Shitake Happens: (A Shitake Mystery Series Prequel)

Oncoming headlights flashed in Mo's eyes, causing her to shield her face with one hand as she hunched over the car's steering wheel. Fortunately, her Mini Cooper was in park and the brief moment of blindness didn't cause an accident, only a spike in her already splitting headache.

The approaching car passed by and continued down the suburban street, not even hesitating in front of the home of her private investigation target: one Dewly Hawkins. She'd seen Hawkins enter the cookie-cutter, one-story ranch an hour ago. If the pattern of the last three nights continued, his wife would be home at any moment from her shift as a nurse at the local hospital. Being spotted by Mrs. Hawkins could compromise the stakeout.

The taillights of the passing car had just disappeared when the Mini's passenger door opened, causing the dome light to switch on.

"Hurry up," she ordered.

Clarence climbed in, plopped onto the seat and slammed the door shut. Almost simultaneously, a red blob appeared and began to blossom into a stain just over her right breast. A French fry from the pack in Clarence's hand had popped out, hit her chest and now lay in her lap.

"Shitake mushroom," she swore, jerking back. "Can't you keep that food on your side of the car?"

Giving up obscenities really limited a girl's options for appropriate outrage,
she thought as she tossed the fry out the window. At one time, multiple F bombs would have tumbled from her mouth. But then Harry, her boss, had insisted the clients of the PI agency expected more gentility. After all, Savannah, Georgia, was in the old South where manners were important. Since Mo needed this job until she could afford to go back to culinary school, she'd had to figure out a way to satisfy Harry. Abandoning her beloved swear words had been difficult at first, but now the food substitutes were automatic.

"Sorry, Imogene," Clarence said, shifting in the passenger seat before stuffing a glop laden fry into his mouth. He chewed and then reached for the seat belt over his shoulder.

"Call me Mo. And you're dead if you get that ketchup on my new car interior." She tapped the purse wedged between them, next to the long-lens camera. "Remember, I'm carrying."

Her Kel-Tec .380 pistol was in the trunk, but he didn't need to know that.

Clarence swallowed in a gulp, hesitated, and then reached inside the white paper fast-food sack on his lap. Pulling out a napkin, he eyed her with an uneasy gaze as he wiped his hands before reaching toward the belt again.

"Why are you buckling up?" she asked. "We're on a stakeout. We're sitting still."

"Oh yeah, right," he mumbled, letting go of the buckle, leaving it to snap back into place.

Shaking her head, Mo wished for the umpteenth time she hadn't agreed to let him come tonight. But Harry had insisted they start training the receptionist for field operations so he could do double duty. Harry wanted maximum value out of every employee.

Mo suspected Harry wouldn't be nearly as interested in Clarence if he weren't an ultra-cute, slightly geeky, twenty-two year old. Mo at thirty wasn't old enough to be his mother but she felt like it sometimes. Since watching a suspected insurance fraud was low-risk, boring duty, Harry had thought it would be a perfect opportunity to give Clarence a chance as an operative.

Yeah. Low risk except to Mo's wardrobe...and her patience.

They'd been parked here since 7 p.m. and in the last three hours Clarence had made a run to the nearby gas station for a bathroom break, a run to the store for a magazine, and a run to McDonalds for food. His singular goal seemed to be to irritate Mo. As if to emphasize the point, her hapless companion stuffed another handful of fries into his face and began chewing with his mouth half open.

She glanced down at her chest with a meaningful arch to one brow and then pinned him with a glare.

"Whaaaa?" he asked mid-chew.

"Can I have a napkin?" She resisted an eye roll and failed.

He fumbled in the white bag for a moment and then came out empty handed. "Sorry, I must've used 'em all." He offered up one of his ketchup covered, crinkled hunks of paper. "Take mine."

Mo's lip curled in disgust. "No thanks."

"Why do we have to sit here all night, anyway?" Clarence asked.

"I already told you." She opened her purse and searched inside for a tissue. If she could wipe off the majority of the mess, she could work at the stain with a remover stick. "The neighbors said this Hawkins guy carries heavy looking bags of stuff out of his house, but only at night."

Since Hawkins—mid-forties, balding with a heavy beer gut weighing down the belt holding his baggy jeans—alleged a back injury he'd suffered at work caused him excruciating pain and required him to walk with a cane, the insurance company wanted him watched. Photos of Hawkins carrying something heavy would definitely prove him a liar.

"I thought this would be more fun," Clarence complained between bites of a hamburger.

