but the longtime wife of a board member, and she’d been pressed into the reception role three months ago when the former receptionist quit without warning.
Mrs. Armstrong was one of those women whose age you couldn’t pin down, but it felt like a rich fifty-five but maybe not because she was a pro with makeup and she dyed her hair a good blonde and probably she got Botox but it was hard to be sure and she was buxom enough that you suspected surgical enhancement but maybe she was just curvy and she wore heels and probably contacts that made her blue eyes a little brighter and she was tan and dressed well and whitened her teeth and at minimum she was no younger than forty-five, maximum sixty, and you just didn’t know for sure.
Also she wore diamond stud earrings, an understated necklace, and chunky metal bracelets, and her perfume was subtle but good, and one too many buttons on her professional white shirt was undone but she remained inside the realm of professionalism and you just didn’t know.
She left her post in the hands of another woman and she led me to an unused classroom.
“Mr. August,” she said. “How’s Ronnie?”
Mrs. Armstrong was one of the women who gossiped about Ronnie behind her back and I’d always wanted to bop her on the nose. “Ronnie’s the best,” I said.
“Gosh she is. I adore that woman. Those legs. That flat stomach. Some of us are mothers instead of debutantes but that’s not her fault. Anyway, listen to me ramble. Anyway. Are you still doing your investigator thing?”
“At the highest level,” I told her.
“Isn’t that cute. Okay good. I’m hiring you. You are now in my employ. How fun.” She looked me up and down and said, “Gosh you’re huge. Good for Ronnie.”
“And the world.”
“When can we discuss the case?”
“How about now,” I said.
“Okay real quick. We’ll keep our voices down.
Gosh this feels scandalous, doesn’t it. I’ve never hired a man like you before.
Well. One time in college but we won’t talk about him.
” Big smile, jangly bracelets, then a serious scowl.
“Anyway. Some of the girls and I suspect Mrs. Buchanan’s husband is having an affair. ”
“Mrs. Buchanan is Kix’s teacher.”
“I knew you’d understand. We pooled our spending money to hire you.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“Yuck?”
“I usually decline cheating-spouse cases, Mrs. Armstrong,” I said.
“But not this time! If not for your son’s poor teacher, then who for?
Her husband is gone every weekend, claiming he’s lecturing or speaking or whatever.
He’s the history department chair at the University of Lynchburg, so it’s not like he’s that impressive.
He’s aged far better than her, something of a silver fox, and she, well, you’ve seen her, and we suspect the worst. He’s gone every weekend, Mr. August, and she sits at home diddling her thumbs. ”
“Twiddling,” I said.
“What?”
“Yuck.”
“What’s yuck?” she said.
“Your request. I don’t like it. Cheating-spouse cases feel voyeuristic and exploitative.”
“Well. Listen. What are girls to do? Cause a big scene, like an intervention? Embarrass her needlessly? We can’t follow the guy around—we have lives. But we need to know, otherwise what kind of friends are we?”
“Go to her with your concerns,” I suggested.
“If we’re wrong, if the guy really is motoring off to speaking engagements, then we’ll look like nosey nellies. Sorry, honey, you dressing like an old maid, we assumed your husband would be running around. How dreadful would that be. All we’re after is proof, what’s so wrong about that?”
“Something. I don’t know what yet, but something.”
She snatched a notepad and scribbled with a pen. “Here. My number. Think about it and call me. I’m desperate. How much do you charge?”
I told her. The payment option I afforded to Ronnie was not mentioned.
“Wow, really?” Her eyes widened and she looked me up and down again, like being told the guy before her was really Sting in disguise. “You must be really good.”
I gave her modest.
She said, “We have that much. Barely. I may need to sell my husband’s bourbon, but he never notices.” She grabbed my hand and held it, pressing the slip of paper into my palm. “Okay, you’ll think about it? Gosh I hope you do.”
“Yuck,” I said.