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I Will Follow Him sample:
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CHAPTER 1
Sunday, April 7, a few hours after departure
Komos Lounge
“One size jumbo Lotta-Colada, just for you.” The bartender set a fourteen-inch-tall frosty mug on the bar in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at his nametag. “Androtimos from Macedonia,” I read. “Goodness, Androtimos, this drink is enormous.”
“It’s the Lotta-Colada and you ordered a jumbo,” he said, shrugging his bulky shoulders in his tight, shiny little black t-shirt.
“Yeah, I get it. This is a virgin pina colada, right?” I asked him. If not, I wasn’t going to be able to do my job tonight. Or tomorrow. Honestly, I might have to call off the whole assignment.
“Virgin?” he said, raising one eyebrow and smirking seductively, or so he seemed to suppose. His accent was as thick as his dark, wavy hair.
“I mean, it doesn’t have alcohol in it, right?” I clarified. Maybe in Macedonia, virgin meant just... you know, virgin.
“Right,” he said. “No alcohol. That’s why you get not one but two little pink umbrellas in it.”
“Ahh. Two umbrellas. Thanks for the tip, Androtimos. Now I’ll know if you guys get it right.” I passed him my ship ID card so he could charge the drink to my room, and scanned my surroundings for Evan.
“Yes, two umbrellas,” he said. “One to say, ‘This is a party!’ and another to say, ‘Oh, but it’s raining on my party.’ My butterfly, you’re on vacation and you should relax!”
“I wish I could,” I said. “But I can’t. And I’m not your butterfly.”
Assertive of me, right? Well, I’m working on that. A pushover all my life, I just started reading a book called SAY IT LIKE YOU SEE IT! and I’m trying to put what I’m learning in the book into action. It’s not easy, though. I get a little flustered every time I give the new, mouthy me a go.
“Sorry,” he said, holding up both palms and taking a step back.
“That’s right. I’m nobody’s butterfly,” I added and then gave him a tight little smile in case he thought I was messing around.
He handed my card back to me. “Enjoy your drink,” he said, with a tight little smile of his own.
I carried my heavy, sloshing, two-umbrella symbol of lameness over to a cozy, round booth meant for two, ducked inside, and pulled my phone out of my shoulder bag. Then I took a sip of my drink—it was so big that I had to stand up a little in my booth to even get the straw into it—and waited. A moment later Evan Aronson and his groomsmen Drake, Eli, and Phil showed up, got drinks, and sat down at a table right across from me. Finally, a lucky break.
I’d gawked at them all during the muster drill. After weeks of getting ready for this assignment, it had felt a little surreal to see them all standing there in the flesh.
Then I’d followed them around, up to the basketball courts. Thirty minutes ago, after their game had wrapped up, when I was hiding a few feet away, blocked by a potted fern, sunning myself on a nearby lounge chair, I’d overheard them planning to meet here. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that what people say they’re going to do and what they actually do are rarely the same, so having them end up here in the Komos Lounge like they’d planned was a win.
From here, I could overhear their conversation perfectly. I discreetly hit the ‘record’ feature on my phone and took out my notebook and a pen. I made two columns. One that said Signs Point to Guilty and another that said Signs Point to Innocent. So far, I didn’t have an opinion either way, but it never hurt to be prepared. Then I pulled out my self-help books. The better to hide my notebook beneath, in case one of the guys happened to walk my way. I opened one of the books and pretended to read it while I kept eavesdropping.
“The thing about the Franklin Valley Pioneers,” Phil was saying, “is that they’ve got a heckuva lotta big kids who really know how to hit the ball...”
This again? I shook my head, standing up to sip my drink. I was reminding myself of a coyote I once saw trying to drink out of my parents’ birdbath. Things didn’t end well for that coyote. He spilled the whole birdbath on himself. Hopefully I’m a little more graceful than that.
This Phil guy has been talking about the little league team he coaches since we left Miami. I don’t know how his friends can take it.
“But—and get this craziness—” he continued, “Franklin Valley makes their kids raise money for their own uniforms! Can you believe that? What a bunch of cheap-asses. Their coach has got the kids out there selling candy bars just to put clothes on their backs. Now answer me this: How can you focus on winning regionals if you’re busy selling candy bars?”
Yet, still, they’re beating your team, I thought.
