In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (8 page)

A couple—obviously tourists—with T-shirts displaying their allegiance to some college in North Carolina, stood near the square’s center as they examined the plaque which described its history. Each carried one of the famous Savannah to-go
cups
. Could they be drinking before
noon
?

A young man in an ill-fitting blue seersucker suite and bottle strength eyeglasses, sat on a park bench, reading a newspaper with his legs stretched out in front of him blocking, the way of passers by.

A squealing of tires caught Ross’s attention. He turned toward the source, a black SUV speeding around the square. The vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the agency building and continued to rev. The driver—a block head with a Neanderthal brow—stared at Ross for a second before turning away. What was wrong with that guy?

The cell phone in his pocket rang. Ross pulled the sleek, black device out to see the caller’s name displayed on the face. He groaned. As much as he didn’t want to, he’d have to answer it. His agent became nervous if he couldn’t reach Ross at all times. Ross hoped he didn’t have bad news from the studio.

“What is it, Aaron?” Ross schooled his tone to boredom with a hint of annoyance designed to hide his trepidation. Dealing with Hollywood types resembled dealing with wild animals. One could never show fear or they’d tear you apart.

“I’m hearing good things about your meeting with Nicodemus last night. It’s looking good. This one could really do it for you, Ross. This film could put you back on top of the power pyramid.”

“That’s great,” Ross said, smiling to himself.

“The studio suits were blown away by your professionalism.”

“Do I hear a ‘but’ coming?”

“If anything happens to make you look personally unstable, this whole deal will fall apart like a house of toothpicks.”

“Cards,” Ross corrected under his breath.

“Whatever. It could all quickly turn to a smelly brown substance.”

“I know you’ve warned me before, but—”

“You’re trying to prevent leaks about the project.”

“Exactly," Ross commented. "And you know the old saying about doing things yourself if you want them done right.”

“Yeah, but you obviously don’t know the old saying about shit rolling downhill. If you’re the only one on the hill, it’s definitely going to hit you. But if you hire some minions to stand around you on the hill you can always duck behind them when the time comes.”

“Very profound, Aaron. I’ll keep that in mind. Was there anything else?”

“Yeah. I hear you’re riding on the Nicodemus family float in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.”

“Any advice?” Ross asked.

“Yeah. Smile and wave. Simple.” Aaron said.

 Ross groaned.

“Think of all the goodwill it will get you with the locals. Maybe I can book you to appear at the greening of the goat ceremony.”

“There’s a green goat?” Ross asked.

“I’m assured there is.”

“No goat greening ceremony.” Ross didn’t try to hide his anger. Aaron didn’t realize when he’d gone too far sometimes. “What will you want me to do next? Mall openings?”

“Don’t be a schmuck," Aaron said. "Until you have a successful new movie, your career could use all the help it can get. A mall opening isn’t a bad idea.”

“Good-bye, Aaron.”

After ending the call, Ross pushed the phone into his pocket. Ross pulled his sunglasses from his shirt neck, before placing them over his eyes. He glanced at his watch. Mo should be exiting the building any minute now.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw the middle-aged North Carolina man and woman were now about ten feet away from him. They stopped and started to argue. She turned from the man and headed toward him.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. Ross knew what was coming. He straightened away from the tree.

“Mr. Dagger?” the woman asked tentatively with a deep southern accent. “Are you Stephen Dagger?”

“No.” Ross could feel his nose involuntarily wrinkle as the heavy odor of alcohol on her breath hit him directly in the face.

“I
aint
stupid." The woman's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer at him more closely. "You’re that spy.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I get it, you’re on a mission,” the woman said in a confident tone. “That’s okay. This won’t take long. How about an autograph? Do you have any of those posters? It’d be great if you’d sign one for me.”

Did she actually think he might have a poster that hadn’t been printed for ten years? And where would such a poster be? Rolled up in his pocket?

“How about one of them action figures. You could sign one of those for me, couldn’t
ya
?”

Imogene Tuttle bolted from the agency building and then strode away in the opposite direction. Looking each way, she crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk.

“You don’t have to be mean. I know you’re Stephen Dagger.” The woman grabbed Ross’s arm. He shook her off and tried to go after Mo.

“Bastard,” the woman yelled at his back. “If it weren’t for people like me, you wouldn’t be a celebrity. You owe me,” she screeched.

Imogene Tuttle jumped into the driver’s seat of a neon blue Mini Cooper. Ross changed direction, running toward his own car. Unfortunately, that meant he traveled back in the direction of his fan.

“That’s better,” the woman said as he reached her.

Ross danced to the side, but the fan maneuvered in front of him again, forcing him to either halt or risk a collision. He decided to halt.

“Listen, Madam, I am not Stephen Dagger, and I do not have time for autographs.” He pushed past her to continue toward his car.

