Allison was outraged. “Did you confront him?”
“No. Not yet. I started looking for evidence everywhere—from the trash in our bedroom to the trash on his computer. Then I put a GPS in his briefcase; he arrives at our building sometimes an hour before he comes home and sometimes in the middle of the day. I installed an app on his phone that lets me see who he’s called.” I showed them the printout. “Here, see? The highlighted phone numbers are her cell.” Allison’s mouth was wide open. I was surprised. “I can’t believe you’re so shocked—you must see this kind of thing with clients all the time.”
“I’m shocked by the case you’ve built against him. You did all this on your own?”
I nodded my head, feeling good about myself for the first time in a long time.
“You know, most women just stick their heads in the sand,” she said, full of admiration. “You’re really going to be able to screw him in the divorce!” Hearing that word out loud made it seem inevitable. Oddly, I started laughing uncontrollably. Soon all three of us were laughing, though none of us really knew what was funny.
Allison was the first to regain control. She turned to CC. “CC, what’s a muzjik?”
CC laughed. “It’s a Russian peasant.”
Allison shook her head. “No more Dora the freakin’ Explorer, CC. You are two of the smartest women I know.”
We stopped laughing. She was right.
That was the day the idea for the Ostrich Detective Agency was born. CC and I got our PI licenses. Allison fed us our first clients, and word of mouth got us the rest. Three years later and here I was, talking to our hundredth client. Her name was Caroline Westmont and she reminded me a lot of myself. I was looking forward to meeting her.
CHAPTER 7
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
By Tomás, Third Floor Ladies’ Dresses
Age: 27
It had been a couple of days, and I was starting to get nervous about what I’d done with the dress. I don’t know why I always have to be such a metiche—translation, buttinski. They even created a category just for me in my high school yearbook: Most Likely to Butt In. As I carried that last size small Max Hammer over to gift wrap like a lamb to slaughter, I realized that it was doubtful we would receive another shipment. I loved this dress. It was one of those head-turners that make every girl feel like the belle of the ball. I couldn’t bear for that ungrateful child to get such a treasure—the dress or Arthur Winters. So I butted in! I sent the last size small little black dress with the invitation for dinner to Arthur’s age-appropriate secretary and the matronly cashmere throw to the gold digger! I thought about all the possible repercussions. The worst-case scenario was that I would get fired for messing up an order. I doubted that, though. Charlene from lingerie was still boasting about the time she purposely sent a lace teddy to a lecherous customer’s wife instead of his girlfriend. That card read “Just 24 hours till she leaves to visit her mother!” This was tame compared to that.
The second-worst-case scenario was that Arthur’s adoring secretary would get her hopes up at being invited for dinner and arrive to see Artie’s face fall in disappointment. This scenario made me ill. The thought of sweet, caring Felicia all excited to finally be noticed and Artie still being too lost in grief to recognize true love was right out of one of my abuela’s telenovelas. Dios mio! What had I done?
“Excuse me, I would like to exchange this dress for a bigger size.” And there she was, right in front of me, dress in hand. By the grace of god I didn’t throw my arms around her and yell out “Felicia!” I had bet on the likelihood that middle-aged Felicia wouldn’t be the same size as the Skinny Minnie harlot, and I’d been right! Thank god she’d thought to try the thing on in advance. But of course she had; she’d been waiting for this date for seventeen years.
“Can you help me?” she added, with not a hint of annoyance at my being lost in my own romantic daydreams.
I snapped to attention. “I am so sorry, lost in thought, yes, I can absolutely help you with that.”
I set her up in a dressing room, and when I knocked to see if she needed anything, she asked my opinion on the fit.
“It’s perfect!” I said, meaning it.
“It is!” she responded joyfully. She spun around like a schoolgirl. “This may be the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn.”
Then out came the buttinski. “What shoes are you going to wear with it?” She pointed to the at-least-two-seasons-ago black pumps on her feet. No good. “We’re having a secret sale today,” I lied; I’d give her my employee discount. “If you want, we can lock this door with your stuff inside and go to the shoe department together!”
“Okay, thanks!” She beamed. “This is a special night.”