“Yet, still, they’re beating your team,” Eli said, laughing. I smiled. Somehow, his delivery was rather charming. Not condescending at all.
Phil’s going to tell him that it’s because they’ve got so many big kids on their team, I guessed.
“Yeah, but they’ve got a heckuva lotta big kids on their team,” Phil replied defensively.
If there’s another thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that people might not often do what they say they’re going to do. Nevertheless, they’re still quite predictable.
Chapter 2
Three and a half weeks earlier: Tuesday, March 12
F.N. Meddling Detective and Private Investigation Agency
I was sitting at the desk in my office, playing solitaire on the computer and thinking about how it might be time to get a real job, when the door opened and a tall, perfectly-put-together woman with long dark hair walked in. She looked around like she thought she must not be in the right place.
“Can I help you?” I asked her.
“Hi. Are you the receptionist here? Is this F.N. Meddling Detective and Private Investigation Agency?”
“It sure is,” I said, standing up and extending my hand to her. “No receptionist. It’s just me. I’m Francie Meddling. What brings you in today?”
“Your Yelp reviews. I love a small potato who’s willing to go the extra mile.”
“Oh. Thank you,” I said, blushing fiercely, hoping she hadn’t gotten down to “Seems like a birdbrain but gets the job done” and “Lower rates than better agencies.”
“Then again...” she said, looking around at my jungle of half-dead potted plants and dirty coffee mugs, seeming to second-guess her decision to stop in. This is exactly how a man detective’s office would look. Back when my dad was still around, this was how he kept things. I never saw anyone criticize his housekeeping, back when I was a little girl, sitting right over there on the window seat doing my homework. Why do people always expect so much more out of women? “I’m not sure if you can help me or not,” she said.
“Oh, I can. For sure! Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the office chair opposite my desk. I went back around to my side and minimized my solitaire screen, trying not to let the game clock distract me. This little meeting was going to ruin my three-and-a-half-minute average.
“Where should I begin?” she asked me.
“Just tell me what brought you in here today.”
“Okay,” she said. She reached up to the charm hanging from her necklace—a tiny ballet dancer—and rubbed it a few times nervously with her left hand. A giant engagement ring was on her finger. A huge round diamond in the middle—three carats, I guessed—flanked by emeralds. “First of all, I’m Danielle,” she said. “Danielle Payne. I’m just going to jump in. You know how every March you go into your local grocery store and see those adorable little potted shamrock plants?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“My fiancé’s family supplies the whole country with those. They have, like, the shamrock empire. And they’re not even Irish!”
“Wow,” I said.
“Oh, look at me, still thinking of them in the present tense!” she said, shaking her head and pulling a packet of tissues from her purse. “You know what happened, right?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Did you hear about that private plane that went down over Lake Michigan two weeks ago?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Those were my fiancé’s parents. God rest their souls.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her.
“Yep, real heartbreaking. Evan’s an only child, so you’d figure he was super close to them, but he’s actually recovering from it really well. He’s got such a strong spirit! Anyway, we’re getting married in seven weeks, but I’m having my doubts.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. As if I didn’t know. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
“I think he might be cheating on me,” she said. I waited for her to burst into tears—like I said, this wasn’t my first rodeo—but she didn’t. Was I imagining things, or did she look a little excited? A little... victorious?
“And you want me to find out for sure,” I said. “I can do that. I’ve got several options for you.” I grabbed one of the brochures off the spinner rack next to my desk. Funny how every time you think you’re just about to run out of money, God sends in an angel to help. “Option A,” I told her, “is called Snoop-N-Shoot. I drive around after him for three to five days, taking photos the whole time. It includes two complimentary videos and one garbage rummaging. That’s $1,599.00 to $1,999.00. The cost goes up if I end up needing a tetanus shot. In most cases, an Option A gets the job done. Option B is a little pricier—”
“Wait,” she said waving her hands. “I’m looking for something a little more time-intensive. And the project, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t need to start quite yet.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, mentally penciling in a trip to the plasma bank while I took off my glasses and shined them up on my t-shirt. When I put them back on, she looked even more perfectly pulled together now that there wasn’t a film of potato chip grease separating us.
“My hubby-to-be and I are soooo busy,” she said. “There’s so much planning to do, and so much to do before the big day. Our next few weeks are slam-packed. Speaking of the big day, do you think we should go with a Maroon 5 song for our fourth flashmob dance or a Lady Gaga song? The flashmob plans for our first three performances are all set.”
