“It wasn’t for his dad. He was doing an outside job.”
Her eyes go wider, still. “Damn. But you can fix this, right?”
“I’m trying to. I found some videos. I just need time to review them.”
“If you need help, let me know.” Rose turns when the door chimes.
Seventy-year-old Mrs. Salavati and her mother want wash and cuts so we get to work. Around mid-morning, I get a text from my tough guy with a picture of the Victorian mansion. That’s weird, the house wasn’t for sale a couple days ago.
When I call him back, he says the place has been cleared out but not to worry. Uh-huh. Will do. The Whitbreads are willing to pay thousands to find Gillian Liddy and now she’s gone. What could possibly go wrong?
Mrs. Rossi, waiting for Mia, looks up from her magazine and shouts across the salon, “Bad news?”
“No, no. It’s all good.” Since finding out I’m pregnant, I’ve noticed some things, like my fake smiles, don’t work as well as they used to.
Unconvinced, the owlish Italian woman shuffles to the back and presents me with a two-inch tinfoil flat package. “Open it.”
Expecting cocaine, I’m relieved to find amethyst beads and at my raised brows, she pats my hand. “Carry this with you at all times. It will save you and your family from the evil eye.”
“Thank you. I will.” Thus, protected from all misfortunes, I finish my morning and around noon, text Suds.
Me: What did you learn?
At my unreturned text, I picture all sorts of bad things happening until I remember my new good luck charm. If anyone looks at him cross-eyed, we’re probably covered.
Needing to stay occupied, I try the surrogate’s cell phone number. If nothing else, I’ll leave a message.
I’m surprised when she picks up. “Hello?”
“Hello? Gillian? It’s me, Samantha Sutcliffe. Please don’t hang up.”
“Why can’t you people leave me alone? I said I was fine.”
“I know, but my partner went back to the Bed and Breakfast and found it empty. We were concerned.”
“Know what? The Whitbreads need to back the fuck off. My God, they are relentless. Tell them if they don’t, I’ll file a restraining order.”
“Can you at least tell let me tell them you’re safe?” My heart goes out to her. I can’t imagine having a baby for someone else and having to give it up.
“I am. Now, leave me alone.” When she pauses, seagulls cry in the distance.
“Are you still at the beach?”
“If you must know, I am tanning by a pool in the Bahamas. Go away and don’t contact me again. Tell Melissa she’s being ridiculous.”
After she hangs up, I phone my client and tell her what her alleged best friend said. “I think you may need to accept her at her word.”
Mrs. Whitbread inhales sharply. “No, no. My friend doesn’t tan, she burns. We used to laugh about it all the time. When we’d vacation together at the shore, she’d only go out at night. You must believe me. This is another sign. She is crying out for my help.” The woman sounds so desperate; I feel badly for taking her money and vow to send a refund.
Well, most of it.
She races on without taking a breath. “Find her. Take my jet. Whatever. It’s not just about my baby, it’s about Gillian’s wellbeing. What can I do to make you believe me?” She bursts into tears and I have no recourse but to agree to stay on as her private investigator.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I’m sending you a credit card number with a hundred-thousand-dollar limit. Bill anything you want. Just bring her back.”
Holy shit. With that kind of dough, there’s no reason not to call in the big guns. I fill out a form, hit send, and press on my Jason icon.
