I’m a Private Eye

Forgive me if I’m a little suspicious of private investigators. It’s what I do for a living.

10:00 a.m.

I’m feeling better, though I’m still pretty fuzzy about what happened Saturday night. I don’t even remember who I met. If I hadn’t written down all that drivel in the middle of the night, I’d have no idea. I almost deleted it when I read it because it didn’t make sense. I’m glad I didn’t. I wrote down what I needed to know.

I woke up this morning in the little bed upstairs with Cinnamon cuddled up next to me. We were packed in with a pile of blankets on top of us. You’d think neither one of us generates any body heat. Well, I know for certain she does. She started out on the floor beside the bed, having refused to leave me alone last night. She fixed soup when we got home from the hospital, made me tea, sat with me, talked with me, and then dragged a bunch of blankets in and lay down on the floor beside my bed. Sometime during the night I had nightmares—screaming, I’m not who I am, nightmares.

She soothed me, calmed me, and held me until I sobbed myself back to sleep. Then she stayed there in bed with me the rest of the night. So that’s over. We’ve both been referring to it as the night we slept with each other. I have to remember that I’m her boss. Hell, maybe I’ll make her my partner.

We had to come up with a cover story for why she was with me. We decided we needed something reliable, so I called up Simon. He’s still in town, still staying at the hotel. Cinnamon says he’s been talking to Jordan on a regular basis, but Jordan won’t tell her what’s up. So Simon became an old friend. We met during a business deal in Cleveland years ago. I was working at a company he acquired and handled the transfer. When I called and told him I needed an assistant, he recommended Cinnamon to me, who he heard was recently out of work. Adequate cover. Now when the nosy neighbors come over and ask how I got an assistant (and tell me all about how they would have given me all the help I needed), I can give them a story with a reference to an exec that’s way out of their class. That should shut them up.

I did a walk-through of the house and noticed there were things out of place. It was subtle, but I hadn’t started packing the books in the living room yet, and there were several out on the table. And the living room webcam was gone. I had to make sure of that one. It could have been moved or replaced and I wanted to be sure nothing was recording me. I’d had Cinnamon pick up a bug sweeper from the local I Spy store. We went over every room in the house to find out if anything other than the computers was running. Everything came out clean, so I’m guessing that guy—Devo??—wanted to remove something he considered incriminating. He’s now suspect number one. Rick and Susan are suspects two and three, but not necessarily in that order. I have a feeling that I met someone else at the bar who might be on my list if I could remember who I met.

I had papers to file with the state so I could get access to Georgia’s bank accounts, and Lars recommended a probate lawyer who I called. Cinnamon started packing up the dining room and screeched when she opened the drawer of the sideboard. More stuff. I don’t even know what to call it, though Cinnamon gave a pretty good catalog run-down of what was there. A full vinyl suit, complete with head mask, ball gag, talc, various bindings, half a dozen different kinds of whips, a breather tube, and a large vinyl bag. I couldn’t believe what I heard when Cinnamon explained what it was for. The submissive gets in the bag with her air tube sticking out a sealed opening. The bag is zipped shut, and the air is pumped out of it. Cinnamon guessed that the dining room table was used as the display area where the dom could handle the sub, whip her or him through the suit, even pinch the air tubes closed  to cause panic. From where the camera was located, voyeurs could watch everything without ever seeing the face of the dom. This was beginning to get to me.

“Cinnamon,” I said at last. “You know so much about this. You didn’t ever… I mean… How do you know?”

“Sugar, I was a bad girl before I found the condo,” she said, “but I wasn’t that bad. Still, you’d hear things up there. Some of the girls were pros who sold any experience to those guys they wanted. Most of us were companions… a lot of flirting but not much action. A few were mistresses. But everybody talked. I hear you and Jordan came up with enough financial information on the directors to put them all away if you wanted to. I’ll tell you that what you found was nothing compared to what the girls knew. Some of those guys were seriously nasty sons of bitches.”

