Chapter 13 Maggie
Maggie stepped into Barbara’s kitchen and stopped short, gasping at the table that looked like a low-budget crime lab.
Papers were everywhere. Sticky notes clung to the edge of the table. Jo Ellen’s laptop sat open in the center, screen glowing. Three pens, one highlighter, and a half-eaten blueberry muffin added to the chaos.
Jo Ellen looked up, eyes bright. “Good. You’re here. We’re in Phase Two.”
Oh, goodness. “Phase Two of what?”
“Our investigation.”
Maggie eyed the laptop screen. “Is that…Oscar?”
Jo Ellen nodded proudly, her love for the ridiculous AI program obvious.
“Well, that book didn’t help us.” She tossed a dirty look to the bright yellow Private Investigations for Dummies tome on the table.
“Please, with the triangles of infidelity and stakeout snacks. As if I’d spy without sustenance. ”
“Not to mention the suggestion that we limp when we’re on someone’s trail.”
“Now that idea I don’t hate,” Jo Ellen said. “Anthony wouldn’t suspect it’s you or me if we’re limping.”
Snorting a dry laugh, Maggie walked to the coffeemaker, thanking tea-drinking Jo Ellen for making it as she poured. After adding cream and sugar, she turned and leaned against the counter.
Phase Two was probably absurd, but they had to do something.
“All right. What does Oscar say to do after all these nights of nothing but a man who comes home at seven, talks on the phone for five minutes, takes a shower, eats a sandwich, and goes to bed?”
“Nothing,” she said. “But what if the woman he’s talking to on the phone is not his wife?”
“It’s not. Remember, I called Crista once while he was on the phone and she picked up and mentioned she hadn’t heard from Anthony all day.”
“Then we don’t quit until we know,” Jo Ellen said.
Maggie walked to the table and muttered a silent apology to her friend Barbara, whose kitchen was normally immaculate. “What was your…what do you call that again? The thing you tell Oscar to do?”
“My prompt,” Jo Ellen supplied. “Get with the new age of technology, Mags.”
She rolled her eyes and sipped.
“I asked him how to tell if a man is cheating. I told him everything we know. Including that we’re two old ladies in a convertible.”
Maggie’s mouth tightened. “You did not.”
“I didn’t have to. He remembers us from Miami.” She beamed at the screen. “Oscar is wonderful like that. And he totally understands this situation.”
Maggie set her coffee on the counter. “Jo Ellen, we are not outsourcing moral judgment and a plan that could impact my daughter and grandchildren to a robot.”
Jo Ellen swiveled the laptop toward her. “Maggie. Listen to what he says. ‘Considering what you’ve told me,’ she read, “‘there is one suspicious data point: a man, alone on a deck at night, laughing on the phone. That is not proof of an affair. It is…a question mark.’”
Maggie blinked. “It took artificial intelligence and a legion of teenage tech bros to tell me it’s a question mark? God save us all from this beast.”
“He’s just getting started.” Jo Ellen scrolled. “‘You are wise and loving grandmothers to worry about your precious family, the legacy that you’ve built, and the permanence of generations ahead.’”
“What is he doing? Giving us information or trying to get a date?”
Jo Ellen snorted. “They call that ‘glazing.’ It means he, you know, butters you up.”
Maggie closed her eyes. “I am not a piece of toast. Read on.”
“‘You don’t investigate the man first. You investigate the pattern. Affairs leave footprints. Not emotional ones—practical ones. They require time, privacy, and opportunity. Which means the guilty party will alter routines.’” Jo Ellen looked smug. “Smart, huh?”
“Brilliant, except Anthony’s not guilty,” Maggie said. At Jo Ellen’s raised brow, she sighed. “Well, his routine hasn’t changed.”
“Exactly,” Jo Ellen said, tapping the screen. “The robot agrees with you. Listen: ‘If those answers remain no, then the phone call may simply be…a phone call.’”
“Oh, I get it, Oscar. We just call Anthony and ask him.” Maggie scoffed. “Come on, Jo.”
“No, Mags, we don’t call Anthony. We call…” Jo Ellen looked at the keyboard and adjusted her glasses, typing quickly. Then she plopped her chin on her knuckles and watched as words filled the page like magic. “Meridian Software, Incorporated,” she finally said.
“His company?”
“Yup. Here’s the number. We’ll ask for a Pamela. Why not?” She held out her hand and snapped her fingers. “Phone? No, no.” She patted the table. “He’ll know your name or number. Mine will come in as Arthur Wylie. Would he recognize that?”
“Not…instantly.” Maggie sat back, eyeing Jo Ellen suspiciously. “What are you about to do?”
“What I do best.” She tapped a few more keys. “Lie.”
Jo Ellen dialed, clearing her throat, readying for battle. All Maggie could do was…watch and listen since she put the phone on speaker.
“Meridian Software. How may I direct your call?”
“Oh, hello,” Jo Ellen cooed. “This is bit of a longshot, but does anyone named Pamela work at your company?”
