I walked into the
restaurant to meet my prospective client, scanned the diners and
slipped into the booth with her. She started to say something, then
her eyes widened and nothing came out of her open mouth.
“Mrs. Sanders?
I’m RB Kendrick,” I said, extending my hand.
“Oh, my,” she
breathed. “The description you gave me is wholly inadequate.” She
stared at me for a minute, then said, “Copper.”
Confused, I looked
around. There weren’t any police in there. “Huh?” I said
intelligently.
“Your hair. It’s
not ginger, it’s like polished copper. It shines.”
Women notice
different things than men. As I suspected from our conversation on
the phone, Sylvia Sanders was a norm and so was her husband. What I
read in her mind matched what she told me verbally. It’s so much
easier when clients tell you the truth. I understood why she had
suspicions about her husband. The changes in his behavior and
schedule screamed other woman to me also.
“So what do you
want, Mrs. Sanders? A report, photos, a confrontation? A basic report
of what and who he is or is not doing will run a thousand pounds.
Photos catching them in the act are another thousand, if I can get
them. Unlike the telly, most people don’t conveniently provide
evidence in front of windows with the shades open. If you want to
confront him in the act, I’ll accompany you for an additional
fifteen hundred pounds.”
She blanched at my
rates.
“If what he’s
doing isn’t obvious, and I have to put him under surveillance for
an extended period, my rates are five thousand a week.”
“I don’t think
that will be necessary,” she said with a quiver in her voice. She
gave me a thousand and I wrote down all the pertinent information.
“I’ll check on
it this afternoon. I’m going to be out of town for a few days,” I
told her. “If I don’t find anything by tomorrow morning, I’ll
call you when I get back.”
“Thank you, Miss
Kendrick. This has been going on for several months. I don’t think
it’s going to change.”
“Mrs. Sanders,
you need to think about what you’re going to do if your suspicions
are correct. Are you going to confront him and hope he ends it? Or do
you plan to divorce him? It’s something you should decide before
hand.”
“I want a
divorce,” she said. “I know he’s cheating on me. He called a
little while ago and told me he had to work late this evening.”
~~~
Edward Sanders
worked about a mile away. I took the Tube to his building. About
twenty minutes after I arrived, I saw him come out and head for the
Tube station. Obviously, he wasn’t working late.
I followed him and
sat behind him on the train. I read his mind to get his destination,
then sat back and used my phone to check my email.
When we left the
tube station, I took a slightly different route than Sanders to reach
the house of his mistress. I stood across the street and watched as
she answered the door for him. I could understand why he was
attracted to her. She was even more beautiful than what I had
expected from the images in his mind.
I read her mind,
also. She was the lonely trophy wife of a successful businessman who
traveled often. Edward Sanders was good looking, and twenty years
younger than his mistress’s husband. She wasn’t in love with him,
but considered him a wonderful diversion. He wasn’t in love with
her, either, but was infatuated that such a rich and beautiful young
woman wanted him.
The shades in the
living room weren’t drawn, and the amorous couple started their
activities immediately upon his entering the house. I pulled my
camera from my bag and walked across the street and across her lawn.
There was a small tree in an ugly plastic pot sitting in the middle
of the lawn, and I had to detour around it.
I could see
glimpses of the lovers through the living room window, but
reflections in the glass prevented me from a good view. It appeared
he was doing her on the dining room table. This was going to be the
easiest thousand pounds I’d ever made.
I was so focused on
what was going on inside that I didn’t see the hole hidden by the
small tree sitting in front of it. I should have realized what a
potted tree was doing on the lawn. Someone planned to plant it.
I took a step and
my left foot found only air. The world spun around and the camera
slipped out of my grasp. My chin hit something hard and I bit my
tongue.
When I came to my
senses, my right leg was sticking straight up and the rest of me lay
twisted in the bottom of a hole. My chin felt like it was on fire,
and my tongue hurt like mad. It took me some time to get myself
situated and crawl out onto the grass. I looked back. The hole was
about two feet deep. I spit, and a spot of bright red blood landed on
the green lawn.
I picked up my
camera and checked it to make sure it was still working. Looking
around, I didn’t see anyone. I waited until my head stopped
spinning, then crept up to the window. They were still going at it on
the table. I took some pictures, but had to wait for them to shift
positions so I could get his face. After a few minutes, I had all I
needed.
A sudden noise
behind me caused me to turn around. A white-haired woman with
binoculars hanging from her neck stuck her head out of the window of
the house next door.
“You clumsy cow,”
she shouted at me. “Get out of the way. You’re blocking the
view.”
I retreated in a
hurry, and she raised the binoculars, trained on the window through
which I’d been snapping pictures.
Case closed. I
walked back to the Tube and went home, holding a handkerchief to my
still-bleeding mouth.
| 
| 
| 
