Two Guys Detective Agency
TWO GUYS DETECTIVE AGENCY
By
Stephanie Bond
Even Victoria can’t keep a secret from us...
Table of Contents
LINDA GUY SMITH carefully lifted her gun to take deadly aim at the intruder. With her heart
pounding, she squared his torso in her sites and held her breath as she slowly squeezed the trigger.
The squirrel seemed more startled than injured as the stream of water toppled him from the bird feeder
to the ground, but the effect was the same. Duly warned, he scampered away toward the Logans’ house
next door. Linda blew down the barrel of her plastic water pistol with the satisfaction of an expert
marksman, but she knew her victory was short-lived. After the creature sampled the discount birdseed in
Mrs. Logan’s feeder that was devoid of delectable black sunflower seeds, he would be back.
“But I’ll be ready for you, you little thief.” She set her weapon on the open window sill and turned back
to her next most pressing matter — preparing school lunches and breakfast among the towering clutter that
was her kitchen.
She could no longer remember when she and Sullivan had started the renovations. It seemed as if the
cabinet doors had always been off, the counters always covered with plastic, the floor always tiled with
uneven sheets of plywood. Linda sighed as she turned Very Veggie sausage patties in a nonstick skillet
crowded with scrambled eggs. From the looks of their negative bank balance this month, they wouldn’t be
moving forward with the repairs anytime soon. Her stomach rolled with an unease that had nothing to do
with the peculiar smell of the breakfast “meat.”
The
tap tap tap
of toenails sounded on the floor. Max was a retired (and tired) police bloodhound with
boundless patience, as evidenced by the sparkling pink tiara he wore.
“You’re going to get teased by the other neighborhood dogs,” she offered.
He ignored her jab, stopping to stare up at the empty birdfeeder.
“You missed my laser sniper shot at the enemy. But I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.”
Max whined, then walked over and dropped his dead weight to lie on her feet.
“You are going on a diet.”
He rolled his big brown eyes to look up at her.
“Okay,
we
are going on a diet,” she agreed, trying not to think about the boxes of dark chocolate-
covered cherries in the freezer — third prize in a local chocolatier’s slogan contest.
(Bon bons fix boo-
boos.)
Freezing them had been her way of rationing to herself the candy that no one else in the house
liked…it took a long honking time to eat a frozen chunk of chocolate. But just yesterday, she had
discovered she could thaw an entire box in the microwave in about thirty seconds.
“I should join the women’s walking group,” she murmured, although the thought of race-walking
through the neighborhood with that color-coordinated herd struck a chord of rebellion in her.
That isn’t
me.
Oh, yes, it is
, her subconscious whispered.
Face it, Linda — you’re regular
.
“Mom!” her nine-year-old son Jarrod shouted from his room down the hall, accompanied by thumping
and slamming. “I can’t find my UK cap!”
“Check the hall closet,” she called without looking up.
She studiously turned the veggie sausage patties, as if to prove she was exactly where she should be,
doing exactly what she should be doing. Being a mother and a wife in a perfectly nice little neighborhood in
an older section of Lexington, Kentucky. So she and Sullivan struggled financially — didn’t everyone? So
she didn’t feel fulfilled every moment of every day — who did?
Even twenty-nine-year-old women who had chosen a path opposite hers — an education and a career
— had occasional pangs for the road not taken…didn’t they?
“Mom!” her five-year-old daughter Maggie shouted from her room down the hall. “Where’s my pink
tiara?”
Linda exchanged a glance with the bejeweled dog. “Maggie, call Max and he’ll help you find it.”
“Come, Max!”
The dog rolled off her feet and trotted away, tiara bouncing. Linda turned to make peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches laid out in assembly-line fashion — two for Jarrod, one for Maggie, grape jelly for him,
strawberry for her. Baby carrots in baggies. Juice boxes. Hand wipes.
“Mom!” Jarrod yelled. “Where’s my UK jacket?”
She closed her eyes and counted to three. “It’s probably with your cap in the closet, sweetie.”
A minute later, he bounded into the kitchen wearing the blue and white jacket and hat bearing the
University of Kentucky insignia, his overgrown feet landing hard. She turned and her indefinable
frustration dissolved at the sight of him — he was all boy, his fair father made over, but with her green eyes
and her affinity for puzzles and number games. He came over to the stove, suffered a kiss, and held out the
comics section.
“It says there are six things different between these two pictures, but I can only find four.”
“Which four?”
He pointed them out as he recited them. She glanced at the pictures and rattled off the other two.
He frowned, hating to be bested.