“Were you pressured to have sex with those guys?”

“Everybody got hit on a few times—at least 12.” There were 12 members of the board. “But if you handled the question the same way every time, it ended. You were there as a companion, arm-candy, maybe even a little cuddle and kiss goodnight. But there was only one man who ever came up to the condo that I threw myself at and he turned me down flat.” I looked at Cinnamon and she looked at me and we burst out giggling. We sputtered out in unison, “Until last night.”

“And then he turned out to be a middle-aged lady!” Cinnamon cried. “I can’t win.”

“I think you’re doing pretty well with Jordan,” I said.

“You’re not mad are you Sugar?” she asked. Cinnamon was genuinely worried.

“No,” I said resolutely. “I was a little jealous, but it was of the idea, not the reality. Jordan and I are good friends, but we weren’t cut out to be anything else. Besides, I’ve kind of found someone new.”

“Tom? How delish. Is he as good as he looks?”

“We’re taking it slow and carefully,” I said. “We’ve only been out twice, and once was with you and Jordan.”

“Believe it or not, we’re taking it slow, too. Sugar, I’ve gotten so good a flirting without intending to go any further that I’m still working at figuring out the right signs that say I’m interested in more.”

“He’ll figure it out,” I said. “Let’s have another cup of tea and pack this kinky crap into a box. I don’t even think Goodwill will take it. Then I have to start tearing down those computers. My next clue is there. That I’m sure of.”

6:00 p.m.

The best laid plans… you know. Cinnamon and I worked for about an hour this morning when the phone rang. Deonn had the gall to call me. He must be pretty damned confident that I wouldn’t remember anything. He called on the landline—Georgia’s number.

“Hey, Peg. I just wanted to check to see if you were okay. You were pretty messed up Saturday night when I dropped you off,” he said. He started in so casual and friendly that I suddenly doubted that I was remembering anything correctly. This guy was nice and concerned.

“I hardly remember anything from the night,” I said. “Uh… thanks for dropping me off. How’d you get me out of lockup anyway?”

“Oh, I know a couple of the guys down at the station. I’m a private detective. I explained the whole thing about Georgia’s death and you coming to town. I took the blame and kept saying I never should have let you drive home, but no one knew how many of those vodka-tonics you had and you seemed all right.” Vodka-tonics! He was back at the top of my list. I decided to play along.

“I don’t usually drink,” I said. “Obviously, I shouldn’t.”

“Well, it was a sad occasion. The guys might not even write the ticket. They were sympathetic.” I remembered a flash of the arresting officer making me stand in the cold for half an hour and couldn’t apply the word sympathetic to him.

“I’m doing okay now. Thank you for calling and for giving me a lift.” And what did you do with the webcam from the living room you asshole! I screamed inside my head.

“Oh hey, nothing to it. Do you need help getting your car out of impound? I can swing by and pick you up.”

My car! My rental car! I forgot all about the fact that the police had impounded it. The rental company would have my ass. Or at least my checkbook. And unless I can get my name cleared, I’ll never be able to rent a car as Peg Chester again. I had to tough it out.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got it taken care of. I do appreciate the help though. If I need a detective I’ll give you a call.”

“No problem. Here’s my number,” he said rattling it off. I wrote it down. I might actually have a use for him. “We’ll get together this weekend. Call me if you need anything.” He hung up. Now that was a smooth close. We’ll get together this weekend? Did I say I wanted to see him again? Ever in my life?

A quick call to the rental company got me patched through to a coldly polite “service rep” who informed me that they had already retrieved the car from the impound lot and had moved it to SeaTac. The impound cost, two tows, damages to the car, and loss of service were going to cost $1,737.46. The charges had already been made to my credit card. They were sorry to lose me as a customer, but of course I would understand that they could not rent to me again. Ever.

Damages to the car? What damages? The car was in perfect condition when I was stopped. Scratches and a dent from the towing that needed to be repaired, he told me and then had the audacity to wish me a happy day before he hung up.