In the little bathroom just off of the office I tried to clean myself up as best I could, splashing cold water on my face and wiping off the sweat with a towel that smelled like it had last been used during the Eisenhower administration. It was ridiculous, the effort I was making. That woman out there was about as put together as you could be. I, on the other, was the biggest, ugliest thing to ever come out of the St. Frances Orphanage in downtown Detroit.
Amelia Webb was already seated in the chair across from the desk, which was beyond uncomfortable. I went behind the desk and rolled out the office chair, which at least had some padding.
“Here,” I said. “You sit here.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“I need that firm seat for my back,” I lied right back.
She moved to the better chair and I sat down on what felt like a rough-hewn two-by-four.
Her eyes followed me as I took the hard wooden chair across from her, maybe, just maybe the hint of a smile on her face. I was way too big for the little chair and I’m sure it looked ridiculous. But she was the guest and I was the host. Manners, mind you.
Plus, this way, I was almost at the same eye level with her, which was what I preferred as opposed to looming over her like an ogre.
She didn’t fidget, didn’t show any signs of nervousness. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm but almost emotionless. Her tan skin and sharp haircut were a stark contrast to the worn walls and the faded posters of old boxing legends around us. She had looked at them, taking it all in. This was a patient woman.
“Let’s start with your name,” I said.
"Amelia Webb."
"Okay, and I assume you know I’m a private investigator, which is probably why you’re here. See, I’m showing you my incredible talent as a detective.”
She smiled politely and then said, “Yes. I know what you are,” which, in my opinion, was a little bit of a weird way to put it. Honestly, though, I’m about as sensitive as a piece of coal.
“And why did you want to see me?”
Amelia spoke again with the kind of tone and emotion of a narrator, like she was doing the voiceover for a Ken Burns documentary.
“Ten days ago, I was on a boat with my husband, Richard. It was a beautiful day—sunny, light breeze, calm waters. We were anchored on Lake St. Clair, just enjoying the day."
I nodded for her to continue
"By the time of the incident, I’d had two martinis, which is my limit. Richard had one hard seltzer that he’d kind of carried around. In fact, over the course of a couple of hours and after what happened, I grabbed the can. It was practically full. He’d barely touched it."
“Is he a big drinker? A teetotaler? Or something in between?”
“In between.”
“So you’re both on the boat…”
“With the sun so warm and the two drinks, I started dozing. Not sleeping, just kind of…unaware.”
“And then what happened?”
“I heard the sound of him diving off the swim platform. I was only half awake, but it hardly made a sound. And I thought it was a little odd because he didn’t swim very often.”
She paused for a moment and then continued. “I didn’t think much of it at first. But then… a few minutes went by. I didn’t hear him come back. Twenty minutes later, I woke up fully. I looked around. He wasn’t in the water. I didn’t see him on someone else’s boat. We were too far from shore for him to swim and climb out. And even then, what would he do? Walk down Lakeshore Avenue in his swimming suit and bare feet?”
“Probably not.”
“After calling for him for over an hour, I called the police. I don’t drive the boat, so I couldn’t go driving around looking for him. They came, they searched. A dive team showed up. They all talked about the power of the currents where we had anchored. They found nothing. No body, nothing. After a week, they officially called it an accidental drowning, even though privately they’d told me that earlier. Between Richard not being much of a swimmer, and the currents, well, it was pretty open and shut for them."
She stopped, her eyes locking onto mine, and I saw no flicker of doubt there. Just a calm certainty.
"I don’t believe Richard drowned," she said finally. "He’s alive."
I nodded slowly, considering her words. "Why do you think that?"
“Before he disappeared, there was something subtle about him. It didn’t even really register with me until… after.”
“Subtly different, how?”
“In retrospect, Richard could be a little moody. And I just thought he was in a better mood, no need to look for a reason.”
“A better mood?”
She nodded. “Happier. A bit more energy.”
If he’s alive, I thought, he’s got a woman on the side.
“If he’s alive, are you sure you want to find out why he pulled this stunt?”
She knew exactly what I meant. “Yes.”
“Okay,” I said. I gave her my fee for which she didn’t bat an eye. I hadn’t expected her to. She cut a check for me on the spot.
“I’ll need everything you have on Richard. His business–”
“Just come to the house,” she said. Amelia handed me a business card. “My cell number is on the front, home address on the back.”
“Tomorrow? Nine a.m.”
“Perfect.”
Once outside, she hit her key fob and a sleek black BMW SUV lit up.
“Thank you, Mr. High.”
"August," I stated.
A faint smile touched her lips. Amelia turned and walked to the BMW and I watched her climb in, start the engine, and pull away, the car’s polished exterior gleaming under the streetlights. I stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear around the corner.
Amelia Webb, I thought.
Webb.
A Webb.
My instincts were telling me that’s exactly what I was getting myself into.