“Are those bands?” I asked.
“Are you serious?” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about flash mops. I’m not really a pop culture person, and I’m even less interested in cleaning,” I explained.
“Forget I asked. Anyway, back to what I was saying,” she continued, “we are bizzzzzy! We’ve got all these float chamber certificates to use up, pre-wedding counseling, tons more ‘stages-of-engagement’ pictures to take—you know how it goes.”
“Oh, for sure,” I told her. “For. Sure.”
“I mean, you’ve got a...” She looked me up and down before hazarding a guess. “Significant other? Right?”
“I sure do,” I told her. “His name’s Bink. He’s a real catch.” I tried to summon up some enthusiasm when I said it. After all, Bink and I have been together, sort of, going on two years. We’re a funny combination, I suppose. Even though I’m in my thirties, I still look exactly like I looked when I was sixteen. My hair is blonde and my eyes are bluish and, for some annoying reason, people often ask me why I look so confused. You’ve heard of resting bitch face? I guess I’ve got resting ditz face.
Bink is forty-five, he looks an awful lot like a red potato, and he has spiky yellow highlighted hair. It’s so yellow it’s almost green. You know the color of a glass of Mountain Dew? That’s his hair. On the handful of occasions that we’ve been out in public together, people have assumed he’s my father. He’s not all that attractive, but like my mom always told me, “Francie, it’s not about the packaging. It’s about the gift inside.” Then she’d add, “With that being said, it wouldn’t kill you to go to aerobics class with me.”
The ironic part is, aerobics is what killed her. It turns out she had a blocked artery and too many jumping jacks did her in. Since then, I’ve tried to move as little as possible. I haven’t broken a sweat since 1999. I call it ‘playing it safe.’
Back to Bink, he’s a loner and I’ve been told by him that I’m a bit of a clinger, but opposites attract, right? Bink carves out some time every other Tuesday or Wednesday to stop over for dinner if he’s in town. Sometimes his life gets in the way and we don’t see each other for weeks or even months. It’s tough, but so am I. Soft on the outside, hard on the inside. Like a day-old jelly donut, but backwards. Most of the time he’s on the road, driving his big rig.
“He sounds great. Now back to me and my fiancé,” Danielle said brightly. “You never know. Things could still work out between us. So, on the one hand,”—she held up her ring-heavy, perfectly manicured left hand—“I’m still moving forward with everything like normal. On the other hand,” up shot her bare, smooth, manicured right hand— “this one, I guess, hee hee, it’s like, you can never be too careful. Gosh, are you judging me? I hope not! I swear, I’m not a bad person. Now I feel terrible! Anyway, what does your agency’s schedule look like about four weeks from now?”
“Ummm.” I ran my stubby finger along my desk calendar, stopping at a tiny BF I’d written on an upcoming Wednesday. Ooh! A new season of Bungalow Flippers starts then. No matter, I could DVR it. The following day, April eleventh, said BD. As in, my thirty-second birthday. Poor me. I can still remember turning twenty-nine.
All the other scribblings on the calendar—things like ‘purchase new binoculars’ and ‘advanced PI certification workshop, Cleveland’ were all fake, there just for moments like this when I had to meet with a client.
“You’re all booked up, aren’t you?” she guessed, trying to read my upside-down calendar. I turned it a little so she could see it better. Might as well not waste my notes, right?
“No, not really. The schedule around here is currently a little light,” I told her. “I can fit you in. But if you aren’t interested in purchasing an Option A or B, what are you looking for?”
“Evan and I—that’s my fiancé—are both going on pre-wedding trips with our friends at that time. I’ll be in Paris and Rome shopping and sightseeing with my bridesmaids and he’ll be going on a cruise with his dorky groomsmen. A bachelor party on a cruise ship. What could go wrong? It’s a great idea, right?” She laughed bitterly. “I came here to hire someone to go on that same cruise and watch him like a hawk. Someone who will report back to me on everything. Could someone from your agency do that?”
“Here at the F.N. Meddling Detective Agency, we do what we’re hired to do,” I assured her. “Anything less wouldn’t be right, and I always do the right thing.”
“Super. So anyway, I need someone discreet, professional, discreet. Did I already say discreet?”
