Time and Trouble (2 page)

But Emma had thought
—
had decided, had believed
—
that the gift of midlife was being through with all that. In her mid-fifties, she was no longer a contender in the sexual sweeps. No longer expending effort to meet some impossible definition of what was feminine and
“
right.
”
You weren
’
t even called
“
well preserved
”
at that age. Preserved for what? Nobody was waiting. Far as the world was concerned, you were out of the game, benched for life.

Which was fine with Emma. She never liked their game, and thoroughly enjoyed her own. She
’
d always felt as if she were sitting on a high tree branch, watching the prefabricated, pathetic lives of other girls. It seemed to her that at birth, girl children were set in line, in hateful competition one with the other, like racehorses, slapped on their behinds and told to get going
—
see who could be the best of breed, and told precisely what
“
best
”
meant.

Emma had always run the other way. She had a great time
—
but lost the race according to them. A tomboy, they called her. A hellion. Her hair was never sufficiently smooth, her contours never sufficiently voluptuous, her mouth and manners never sufficiently controlled.

And the freeing, secret magic of reaching her fifties was that none of it mattered anymore. She was finally well and truly her own woman, and entirely comfortable with her custom-tailored life and standards.

So what did it mean that here she was, glaring at this Billie person because she looked like everything
“
they
”
approved of, was young, smooth-skinned and fresh-faced, and didn
’
t have creaky joints even on this rainy winter morning. Humiliating to have suffered an attack of hundred-proof competitive venom, rancor at the way nature worked. Can
’
t have it both ways, she told herself. Can
’
t live a long and interesting time and still be young. Your quarrel is with the facts of life, not with Billie August.

Emma was proud of her talent for objectively sizing people up, but here she
’
d been, jerking her knee so hard she
’
d nearly blinded herself with it.

“
I read the feature about you and your agency in the
I.J.
,
”
Billie was saying.
“
I was impressed by
—
I
’
m not trying to flatter you, just to explain why I
’
m here, why I was so excited when I saw your ad. I admire what you
’
ve done. Your courage and determination and smarts. Because you pioneered in this field and then started your own agency.
”
She smiled and gesticulated, manicured nails and long fingers intimating that there were no words that could adequately express her admiration.

Emma forgave her for being young, enthusiastic and attractive, and for shamelessly flattering her. For not having arthritic twinges and for spending her college tuition on piano and acting classes. But all the same, if she was revving-up to say she needed a mentor or role model, Emma was going to terminate the interview. She needed an employee, not a groupie or fan. Touchy-feely made her gag.

“—
and that you were also a single mother,
”
Billie said.

How noble that
Independent Journal
article made her sound. How tactful and kind, if not entirely accurate, the interviewer had been. Heartstring-tearing. Bring your business to the widderwoman.

Emma had told her the truth. But the reporter hadn
’
t chosen to mention that Emma
’
s widowhood and sleuthing had begun simultaneously. Cause and effect.

Harry Howe
’
s heart had not been up to the triple threat of gambling losses, a shaky employment status, and the demands of extramarital sex. When Harry keeled over, his frolicking partner
—
whose identity became the widow Emma
’
s first very private investigation
—
chose not to call the paramedics, police, or even the occupant of the next motel room. Chose not to dress the man or pull a sheet over his sad naked bottom before she took off. Instead, when she was safely elsewhere, she phoned Emma to say, anonymously, where she could find her husband in flagrante deado.

Emma wondered how little Miss Eager across the desk would have reacted to the real story, and whether she would still have applied here, all aflutter.

“
You raised your kids and ran this place and managed things I need to manage,
”
Billie said.
“
I want to work with you and learn from you.
”

She hadn
’
t said the word
mentor.
A technical victory, but still, Emma felt relieved. And annoyed. She
’
d hoped the profile would bring in clients
—
not job applicants.

“
I think everyone needs
—”
Billie was interrupted by the high whine of a fire engine outside on Fourth Street.

Emma pushed back her chair and went to investigate. All she saw were umbrellas and rainhoods one story below, and a low dark sky above them. El Ni
ñ
o, they said, although it seemed just another damn rainy January to her. She shrugged and went back to her desk and lifted her stained coffee cup.
“
Can
’
t see anything,
”
she said.
“
It isn
’
t us.
”

In other cities Emma had visited, sirens attracted no particular attention, but here, even across the bay from San Francisco, even in a winter downpour, there was always a second
’
s frozen reaction to the warning of a fire, like the collective unconscious of 1906, always referred to as
“
The Fire of,
”
not
“
The Quake of.
”
Reinforced
—
in case anybody had forgotten
—
by the Oakland firestorm eighty-plus years later. Fire was out there, along with earthquakes, like the cry of a timber wolf in the wilderness. Everything you know could be gone in a moment.

“
Want coffee?
”
Emma gestured at mugs hanging from the prongs of a Victorian hatstand above a coffeemaker.

Miss Prim shook her head.
“
Thanks anyway,
”
she murmured.

