Chapter 14
At Kix’s Montessori school, I set him down in the classroom and he grabbed my pant leg as he often did, like he was seeing this for the first time.
What if today, asked Kix, is the day the teachers tear off their masks and we discover they are demons and we are forced to work in diamond mines? I will never forgive you.
I asked his teacher, Mrs. Buchanan, “Good weekend?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “My quilting group meets on Saturdays and we took a batch of blankets to Brandon Oaks, where they had a three-piece ensemble orchestra, so we stayed and made a day out of it.”
“Wow,” I said.
“And yesterday was church, of course, with a potluck. I took my famous potatoes, everyone insists I do.”
“What did Dr. Buchanan bring to the potluck?” I asked. “He strikes me as a man who grills.”
Ah Mackenzie August, master of subterfuge.
“Oh dear Mr. August,” said Mrs. Buchanan and she laughed and laid a cool hand on my arm. “He doesn’t know a spatula from his elbow. He was at a work conference all weekend.”
“Anywhere fun?”
“Richmond,” she said and she beamed. “Isn’t that conceited? He’s taking me on one of his trips soon, to Myrtle Beach.”
“So fun.” I pried Kix off and left them.
The case, as far as my involvement went, was closed.
Dr. Rod Buchanan lied to his wife and went gambling.
A creepy dishonest thing to do, but my business wasn’t exposing spouses when they lied.
The other day I told Ronnie I liked her shirt, when really I thought dark blue wasn’t her color, so I’d have no legs to stand on.
On my way out, at the doors, I beckoned for Mrs. Armstrong with a head nod. She came running as best she could in platform wedges that someone might wear in their forties, and maybe fifties, but probably not sixties, but who knew.
She met me in the corner near the restrooms and said, “Gosh this is fun. Are we having a secret meeting?”
“I followed the man you have concerns about. All weekend.”
She grabbed me and pulled us close together, like I was a life raft.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“This is so wild and dangerous. Should we use a secret code?” said Mrs. Armstrong. “I’ll get my cash. How much do we owe you?”
“This one is free,” I told her. I’d done well at the poker table and didn’t want her money anyway. “For the good of our school.”
“Mr. August, you’re such a noble, honest man, I could eat you up. He’s cheating, isn’t he, that sly fox.”
“I doubt it. That’s my official report.”
She blinked and her grip tightened. “What do you mean?”
“He lied to her about where he was going, and maybe he often does. Many husbands do. But there was no affair. There was no attempt at an affair. He didn’t speak to a woman that I remember.
He had a nice time indulging in a hobby, or maybe addiction, and he came home.
That’s what I can tell you after one weekend. ”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“I don’t care.”
“Where did he go?”
I shook my head. “You asked me to look into an affair. I did. My report is, I doubt it.”
“But.” She blinked. And blinked again. This close, I could tell Ronnie that Mrs. Armstrong’s lashes were fake. “But that’s not good enough.”
“You were hoping for sordid details.”
“Well. Gosh yes.”
“I have none for you, and you should speak with a counselor about schadenfreude.”
“Where’d he go? Why is he lying?”
“Follow him and find out,” I said, and I pried her fingers off my arm, the same way I did Kix’s.
“But he’s a lying awful man, isn’t he?”
“Let’s not judge,” I told her, “lest we be judged.”
“Is that a famous quote?”
“Yes, though I’m likely botching it.”