The Ivy Russell Novellas

By Christin Haws

Ivy Russell is a private investigator in Buddington, the big city in the cornfield. With the help of friends Art Lopez and Leo DeWitt, she follows cheating spouses and looks for missing people. Much to the frustration of best friend Detective Baz Johnson, Ivy tends to, well, attract weird.

In Cheaters and Chupacabras, Ivy finds that a string of cheating spouse cases puts her in the vicinity of a chupacabra. When she takes a missing persons case to get away from it (at the urging of Baz), it puts her right in its sights. And if a killer mythological creature isn't bad enough, she's also the maid of honor at her friend Michelle's upcoming wedding.

In The Timeless Man, Thanksgiving is approaching, work is slow, and Ivy's friends won't stop bugging her about participating in the Thanksgiving eve drinking ritual known as Blackout Wednesday. That's when Arthur Meadows walks into her office. Ivy normally doesn't take legacy cases, but this time she makes the exception. And finds that there's more to Mr. Meadows's legacy than she could have imagined.

In The Odd Section of Town, Ivy finds the area of Buddington where she conducts a lot of her business plagued by bad luck at the same time an old friend visits and Baz acquires a girlfriend. Despite objects all around, Ivy is determined to figure out what's going on before the bad luck gets her, too.

In Firebugs and Other Insects, The Odd Section is plagued by an arsonist and Ivy is the prime suspect as she looks for a mentally ill young man hiding out there. She could really use some help, but Baz is overworked and Art is doing a little investigation of his own, trying to figure out why Leo has suddenly gone recluse. And Ivy isn't about to ask that fireman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christin Haws
• Release date: Oct 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310431982

Christin Haws

Christin Haws is a writer and podcaster with a fixation on reruns and cop shows, a love/hate relationship with the Chicago Cubs, and a tendency to use humor as a coping mechanism. Decidedly unhip, she occupies space in a small town in the middle of a cornfield.

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The Ivy Russell Novellas

By Christin Haws

Copyright2015 Christin Haws

Smashwords edition

This is a work of fiction.

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Table of Contents

Cheaters and Chupacabras

The Timeless Man

The Odd Section of Town

Firebugs and Other Insects

Acknowledgment

About the Author

Home

Cheaters and Chupacabras

1

Ivy Russell climbed the tree with more agility and speed than most people think a fat girl is allowed to have. She did have the slight advantage of having climbed this particular tree a few times before, but still, experience didn’t diminish her skill.

She didn’t go up very high, maybe twenty feet, just enough so she could see into the second floor window of the house with little trouble. Situating herself in the tree to free up her hands, Ivy pulled her phone from her pocket and waited. The couple had walked through the front door of the house about twenty minutes before. It wouldn’t be long before they made their way to the master bedroom.

Five minutes later and Ivy’s butt started to cramp. She pocketed her phone and shifted herself around to relieve the pressure. The offended muscle relaxed. The light went on in the bedroom. Ivy’s phone vibrated in her back pocket.

Cursing a blue streak in her head, Ivy scrambled to get her phone, but not so quickly as to lose her balance from her perch. Broken limbs were not her friend in this, or any, situation. Ivy dismissed the text from Michelle (and thanked some sort of benevolent entity that she remembered to put her phone on vibrate before she got out of the car), and enabled the camera, checking to make sure the flash was off. Nothing would end her night faster than a flash in a tree.

Except maybe a broken limb, hers and/or the tree’s.

The couple moved in front of the window, wrapped in an aggressive embrace. The man, salt and peppered into his late fifties with a matching mustache, was still fully clothed. His companion, a girl about thirty years younger with fashionably long and fashionably bleached hair had already lost her dress, her black lace bra and matching panties an appropriate outfit for an evening of lust.