I shrugged and a pudding spoon fell out of one of my pockets.
“Do you have someone on your staff who would be right for this assignment?” she asked, politely ignoring the utensil that was now resting on the toe of her shoe.
“Well,” I said. I was unsure how to answer. I’d never traveled farther than about a hundred miles from my home. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was twenty-two and I’ve never been on an airplane, much less a cruise ship. In high school I had a friend named Debbie—they called us Debbie Downer and Francie Frowner because we were sad and a little lacking in the personality departments, I guess—and we were going to go away for spring break. But we ended up just sticking around Debbie’s house instead, baking refrigerator dough cookies.
Then again, I’ve always, at least in theory, dreamed of seeing the world.
“Hello,” said Danielle, snapping her fingers in my face. “Do you have anyone who can help me or not?”
“My agency has a staff of one. It’s just me,” I admitted. “And... sure, I could do that. It’s a little unusual of an assignment. We’d have to work out rates that we both feel are fair.”
She shook the spoon off the toe of her pumps. “That’s not for crack, is it?” she asked.
“It’s for pud... quinoa power bowls,” I said, leaning over, picking it up, and shoving it in a desk drawer.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll pay for a Snoop-N-Shoot, your flight and the cruise, and...” she shrugged. “I don’t know? Would an additional five thousand dollars be fair? It’s a week-long cruise.”
“Yeah, that seems fair,” I said, trying not to gulp.
“Wonderful.” She held out her hand and we shook on it.
“I’ll write up a contract later today,” I told her. “But right now, I need to learn more about your fiancé.”
She pulled a manila folder from her purse. “Well, speaking of contracts, my parents are both lawyers and they wrote up this contract,” she said, removing a packet from it and passing it across my desk to me. “If he cheats on me at any time while we’re engaged or married, starting the day he signed this, he has to split his shamrock fortune with me.”
“He signed this?” I asked, taking a look at it.
“He sure did. Two nights ago!” Then she made a squeeing noise and clapped her hands together. She quickly pulled herself back together and handed me the sort of sheet I ought to start making for cases. All typed up and pretty, with a few recent photographs paperclipped to the top of it. It was like a resume, but much more personal and detailed. It said:
Name: Evan Aronson
Age: 31
Height: 6’ 1’’
Weight: 199 lbs.
Sign: Scorpio
Hair: dark brown
Eyes: green
Glasses: no
Distinguishing marks: None except that he’s unusually good-looking
Profession: Shamrock heir and horticulture marketer
Hobbies and interests: Playing basketball and golf, eating tacos and pizza, drinking just about any beer, going to action movies and romantic comedies (for real – he loves them), working out, talking about shamrocks, thinking about me
Friends: See attached bios for each
“Okay,” I said. “Do you have any idea who he’s cheating on you with?”
She gave me a disgusted look. “Why would anyone cheat on this?” She gestured to herself as if she were a giant, gold-enameled vase pronounced vozzzz.
“Huh?” I asked. It just slipped out. If no one was cheating on her, then what were we doing here?
“I don’t think he’s cheating on me with anyone yet,” she said. “But why would he be going on a cruise with his friends, right before we get married, if he’s not planning on cheating on me with someone?” She tapped her temple with her finger and nodded at me.
As paranoid as that sounded, statistically, from what I’ve seen in my line of work, she was probably going to be right.
“Like my dad pointed out,” she continued, “I’ll save myself a lot of trouble if I find out now. It’s better to be safe than sorry. According to my dad, just a photo or two of Evan in a compromising position would probably be enough to derail him. The contract is that watertight.” She gave me a long, hard stare.
“Lawyers!” I said enthusiastically.
“So... You’re in? I can count on you to get me the evidence I need?”
“If there’s evidence to be found, I’ll find it,” I assured her.
“And you’re... smart enough to handle this job? No offense.”
“Well, not to brag,” I said, leaning over my desk to her, “but I’m a member of Mensa.”
“Mensa?” She looked doubtful.
“For real. Or at least I was up until a few years ago, before I quit paying the renewal fee.”
“Is that one of those subscription boxes to help you make it through your period?”
“No. Never mind about that. But I assure you, I’ll get the job done.”
“Great,” she said. “You’re hired. Please get to the bottom of whatever he might be up to, because I’d hate to get married to someone who’s not a good person.”
End of free sample.
