He works for a few more minutes, and then a blue progress bar appears on the screen. He stands and gestures for me to take the chair. “Done. Wait for that to download, and you’ll have a duplicate of her entire email account. If the questionnaire exists, my guess is it’ll be in there.”
I hug his arm. “You rock my world, Tobes. You really do.”
He shrugs as color blooms in his cheeks. “That’s what all the ladies say. Just remember, if the feds come knocking, you did all of this by yourself, and you don’t know me. Now, is it okay if I get back to my own work?”
“If you must, but I’m taking you to lunch later to say thank you.”
“Deal.”
After he leaves, I sit and nibble at a stray cuticle on my forefinger while the progress bar fills up. When it’s done, I make myself comfortable as the dashboard of Marla Massey’s email account opens on the screen in glorious color.
“Okay, Mrs. Massey. Let’s see what we can find.”
I’m aware that what I’m doing is highly illegal, not to mention immoral, but this story is my ticket to a better life, so I suck up my hesitation and dive in. Even so, I remind myself to only search for emails related to her boyfriend. If Marla has other dark secrets, they’re not my concern.
I type Mister Romance into the search bar. Predictably, nothing comes up. With what I’ve heard about this guy living in some sort of ghost universe, I didn’t really expect it to be as easy as that, but a girl can always hope.
Next I try gigolo, manwhore, and escort. I come across some promotional emails regarding romance books, but that’s it. In fact, from what I can tell, most of her inbox is filled with receipts for online purchases and subscriptions. Maybe Marla opened this account to hide that she has a compulsive shopping problem. She wouldn’t be the first to do that.
After a few more minutes of scanning the inbox, I’m starting to think Toby was wrong about clandestine communication, but then a subject line catches my eye: Thank you for thoroughbred referral. I click on the email and scan the content.
Dear M,
Thank you so much for recommending that magnificent thoroughbred from the Mason Richard stables. Gorgeous creature! It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with such a magnificent beast. You have my gratitude, my friend. I feel ten years younger.
C x
It’s from someone called CJ872.
I read it again. Mason Richard stables ... M.R. Could that be our elusive Mister Romance? It’s a stretch, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the praise could equally describe a horse or a man. Perhaps the ladies talk in code to protect his anonymity.
I’m about to do a more exhaustive search when my phone blares with Only the Good Die Young by Billy Joel. I cringe when I see UR LOVING GRANDMA!!! on the screen. I never should have allowed her to program in her own number and ringtone.
I’m not in mood to talk to Gran, or Nannabeth as she prefers to be called. Without fail she’ll ask about my love life, and when I fail to provide confirmation that I’m seeing an amazing man who’s serious about settling down, she’ll go on a well-intentioned rant about how I should want to find that special someone as soon as possible, because, “let’s face it, muffin, you’re not getting any younger.”
I sigh and reject the call. I feel bad for doing it, because I love Nannabeth dearly, but fending off her constant relationship pressure is draining, and right now I don’t have the energy.
To relieve my guilt, I shoot her off a text.
<Hey, Nan! Sorry, can’t talk right now. Piles of work. But I’ll come see you bright and early on Saturday, ok? Love you!>
A few seconds later, I get a reply.
<Dnt wrk 2 hard!!!!! Luv U!!!!>
I laugh. Whatever letters she saves by forgoing vowels and correct grammar is made redundant by her love of excessive exclamation points.
Duty done, I turn off my phone and go back to the emails. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I type thoroughbred into the search bar. Several other emails show up, all about a gorgeous stallion courtesy of Mason Richards, and the language used cements my suspicion that the stallion is Mister Romance. After a few more minutes, I find an attachment on one of the emails, and when I open it, I let out a squeal of triumph when I see it’s the elusive questionnaire.
Toby’s head pops up. “Success? Or do you have the hiccups?”
“Success,” I say with a grin. “I found the questionnaire.”
“Hell yes! Now, we’re cooking with gas.”
I hit print, and as page after page spits out into the document tray, I feel like Sherlock Holmes on the scent of a new, intriguing case. The buzz of anticipation in my stomach tells me the game is most definitely afoot.
THREE
Private Eyes
I squint through the viewfinder of my camera and adjust the focus on the man walking into the Pack N’ Ship. The plate glass windows allow me a great view of the interior of the building, and I hold my breath as I wait to see if he collects mail from box number 621.
He doesn’t.
Dammit.
I’ve logged over fifty people coming in and out of the building in the past four days, but there’s been no sign of anyone collecting mail from Mister Romance’s box. It’s convenient that there’s a cafe right next door, so I can survey the area in relative comfort, but still ... I was expecting to find something out by now, if not hear from the man himself. God knows I spent enough time filling out his required questionnaire; the damn thing was twelve pages long. It seems our industrious escort wants to know everything about his clients, from boyfriends during high school and college, to favorite movies, music, and books. There was even a personality test. Why on earth he needs all that information is beyond me. Surely, all a fantasy boyfriend needs to know is what women want from him. And yet, nowhere did he ask about my romantic fantasies. What’s that all about? Does he just choose the fantasies for which he owns the costumes?
Apart from using a fake name, I was truthful while answering the questions. I figure that when he takes me on a ‘date’ it will be easier to remember the truth than lies, and I’d hate to lose his confidence over factual inconsistencies. Of course, I had to pretend I was way more financially blessed than I am. Can’t have him knowing I grew up dirt poor while Mom worked two jobs. It wouldn’t really fit with my society lady cover.
I’m tracking another dead-end package picker-upper when a shadow falls over me. I look up to see my waiter.
“Oh, hi. Perfect timing. Could I get another espresso?” I’m on my seventh for the day. I may be a little wired.
“Sure,” he says as he hands over a thick envelope. “And a guy asked me to give you this.”
Puzzled, I take the envelope and look inside. It contains my thousand dollars in cash, along with a typewritten note on thick paper:
Dear Ms. White,
Thank you for your inquiry, but I’m afraid I’m unable to take you on as a client at this time.
Please accept my sincerest apologies.
Warmest regards,
M.R.
I look around the cafe then turn to the waiter. “Who gave you this?”
He shrugs. “Some guy. Tall. Dark glasses.”