The young lady playfully pushed the older gentleman away, holding onto his tie as he took off his suit jacket. She gave him a good look at her trim body and overflowing cleavage. She gave Ivy a good look at her face. Ivy managed to snap two good pictures of the woman before the passionate make-out session resumed. Ivy took a few pictures of that, too, as well as a couple of shots of the man once he came up for air. Pocketing her phone, Ivy began her descent from the tree.

Not bad for a night’s work. Easy compared to what it could have been, particularly with Michelle texting her at an inopportune moment. Familiarity helped. Patricia Whitesale hired her at least three times a year (usually more) to track her cheating husband, Edmund. In fact, Ivy often said that if it weren’t for Edmund Whitesale’s inability to keep it in his pants and Patricia Whitesale’s constant suspicion, Ivy wouldn’t be able to afford being a private investigator.

Ivy jumped the last feet from the tree and waited in the shadow of it for a second, listening to the neighborhood. It sounded like business as usual in this middle-class residential area of Buddingfield, mostly quiet with the sound of a few cars cruising the streets in the nearby blocks. The Whitesale’s didn’t live here; they lived in big-house country in a development on the south side. The girl didn’t live here either; that was why Ivy was on the case.

Patricia hired her to do the same thing every time: identify who her husband was sleeping with. The result was always the same, too. Ivy would pass along the name of the girl of the month, Patricia would have a dramatic emotional fallout and swear that this time was the last time, and then a few months later, Patricia would call Ivy to do it all over again. Ivy couldn’t see the appeal of staying with a serial cheater, but she figured that if Patricia didn’t love Edmund (and she suspected that she did), then the money must have been better married.

The house, as near as Ivy could figure, belonged to a friend of the Whitesales, but Ivy didn’t think the owners lived in it either. She’d come to think of it as the Buddingfield Bang House, where the philandering rich husbands of the city-in-the-cornfield took their mistresses for an uninterrupted evening of passion. In truth, she tried not to think about it at all. Bathing in bleach wasn’t good for you.

Ivy crept around the side of the house without looking too much like creeping. People notice if you’re trying to be sneaky. People don’t notice too much if you keep it casual. Walking through side yards was commonplace when she was a kid, but had fallen out of fashion as she got older. Still, a girl dressed in jeans and a navy blue t-shirt and black sneakers walking through a yard wouldn’t draw nearly as much suspicion as a girl skulking through the bushes lining the house, wearing all black and trying too hard not to be seen.

Once Ivy hit the sidewalk, she was nothing more than a normal pedestrian.

She checked the clock on her phone as she headed the two blocks north to her car, the streetlights lighting her way. It was a little after midnight. Considering she’d spent six hours following Edmund Whitesale around, she was feeling pretty good. Usually by now she was tired, cranky, and sore. It must have been the lack of time sitting with a tree branch up her backside that made the difference.

Chuckling to herself, she crossed the street.

A scream ripped through the neighborhood, bouncing from house to house like a burglar looking for an open window. Ivy stopped dead in the middle of the street, spinning around, heart racing as she tried to figure out where it came from. The source eluded her. Another sound, a screech lower in octave, but just as loud, chased after the scream. Ivy cringed and covered her ears as the noise raked its way down her spine.

It took a second for the adrenaline to kick in and jerk Ivy into movement. She scrambled out of the road and ran for her car, digging in her pocket for her keys on the way. Ivy might have been a good tree climber, but fast she wasn’t and running wasn’t her specialty. Huffing and sweating in the summer night air, Ivy unlocked her car, slid into the seat, cranked the engine, and flipped on her police scanner. Just as she shut her car door, red and blue lights flashed between the houses a few blocks to her left. A few seconds later, the police chatter confirmed that the screams had been reported and officers were en route.

Ivy sighed in relief and sat in the idling car as the adrenaline drained from her bloodstream, leaving her with the shakes. Situation handled and she wouldn’t have to deal with the police. Her win streak continued.

After a few minutes, her heartbeat returned to a normal rate and the shakes subsided. Ivy switched off the scanner. She buckled up and put the car into gear, waiting until she hit the stop sign before turning on her lights.