"Why would you think that?"

"'Cause you're...You know..." He looked her up and down. "You're cute."

Mo snorted. "Just keep your food
and yourself
on that side of the car, buddy."

The flash of headlights alerted her to another oncoming car.

"Duck," she said, crouching and pushing Clarence's head face-first into the package of fries on his lap.

The car pulled into the Hawkins driveway and Mo recognized Mrs. Hawkins' silver Hyundai. The car sat running for a moment before the garage door slowly rose, revealing Mr. Hawkins' pickup in one stall. A lawn mower, tools, boxes and other assorted clutter filled the second stall.

The Hyundai's engine switched off and the brake lights went dark. Then the driver's side door swung open and Mrs. Reva Hawkins—a Dolly Parton look-alike—climbed out. With a stiff-legged stomp, she marched through the garage entrance to the house and went inside.

"Sheesh, Mo," Clarence complained as he lifted his head, facing her with a mouth and nose as red as a clown's. "I didn't deliberately get ketchup on you. Ya didn't have—"

"For frittata's sake shut up," Mo said as she grabbed up her camera. "Someone's coming back out."

Reva Hawkins stepped into the garage and dragged Mr. Hawkins behind her. Mo leaned the camera lens atop the half-open car window, pointing it toward the action.

"I told you to clean up this stinkin' garage," Reva shouted. "I'm sick of never being able to park in here."

Through the camera lens, Mo observed Hawkins glance around the garage and then out into the street. He placed a hand on his wife's arm and said something inaudible.

Reva shook off his touch. "I don't care," she screamed. "I work hard all day while you lounge on your ass. No more excuses. Just get this place cleaned up."

Hawkins grasped his wife by the shoulders and pulled her to him. For a moment it looked as if the two were about to kiss, but then Reva shoved her husband and he fell against the truck's side panel.

"You're not sweetening me up with lovin' this time, mister." Her shout carried out to Mo as she strode back into the house.

Hawkins nipped at Reva's heels. "Honey bunny! Please. Just let me—" His plea cut off as he entered the house. Before disappearing totally, Hawkins stuck a hand out and pressed a button. The overhead garage door began to close.

"Crêpe Suzette!" Mo lowered the camera into her lap. "I thought he might give us something that time."

"I have to pee again," Clarence announced.

Mo rounded on him with narrowed eyes and lips pursed. "For a young guy, you've got the prostate of an eighty year-old."

"I wish Harry had let me go with Gary to the strip club job to watch that cheating husband," Clarence grumbled. "He'd have let me pee."

"Just go behind the bush by that abandoned house over there," Mo said, waving a hand in the general vicinity of the area to the left. "Or how about the empty Coke bottle in the backseat?"

"Gary would've let me use an actual toilet at the strip club."

"I'll be right back," Mo said as she swept her long brown hair into a ponytail. She picked up her camera and opened the car door. When she stepped out, her foot sank ankle deep into a puddle.

Could tonight get any shitakier?

She glanced around and, seeing no one, ran across the street toward the hedges under the drape-covered picture window of the Hawkins' house. Alternating squishes sounded in time with the clammy water squeezing between her toes as she moved.

When she got within ten feet of the house, Mo heard a muffled, high-pitched scream followed by a loud thud from inside. Her breath hitched in fear and her step faltered briefly before she continued on to wedge herself between the bushes and the house. Crouching beneath the sill, Mo inched her head up and zeroed in on a slight part at the center of the drapes to peek inside.

She observed Dewly Hawkins crossing the living room and then passing into the dining room to the kitchen beyond. Reva wasn't anywhere to be seen. But Mo did see a shotgun propped against the coffee table.

A minute later, Hawkins returned carrying several items: scissors, duct tape and what looked like plastic baggies full of ice. Near the center of the living room, he kneeled and began working on something.

Twisting this way and that, Mo still couldn't see what was on the floor. A big-screen television, apparently sitting on a console in front of the window, blocked her view of a large portion of the room. Mo decided to go around to the side of the house. She might get a better vantage point there since the side window was positioned at a greater height and the curtains were open.

After creeping around the corner, Mo edged under the window. Its lower edge was just over her head and there was no way to see inside even when stretched on tiptoes. Fortunately, the home's AC compressor unit was located on the ground beneath the window, just a few inches to the side. Mo put the strap of the camera around her neck and climbed onto the metal casing. Her weight caused the metal to warp inward with a
whap
sound.