“You give up too soon,” she chided, then handed him a loaded plate and removed his cap to hang it on
the back of his chair. “Maggie! Time for breakfast — you’re going to be late for the bus.”
“She’s primping,” Jarrod muttered. “What else is new?”
Maggie appeared, with Max dutifully following behind. Linda blinked. If her son was a mixture of her
and Sullivan, Maggie was a puzzling little alien of extreme girliness who tested Linda’s parenting skills on a
daily basis. This morning in addition to the glittery tiara, her dark-haired little beauty sported black and
white polka dot leggings, a yellow and orange flowered shirt, and a pink netting tutu around her chubby
waist. But her mismatched outfit paled in comparison to the bright red lipstick that circled her mouth like
clown paint.
Jarrod guffawed, but Maggie was unfazed as she climbed into a chair at the table.
“I look pretty,” she said defiantly.
“That’s quite an outfit,” Linda agreed as she set a plate of food in front of her youngest. She’d
committed to letting the budding fashion plate dress herself — the alternative left them both exhausted and
teary.
Maggie made a face. “I don’t want sausage. It’ll give me cellulite.” Linda was appalled until her
daughter squinted and asked, “What’s cellulite?”
“Nothing you have to worry about,” Linda said pointedly. “Eat.”
“It looks green,” Maggie whined, prodding a patty with her fork.
“It’s made without meat,” Linda said. “It’s good for you.”
“You have to eat it,” Jarrod said, shoveling in his food as if it were his last meal. “Mom won a year’s
supply.”
For answering a trivia question in a call-in radio contest. Easy stuff.
“Where did you hear about cellulite?” she asked Maggie.
“On that dumb show
Beauty Pageant Diaries
,” Jarrod offered. He drained his milk glass in one long
guzzle, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “She watches it at the Logans’ house.”
“Use your napkin, please. And no more play dates at the Loganses.” She lifted the corner of her apron
to wipe off Maggie’s lipstick under protest. “And stay out of my makeup kit.”
Maggie pouted. “But Aunt Octavia sent it for your birthday and
you
never use it.”
Linda caught sight of her reflection in a cracked mirror hanging over a bench piled high with power
tools. Her blond hair was lank and listless, her complexion pale. The gray sweatshirt and faded jeans didn’t
do much for her, either. Maggie was right — she could use a little sprucing up. Why had she resisted using
the luxurious gift her sister had sent? Because it represented everything she wasn’t, and seemed to carry
with it Octavia’s ringing disapproval of her suburban-stay-at-home-mom lifestyle?
And stirred her own feelings of unrest?
Jarrod carried his empty plate to the sink. “Is the kitchen ever going to be finished?”
“Dad is doing the best he can,” Linda said, although she was starting to wonder the same thing.
“Where
is
Daddy?” Maggie asked, still moving her food around.
“Yeah,” Jarrod grumbled. “He was supposed to show me how to tie a knot for Scouts.”
“He went into the office early. He’s working on a big case. I can help you with the knot.”
“I want Dad to help me,” he said stubbornly. “I wish he’d go back to being a cop. That was cool.”
A twinge barbed through her chest, partly to hear the disappointment in her son’s voice, and partly
because she herself missed Sullivan’s former career — the regular paycheck most of all. But that was
selfish of her. And now that he had almost a year under his belt at his own investigative agency, business
would hopefully begin to pick up. “Being a P.I. is cool,” she said in his defense.
“He works in a strip mall,” Jarrod shot back.
“But there’s a Waffle House next door,” Maggie piped up. “That’s
really
cool.” She frowned down at
the green sausage. “I wish I had a waffle right now.”
“
Eat
,” Linda said. “Mrs. Boyd will be here in a few minutes to walk you to the bus stop.”
“I don’t like Mrs. Boyd,” Maggie said with her mouth full. “She says bad things about our house.”
“Well, it’s true our house doesn’t look so great right now, but Daddy will work on it again as soon as he
solves his big case.”
Jarrod rolled his eyes. Linda felt obligated to give him a stern look even though she understood his
sentiments.
The doorbell rang.
“Go get your book bags,” she said needlessly as the kids went scrambling. She frowned suspiciously at
Maggie’s plate that was not only suddenly empty, but looked as if it had been
licked
clean. She leaned down
to find Max lying under the table, staring up with innocent eyes, oblivious to the piece of scrambled egg on
his muzzle that gave him away.
Linda sighed and turned to the counter to hurriedly stuff the lunch bags. She jogged to the tiny foyer,
also cramped with displaced furniture and supplies from the ongoing construction, then pasted on a smile
and swung open the door to greet her neighbor. “Good morning, Nan.”