Ivy didn’t know what had just happened, but she was pretty sure that it didn’t sound good for someone.

2

The next morning, Ivy sat at the computer in her office, downloading the pictures from her phone to her computer and waiting for the microwave to reheat her coffee. Even though she made it to bed a little after one that morning and had slept until eight, she felt like her head carried a weight that only caffeine could lighten. The sleep hadn’t been a good one. Too many bad dreams about what made that screeching sound, too many grisly ends for the screamer.

The microwave announced her coffee was ready. Ivy got to her feet and took the five steps from her desk to the microwave, which was stacked on a mini-fridge. The coffee pot filled with day (or two, she couldn’t remember) old coffee sat on top of the microwave. Ivy retrieved her reheated cup of coffee and added creamer before setting the cup down on her desk without slopping it everywhere, a rare achievement.

The office was on the ground floor of a thin, three-story building Ivy owned in a semi-residential, little bit used part of town. The front door facing the street was glass and flanked by two large windows, but she didn’t advertise her private investigative services on them. The door opened into a small lobby area that Ivy didn’t bother to decorate. To the left of the door were the stairs that led to the upper floors. Ivy’s apartment was on the second floor; she rented out the third floor apartment to an old classmate from her hometown. When Ivy was in, her office door was open so she could see anyone coming into the building.

In her small office she managed to fit a desk, couch, and two chairs along with her mini-kitchen set-up. Just past the coffee pot-microwave-mini-fridge stack (which some felt was an electrical fire waiting to happen; Ivy felt those people were fear-stricken weenies), was the bathroom, which wasn’t anything more than a closet with a toilet and a sink. The wood paneling finished off the look. It wasn’t stylish, but it was home.

Ivy sipped her old, reheated coffee from her favorite chipped mug and disconnected her phone from the computer. She looped her USB cord and put it away in its designated spot in her desk, nestled between her tray of flash drives and her Argentine Colt .45. The top of her desk might be a mess most of the time, but the drawers were always neat.

A silhouette darkened the front door.

Leo DeWitt slipped into the lobby looking fresher than Ivy felt. The building had something resembling air conditioning, but it took a ceiling fan and an oscillating fan in the corner to create anything resembling a cool breeze in the small room. Despite the June heat coming to a boil outside, which had Ivy looking less than professional in an old Cubs t-shirt and striped shorts, Leo sported his black fedora, a black band t-shirt from some long ago concert, black slacks, and black dress shoes. His high cheeks mashed his eyes closed when he smiled at Ivy as he walked into her office and went straight for the coffee pot. He didn’t look a day over sixty-five even though he was nearly a decade older than that.

Morning, Sunshine, he said, grabbing the coffee pot and holding it up to the sunlight streaming through the window at Ivy’s back. How old is this coffee?

I made it yesterday. I think.

Leo made a face and headed to the bathroom with the coffee pot, scooting past Ivy’s desk. He paused to look down on her in disapproval.

It’s not that awful, Leo. Just reheat it, Ivy said in response to his look.

Leo dumped the coffee in the sink and refilled the pot with fresh water.

That might suffice for you, young lady, but I am a man of taste and quality and I won’t drink day old swill, Leo said, making his way back to the coffee pot.

Unless it comes in a wine bottle, Ivy said.

Leo stopped his coffee making progress and bestowed upon her another disapproving look.

I will have you know that I have never left a bottle of wine to sit spoiling once it had been opened. That is poor manners.

Ivy laughed and Leo finished making coffee.

So what are you working on? Leo asked, sitting in the chair closest to the coffee maker as it worked its caffeine magic. Same old, same old?

Ivy nodded and yawned. Another cheating case for Patricia Whitesale.

It must be nice to have regular work, Leo said with a laugh.

Yeah, that’s one way to put it. She turned her attention to the computer and brought up the pictures.