“What’d y'all call me?” She screamed at his back. “I’m not no madam.
Aint
that a prostitute?
Are you
gonna
let him get away with that, DeWayne?”

Ross reached his car and then pulled the door open. DeWayne pushed the car door shut.

“Mister, you
aint
gettin
' away with
callin
’ my wife no whore even if you are some
kinda
super spy.”

Dammit
. Mo was escaping and he was going to have a fistfight with this lovely southern gentleman.

“You better apologize, Dagger, or I’m
gonna
beat your sissy ass,” the man bellowed and drew back a boney fist.

Ross straightened, readying himself for the blow.

Then DeWayne leaned toward him. “Look,” the man confided, his breath reeking as much as his wife’s. “I don’t want
no trouble.
But I
gotta
make the wife happy. If I don’t, I
aint
gonna
be able to go back home. Y‘all understand, right?” The man's wide eyes pleaded with Ross.

“I did
not
call your wife a prostitute.”

DeWayne leaned back. “All right then,” he shouted. The North Carolina man swaggered back toward his wife. “He apologized,
Marvelene
. I guess I showed him who’s tough. Sissy super spy.”

* * * * *

Tracking down Clarence would have to wait. First, Mo had to meet Mrs. Jessica Nelson to give her the agency’s report on the investigation of her husband, Walter.

The couple, in their mid-forties, bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Richard and Pat Nixon. According to Mo’s background information, the two—Walter a respected accountant and Jessica a housewife—had been married for eighteen years and were the parents of two teenage children, a thirteen-year-old boy and a girl of fourteen. Mrs. Nelson had come to the agency a week before to find out if her husband was having an affair.

“Every woman knows when there is something wrong,” Mrs. Nelson had said. “I’ve been suspicious that there’s another woman for a long time.” Mrs. Nelson’s suspicions achieved a new height when she overheard her husband telling a friend he was worried his wife would learn about
Sharlene
Lansing. “I just know this
Sharlene
is some slutty tramp who’s trapped poor Walter into cheating on me.”

As Mo knocked on the front of the Nelson’s upscale suburban door, she found herself hoping that Mrs. Nelson wouldn’t answer. Mo hefted the leather laptop carrier from one hand to another. She didn’t look forward to her task. This kind of news was never easy to deliver.

She brushed a piece of lint off the brown, linen skirt and adjusted the short-sleeved, peach blouse. She’d styled her long hair in a high ponytail with the front piece slicked back and to the side. Just a touch of make-up completed what she hoped was a professional veneer.

Mrs. Nelson opened the door almost immediately. Her face pinched and white with stress, Mrs. Nelson rubbed each palm nervously against the sides of her white cotton pants and then pulled at the bottom of her pink cardigan.

After ushering Mo inside, the client made the obligatory offer of coffee. Mo declined with a shake of her head. Mrs. Nelson led her to the kitchen table.

“Tea then?” Mrs. Nelson said with forced brightness.

“No thank you. I think we should get right down to business.” Mo pulled the laptop out of the carrier, and then flipped up the top before she switched on the machine. While the computer powered up, she took out a manila file folder. “We found some information on
Sharlene
Lansing.”

Mrs. Nelson sat down hard onto the seat across the table.

“Your husband isn’t having an affair with
Sharlene
.”

Mrs. Nelson relaxed into a smile. “That’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how grate—”

Mo stopped her with a hand signal. “No. I’m sorry, but it’s not all good news.”

The computer had fully powered up. With a mouse click, the Internet browser loaded on the desktop.

“We found that
Sharlene
Lansing has a website. I think you should see it,” Mo said as she typed in an address. She turned the laptop so the screen faced Mrs. Nelson.

“What am I looking at?”

“Click on the profile and photo to pull it up.”

Mrs. Nelson clicked the mouse on the laptop keyboard.

“
Aaaaaaaggghhhhhhh
.” Mrs. Nelson popped up and the chair crashed behind her. “My husband isn’t having an affair with
Sharlene
Lansing—”

“No—”

“—
because
he
is
Sharlene
Lansing.”

Mrs. Nelson stared down at the screen in horror. Mo knew she was seeing her husband's sloping nose, bushy eyebrows, and long forehead. There was no mistaking that Nixon-like face even when topped with a Tina Turner wig.

“This has got to be a joke,” Mrs. Nelson cried from behind the hands she had clamped over her mouth.

Mrs. Nelson picked up the chair from where it had fallen to sit on the seat. Hesitantly reaching toward the laptop as if it would bite, she touched the built-in mouse and clicked through the other photos in the profile. Each one depicted her husband in drag, including full make-up and high heels.

“My life is over.” Mrs. Nelson’s head dropped into her hands and she sobbed.