Chapter 13
Monday morning found me in Trista’s well-appointed living room. Her former neighbor had contracted me for an act of pettiness. Usually, I dealt only in photos or videos, but when Trista mentioned that the target lived across the street from her, I suggested a front-row seat might be better.
Or maybe I wanted to show off a little for Trista before showing her the pictures and video of a less-than-miserable Malone. It rankled to have not been able to devise some karmic misery for him, but he had yet to experience Mrs. Q’s casserole. I had that going for me.
For now, however, it was all about taking care of Denise, Trista’s neighbor.
She sat on the edge of an upholstered chair, wringing a napkin and looking older than her fifty-two years.
Dark shadows sat under her eyes, and frown lines creased her brow and bracketed her mouth.
She, too, was a new member of the Jilted-for-a-Younger-Woman Club.
“And you’re sure he’ll look at the front yard as he’s leaving?” she asked.
“Pretty sure he’ll notice,” I said as I took in the yard across the street.
A large banner in the middle of a sea of plastic flamingos read Sixty is the new forty.
I had to pat myself on the back for doubling down on the flamingos.
Sure, sixty would’ve sufficed. Maybe sixty-two to be strictly accurate, but there was just something about a hundred and twenty plastic flamingos that really added a je ne sais quoi to the whole situation.
“You’d be surprised at what he doesn’t notice,” Denise muttered. She’d begun to shred the napkin rather than simply twist it.
“Patience, Denise,” I said. “Neither your husband nor his housemate leave the house before eight.”
“Oh, look! She’s leaving first today,” Trista said as a silver Mercedes exited the garage at exactly seven thirty. The car rolled down the driveway and into the street but then jerked to a stop in front of the house.
Denise made a strangled sound, then covered her mouth, her eyes wide. If she scooted any more to the edge of her chair, she would land on the floor.
“Let’s see how observant she is,” I said.
Sure enough, she put the Mercedes in park and walked out into the yard, staring at the banner. She picked her way around the flamingos and approached the front door, where she rang the doorbell, hugged herself, and then rang again.
And again.
Mr. Dobbs finally appeared.
Trista, Denise, and I walked to the window to better see the angry gesticulating between the two.
“I should’ve popped some popcorn,” Trista said.
Denise couldn’t have stopped smiling if she’d tried. Her eyes danced, and her wrinkles had smoothed out. Now she looked younger than her fifty-two years. “It’s far better than I’d imagined.”
Her soon-to-be ex-husband was alternately waving wildly and making a pleading expression. His paramour shifted back on one leg, her arms crossed over her chest.
“And now for phase two,” I said, hitting send on a text message.
The girlfriend didn’t move, so I sent another. And another.
He continued talking, and finally she stood up straight and reached for her back pocket. The first text I’d sent simply said, He’s sixty-two and, no, the divorce isn’t final yet. The second said, He hasn’t even filed. The third: Real talk? You can do better.
How had I found her cell phone number? I would love to say I’d used social engineering, a special private detective’s database, or even some kind of hack, but no. Once I knew her name, I found her cell through LinkedIn.
Mr. Dobbs took a step toward her. She took a step back. His anger devolved into abject pleading—at least, if body language was any indicator. She, however, wasn’t having any of it.
As she got back into her car and drove off, I sent a text to a different number.
Mr. Dobbs stood in the middle of his driveway, arms akimbo.
Finally, he walked over and kicked a flamingo, but it bounced back and hit his shin.
He hopped on his good foot, and I could almost make out the four-letter words despite the street, yard, and window between us.
“And now for the pièce de résistance,” I said, as he bent to tear flamingos out of the yard.
Both Trista and Denise looked to me. I pointed outside to a woman walking her dog. She approached the Dobbs house with brisk steps, her corgi struggling to keep up.
“Is that . . . ?” asked Denise.
“Oh yes.” Trista laughed out loud, but the sound was closer to a bark. Probably because it’d been a while since she’d laughed.
We all looked out the window to the woman in question, who happened to be the vice president of the homeowners’ association.
At the edge of the lawn across the street, she stopped and pulled out her phone to take a picture.
Mr. Dobbs was ripping up flamingos, often bringing up chunks of sod with them.
His angry voice echoed off the house where we sat, but we couldn’t make out the words.
Then he froze.
Once she’d taken a picture of the proceedings with her phone, she approached. Her corgi waddled over to a flamingo and hiked his leg to pee on it.
Dobbs’s arms now flailed once again, his face practically purple. Finally, the woman flipped him off and went back to walking her dog. Denise chuckled. Then giggled, then threw her head back and roared with laughter.
I couldn’t help but smile at her unbridled joy.
Trista’s smile now reached all the way to her eyes. I was grinning so wide that my cheeks hurt.
“I think this calls for mimosas,” Trista said. “And then I’d love to know how you crafted this particular piece of karma.”
As we sipped, I explained how some digging on Facebook and Nextdoor had revealed an argument between Dobbs and the woman in question, a woman who had once taken to both platforms to protest the $300 fee he’d had the HOA levy on her when she put up dinosaur lawn decorations to celebrate her son’s coming home from the hospital after a grueling week of treatment.
Best I could tell from the social media exchanges, she’d lost the fight and paid the bill.
Her story might’ve been the reason I’d insisted on the full 120 flamingos.
And if you looked really closely, one little T. rex in their midst.
An hour later, Denise was still sporadically giggling when she handed me the rest of the payment. “Oh, this is the best money I’ve ever spent. Thank you.”
“I have to say it was an absolute pleasure.”
“Good. You know, I have another friend who might need your services.”
“Send her my way,” I said.
“I can’t wait to see what you’ve done for me,” Trista said.
“About that . . .”
She frowned but waited for Denise to leave before turning to ask, “Is there a problem?”
“He’s not acting the way you described.”
“Come on, let’s have some champagne. Now that Denise is gone, no need to bother with the orange juice.”
We reconvened around an antique café table in the breakfast room, and I outlined my idea about having him awakened at the butt crack of dawn to work for Habitat for Humanity.
“Oh, that’s genius,” she said. “He hates getting up one second earlier than he has to.”
“Honestly, I expected him to cuss the volunteers out and then slam the door in their faces, but he didn’t.”
“Even better. He doesn’t know a flathead screwdriver from a Phillips.”
My unease heightened. Either Trista’s glee was genuine, or she should be nominated for an Academy Award.
This woman had been wronged, and she desperately needed to see her husband’s comeuppance.
I proceeded with caution. “I thought that, too, at first. But take a look at these pictures I took from my car.”
Trista frowned at pictures of a smiling Malone. You could practically hear him whistling as he worked. Through the picture. “Is he smiling? Are those sweatpants he’s wearing?”
“Yes and yes.”
She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, blinking furiously again. She then looked forward but closed her eyes and took a series of even breaths. “Maybe the problem was me all along?” she said in a small voice.
“No, no,” I said. “Here, just look at the video and tell me what you see. We’ll get him yet. Don’t you worry.”
She sighed deeply but took my phone to study the first video. I looked away, but the memory of a shirtless Malone leaning against the doorjamb remained burned in my brain.
I heard the bang of the door on the video, and then Trista made a choking noise. “That’s not my husband.”