With the aid of a picture program, Ivy spent several minutes working on the pictures isolating the mystery woman’s face while keeping the integrity of the shot.

Get that from the tree in the backyard?

Ivy jumped. She’d been concentrating so hard on what she was doing that she didn’t hear Leo get up or walk behind her.

Yeah, how did you know? she asked, looking warily over her shoulder at him.

I might be old, he said, straightening up, but I have a phenomenal memory. He pointed to the original picture on the screen. I remember that window angle from another case. Another blonde girl, that one named Layla, I believe.

Ivy looked at him in disbelief.

How did you remember that? That was probably two years ago.

Phenomenal memory, Leo said again, tapping his temple. He fetched himself some fresh coffee from the just done pot.

I hope I have such a memory at your age, Ivy said, turning back to her computer.

You don’t have that memory now, Leo said. And you won’t live to be my age at the rate you’re going.

Hey, I’ve always been pretty lucky when it comes to cheating death.

Living to be my age takes more than luck, poker face.

Ivy laughed. Leo was right, but having luck on her side certainly didn’t hurt.

He sat down and sipped his brew while Ivy printed out all of her pictures.

This is going to be a fun case, she said. I’ve got nothing, just a face. And not even an interesting face. She’s the most generically pretty blonde girl I’ve seen lately.

And you’ve seen many, Leo said, nodding.

All in the line of duty. Edmund Whitesale has a definite type. Ivy laid the pictures out on her desk to make sure the ink dried thoroughly before she stashed them away in the designated file folder for the case. She sat back in her chair, looking at the woman spread out all over. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of following on this case just to get something on this chick that I might identify her with.

Maybe Art knows something, Leo said.

Ivy raised an eyebrow. I don’t think Art knows too many high-priced blondes.

You never know. Art’s a surprising fellow.

As if by cosmic summons, Art walked into the lobby and straight into Ivy’s office, squeezing behind Leo to get a cup of coffee without so much as a hello. Arturo Art Lopez was an actual sixty-five years old and looked it, retired, and Ivy’s favorite source for street information.

Art, do you know any high-priced blondes? Ivy asked.

Male or female? he said with a slight Puerto Rican accent.

Leo raised both eyebrows. Ivy smiled.

Female.

Edmund Whitesale cheating again? Art asked, walking over to Ivy’s desk. He picked up one of the long shot pictures of the blonde in her underwear and gave a low whistle. Good taste.

Ivy took the picture from him.

You’ll get drool on it, Art. She gathered up the pictures and stashed them in the file folder.

Sorry, honey, can’t help you. She’s out of my league. Art sat down in the other chair.

Looks like I’ll be combing through escort services and secretaries, since that’s what Edmund likes, Ivy said, rubbing her forehead. I have slim hope that her picture is online and that I’ll find it before Patricia calls me to let me know that Edmund is going out again. Following that man around is a drag. A sleazy drag.

I’ll be happy to help you do online searches for her, Art said.

You’ll disappear into porn and I’ll never see you again.

Leo laughed and Art smirked.

Don’t be silly. I’m still on dial-up.

Now Ivy laughed. Leo shook his head.

It’s not even ten in the morning and we’ve already descended into the gutter. This does not bode well for the rest of the day.

Speak for yourself, Art said.

Footsteps on the stairs next to Ivy’s office signaled that Ivy’s tenant, Riley Ames, was setting out to work. Art quickly turned in his chair and stared out the office door, watching as Riley walked through the lobby and out the front door without a look back. He turned right and walked down the sidewalk. Art watched him until he disappeared from view.

Ivy and Leo exchanged looks.

Art, what are you doing? Ivy asked.

I was looking at how he walks, Art said. Trying to see if I could see anything from when he was…you know…from before.

Ivy rolled her eyes. Haven’t you ever seen a trans guy before?

No, I’ve only seen the women. A strange look crossed his face and he wrinkled his nose. It’s weird.

Did you know Riley before? Ivy asked.

No.