The receptionist hesitated. “Possibly. Can I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Do you have to?”
Maggie frowned, leaning forward. “Jo—”
She answered with a dramatic “shut up” swipe of her hand.
“I’d like to be sure the call is legitimate,” the receptionist added.
“So, you do have a Pamela?” Jo Ellen asked.
“Umm…do you have a last name?”
Jo blew out a breath. “Honestly, I do not. But I met her briefly in line at…” She winced and cringed and looked like she might have gas. “Home Goods,” she finally said. “She was buying a…” She looked up at Maggie.
“Pillow?” She mouthed the suggestion.
“A pillow,” Jo Ellen said, adding a thumbs-up like she approved Maggie’s newfound ability to lie. “A beautiful, bright green…actually, it was kind of lime green, you know? The green equivalent of fuchsia? What’s that called? Really bright and blinding?”
Maggie gave her a look. Was she serious?
“Chartreuse?” the receptionist suggested.
“Yes! Velvet chartreuse with, um, balls. Like tiny balls hanging off the end. She bought the last one they had, if you can believe it. And you know Home Goods. There might not be another, so I thought I might call the manufacturer…if Pamela knows it.”
Maggie dropped her face in her hands, not sure if she should laugh or cry.
The receptionist was dead silent.
“I mean, do you know how hard it is to find the right shade of green?” Jo Ellen continued. “She mentioned that she worked there at, um, Meridian. In Buckhead. That’s where you are, right? She was so nice. Lovely woman.”
“You probably mean Pamela Wentworth.”
Jo Ellen’s eyes popped open like saucers. “Wentworth?”
She and Maggie exchanged uncertain shrugs.
“Um, yes, that might be it,” Jo Ellen said. “She just said Pamela and I thought, what a pretty name. That’s the only way I could remember it, so…is she there?”
“I’ll check to see if she’s at her desk. Hang on.”
Hold music filled the kitchen as Maggie clunked her elbows on the table. “Now what? Are you going to ask Ms. Wentworth if she’s having an affair with Anthony or likes chartreuse pillows?”
The phone clicked.
“Anthony Merritt’s office, this is Pamela.”
They stared at each other in horror. She was Anthony’s assistant.
Instantly, Maggie leaned forward. “Hello, this is Magnolia Lawson, Anthony’s mother-in-law.”
Jo Ellen gasped.
“Oh, hello.” Pamela sounded surprised. “The front desk told me—never mind. It must have been a mistake. Do you need to speak with him, Mrs. Lawson? He’s not in the office right now, but I’ll be seeing him soon, so I can give him a message.”
“No, that’s not necessary, I just wanted to…” Maggie stalled, her mind skidding. “To tell him—”
“Something,” Jo Ellen mouthed, wildly gesturing.
“It’s not Nolie, is it?” the woman asked quickly. “She’s okay, right?”
Nolie? Why would his assistant care about Nolie? And why did that feel…personal?
“Oh—yes. Everything’s fine,” Maggie said. “I just wanted to tell him we missed him on the Fourth of July. And Crista is…” She searched for a word. “Glowing.”
Across the table, Jo Ellen gave her two more enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“I thought he should know how well his wife is doing in Destin,” Maggie pressed on, emboldened. “She’s thriving. Strong. And—well—pregnant. Very pregnant.”
Pamela laughed softly. “I know.”
The pause that followed was loaded, and both women were weighing it.
“He’s out with a customer all day, but I’ll be sure to tell him when I see him for dinner,” Pamela said lightly.
Maggie’s hand tightened around the phone. “Dinner?” she tried not to choke on the word.
“I doubt he’ll call in, but I’ll get the message to him after his meetings are done.”
When they have dinner together.
“Thank you,” she said, far too quickly. “Goodbye.”
She pulled the phone away as if it might bite her.
“You need to know when to stop, Mags,” Jo Ellen said. “The glowing-and-pregnant monologue? Too far.”
“She needed to know his wife is pregnant,” Maggie said—though her pulse was still racing. “But, oh. That lying is exhausting. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Practice,” Jo Ellen said, standing. “So now we have a plan.”
“We do?”
“We’re going to follow Pamela to dinner.”
“We are?” Maggie shook her head. “We don’t even know what she looks like.”
“We don’t, but…” She clicky-clacked on the keyboard. “Pamela Wentworth…gimme a sec…come on, Oscar. Oh, here we go.”
“Is that her?” Maggie asked, leaning forward in shock.
“According to LinkedIn, this is Pamela Wentworth, senior administrative assistant at Meridian Software. Yikes. Look at her. Nothing ‘senior’ about that babe.”
Maggie groaned as she got a good look at a woman who appeared to be about twenty-five with long, honey blond hair, huge eyes, and a smile that would light up Atlanta.
“Holy…cow.”
“Please, that picture is Photoshopped to death,” Jo Ellen announced. “No one’s skin looks like that IRL.”
“IRL?”