Emma refilled her cup.
“
You were saying something about what a woman needs?
”
The girl had been on the verge of something either offensively sensitive and New Age or, God help us, stale and Freudian.

“
I honestly can
’
t remember. Forgive me.
”

Emma brought the coffee back to her desk, spilling some in the process. She put her stained cup down, wiped a bead of coffee from a file folder and looked at Billie
’
s application again, although she really didn
’
t need to.
“
Given your background,
”
she said,
“
your education, I would think you
’
d want something in the arts.
”

“
Well, something creative. But that
’
s part of the appeal of this kind of work. It
’
s as you said: Different challenges all the time. Not a daily routine.
”

She
’
d memorized the damn article.
“
But,
”
Emma said,
“
skiptracing is hardly spurred by the same impulse as, say, interpreting a sonata. Or starring in
…”
She peered at the r
é
sum
é
.
“…
Uncle Vanya
.
”

Billie August took a deep breath designed to be heard in the third balcony.
“
I included those things so you
’
d know I
’
m not afraid of talking to people or of playing a role. In fact, I
’
m good at both of them.
”

“
But would you like it? Is this really what interests you?
”

“
With all due apologies, what interests me more than anything is how I can provide a decent life for myself and my son and not be bored silly meanwhile. Acting is about the least dependable profession I can think of. If I wanted to try, I
’
d have relocated, but I
’
m either not good enough or not driven enough. Doesn
’
t matter which. As for teaching, school budgets for the arts are nonexistent and I don
’
t want to be that nice neighborhood lady who gives piano lessons. Even if I could stay alive doing that.
”

“
Let me see if I
’
ve got this. You don
’
t want to move to L.A. or New York and wait tables and act, and you don
’
t want to teach kids scales. And once those jobs are eliminated, investigating is left as the only option?
”

Billie grinned.
“
I am currently working at The Final Touch
—
we sell scarves, belts, and earrings. Accessories. I can also type. Clean houses. Sell shoes at Nordstrom, get my broker
’
s license or perform telephone sex. The thing is
—
this is what I want to do.
”

Emma sat back and steepled her fingers.

“
I am able-bodied, intelligent, cooperative, adequately creative, and not particularly afraid,
”
Billie said.
“
Did I forget anything?
”

“
Loyal, steadfast, never planned to overthrow the government
…”

“
And I can program my VCR.
”

“
Mechanical aptitude duly noted.
”

“
Miz Howe.
”
Billie
’
s voice pitched low, her head tilted and her eyes narrowed.
“
I sense reservation on your part. I trust you do not suffer from pigmentation intolerance.
”

“
From
…
? Not that I know
—”
Emma put her hand to her cheek. Was something wrong with her coloring? Was this some goddamn new politically incorrect offense?
“
What are you talking about? What
’
s
‘
pigmentation intolerance
’
?
”

“
A critical inability to believe that blondes have brains.
”

Emma gave a half-nod of acknowledgment.
“
Touch
é
,
”
she said.

Billie wasn
’
t smiling.
“
I do not put Wite-Out on the computer screen.
”

“
Why is it that you never hear jokes about gray-haired women? At least not about our IQs.
”
Emma ran her fingers through close-cropped silvery hair at the nape of her neck.
“
Never heard of a ditzy
…
There isn
’
t even a word for us. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, and
…
old ladies. Not so great in the world at large, maybe, but a plus in this business. We go unnoticed. Even if we color our hair.
”

“
But if you
’
re thinking a young woman
—
I can be invisible, too. Honestly. I
’
m kind of a blank without makeup. I can make myself look lots of ways, including barely noticeable.
”

Emma understood what the other woman meant, although she knew that no female in her twenties
—
no well-built, pretty blonde, no matter how much makeup she left off or put on, no matter what she did with her dress and no matter how bad a hair day she had
—
could comprehend just how invisible, even fully bedecked and trying her best, a middle-aged woman could be.

Time would teach her that. Emma didn
’
t have to.
“
So you think this job is creative. You think you
’
ll be reinventing yourself a lot, wearing disguises, shooting
—”

“
I didn
’
t
—”

“
It isn
’
t like that. It
’
s not like in the movies.
”

“
I know that.
”

“
You
’
re mostly checking records, accessing databases, surveilling rotten husbands or crooked employees or insurance fakes, or finding the addresses of poor dummies who never heard of
The Maltese Falcon
.
”

Billie sat straighter.
“
I
’
d be good at that. I
’
m an excellent researcher. Good enough to have already read everything I could find about what it is you do. And to be computer-literate. And to have at least a rudimentary idea of accessing information online.
”

The sugarplum fairy had a solid core. Wonder if she would last. Wonder if the agency would last. Her research skills weren
’
t foolproof
—
look, she applied for a job with a company everybody else quit. But let her find that out for herself.

“
Here
’
s something you should know,
”
Emma said.
“
This may be the Bay Area and all, but what we are is hired investigators. Our job is to find information for our clients
—
and deciding whether clients
deserve
it is none of our business.
”