Then it’s not weird. It’s just you.

Leo laughed and got up for some more coffee. A beep from the computer let Ivy know she had a new email. She clicked the appropriate tab and promptly groaned.

Uh oh. Someone sending you Jesus chain letters again? Art asked. Leo snorted and sat down.

No, it’s Michelle.

Leo and Art echoed her groan.

Now what? Leo asked.

I don’t know. I don’t want to read it. It’s probably more changes to her wedding that she can’t logically make. Or it’s more demands for her bachelorette party. Ivy sunk down in her chair and looked at her two gentleman friends. Why did I agree to be her maid of honor again?

I don’t think you did. I think you were volunteered, Leo said. Art snorted in agreement.

Michelle Mitchell was Ivy’s best friend of the feminine gland and had been for years, but the minute she got engaged (to a wonderful man, for sure), Michelle changed from a rational human being to an insane, insecure, needy person that called, texted, and emailed Ivy six or seven times a day, all communication concerned with her damn wedding.

Maybe I can get away with not opening it, Ivy said.

It’s probably rigged to self-destruct, Leo said.

Leo was probably right, again, and Ivy hated him for it. She clicked it open and gave it a quick read before breathing a sigh of relief.

Just asking me to double check the flower order. Nice and sane. I can deal with that. She closed the email and wrote herself a note, sticking it to her monitor. She picked up her coffee and sat back. Do you know what she did to me last night? It’s damn near midnight and I’m up the Bang House tree and she texts me about cheese balls. Cheese balls! The woman almost made me fall out of a tree, break myself, and miss my shot over some damn cheese balls. She’s not even having cheese balls at the wedding!

Leo laughed, but Art suddenly went serious, his eyebrows scrunching down and in, giving him even more forehead than his non-existent hairline had already established.

You were over at the Bang House last night? he asked.

Yeah. Why?

I read something in the paper this morning about a lady in that neighborhood getting killed. Found her dead on her front lawn.

Ivy’s stomach dropped. She put down her coffee and leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

What did the article say?

Art shrugged. Just that a woman was found dead after neighbors heard weird screams. Cops aren’t talking.

Ivy shivered as the echo of that screech raced from her brain and down her spine. Leo sucked air through his teeth.

Oooh, cops not talking. That’s never a good thing. That means something suspicious is going on, he said. I wonder what the story is.

Well, Ivy said, forcing her muscles to unknot and sitting back as casually as she could, I suppose if Baz stops in to use my office as a coffee shop like you guys, we can ask him.

3

The boys chatted about the dead-lady-on-the-lawn case for a bit, hoping it would conjure Baz, but nothing happened. After about twenty minutes of that conversation circle, they moved on to something else.

Ivy, meanwhile, tried to get her brain to focus. The memory of that lady’s scream and the screech that followed it echoed through her brain and a chill ran over her skin. She shook her head and focused on the computer, trying to tune out her imagination and Leo and Art’s conversation.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been so close to a death. She’d come pretty close to her own on several occasions. But there was something creepy about this one that caught hold of her nerves and wouldn’t let go.

Ivy numbed herself by flipping through the endless pictures of too pretty blondes on the escort sites that serviced the area and then some, looking for one that resembled her generically pretty girl. After four sites and a hundred pictures, Ivy started to feel like she was the only brunette left in the world.

She also felt like she couldn’t remember what her blonde looked like.

Just as she opened the file folder containing her pictures, Ivy’s phone went off. She dug it out of her pocket and unlocked the screen while studying the face of her mystery girl.

Ivy checked her phone and let out of muffled, frustrated scream. She resisted the urge to throw her phone, but thought she might end up crushing it in her fist instead. Ivy held her breath until her anger started to ebb. Going from numb to pissed in less than a second couldn’t be good for her blood pressure.

Problem, Sunshine? Leo asked as Art looked at her with mild concern.

Michelle is having another crisis. I knew I couldn’t get off the hook so easy today, Ivy said, carefully setting her phone on her desk. She wants me to haul my ass across town to see her at work about the latest drama.

What now? Leo asked, rolling his eyes.

She doesn’t say. Just that it’s, and I quote, ‘vitally important to the state of perfection of the wedding’. Ivy sighed and put her head down on the desk for a second. There were no breathing exercises or calming mantras that could help her now. Her patience was spent and ignoring Michelle wasn’t an option. She looked up at Leo. Do you mind taking over the search for my mystery blonde? If I’m lucky, I can just run across town, set Michelle straight, and get right back. I might be gone an hour at the most.

Leo sighed and looked at the ceiling. Well, I was going to…

Oh, don’t play that with me. You were going to sit in my office all day and drink my coffee, Ivy said. So do you want do something constructive or not?

Leo smirked.

I’m a sucker for a lady in distress, even if she’s not much of a lady.

Thank you. Ivy quickly gathered up her phone and her keys. She worked her way around one side of the desk, passing behind Art, as Leo got up and walked to her chair. I’ll buy you lunch for it.

Leo waved off her off.

Hey, Ivy, Art said. You need me to do anything?

Ivy stopped and leaned on the door jamb of her office.

Yes. Fashion a lifeline between you, Leo, and the doorknob. That way, if you get lost in porn, I’ll be able to pull you out when I get back.

Ivy drove downtown, parking in the closest garage she could find since street parking was impossible this time of day, and walked several blocks to Michelle’s office building. Michelle was one of those low level employees that had been in her office for years and wasn’t considered important enough to pay a high salary or give many perks to, but whose absence was felt even if she were gone one day because she did so much work. Ivy had no idea why she liked working there, but Michelle genuinely seemed to enjoy her job.

Ivy would have gone mad.

The buildings blended together in this section of town, all of them new and modern and glass, and if it weren’t for the concrete plaza with benches that several of the office buildings on the block used as a smoking lounge, Ivy might have passed by Michelle’s office. They all looked alike to her.

She found Michelle out with the smokers though Michelle didn’t smoke. She was pacing like one that was trying to quit, though, agitated and red, her jaw clenched and her blonde hair looking a little wilder than it normally did, maybe from the heat and humidity, maybe from her crisis. Ivy approached her like she’d approach a sleeping dog in the yard of a house she was casing. As she got closer, she realized that Michelle was muttering to herself, but couldn’t make any sense of it.

Michelle, Ivy said, prepared to take a step back if her friend exploded.

Which she did.

Ivy took the step back, wincing at the velocity words were hurled at her. In the rush, Ivy caught something about the bridesmaid dresses.

Taking her life into her hands, Ivy grabbed Michelle by the shoulders, clamping down so she couldn’t get away, and gave her friend a shake.

Michelle! Get a hold of yourself and speak English, Ivy said, looking Michelle straight in her green eyes. Or Spanish. I can understand most of that. But I cannot understand raging bride.

Michelle stopped her rambling, took a deep breath, and proceeded to outline her problem, enunciating each word deliberately.

The bridesmaid dresses are awful, she said, the tears in her voice, but not her eyes. They’re the wrong style, the wrong color, the wrong EVERYTHING. We have to change them, Ivy. They are terrible! They’re going to ruin the wedding!

Ivy stared at her friend, careful to keep her face blank as she struggled to keep from crushing the shoulders she held in her grip. After a minute of Michelle looking at her in honest terror and anger, Ivy finally felt she could speak without causing permanent injury to their friendship.

Michelle, you have lost your damn fool mind.

Michelle blinked at her.

The bridesmaid dresses are fine. I know. I have to wear one of them. And if I like it, it is fine. The color is fine. The style is fine. They will not ruin your wedding. And even if they were the most hideous things to ever come from a sewing machine, you’ve got only three weeks until doomsday. It’s too late to change anything without severe repercussions and more headaches than anything is worth.

Michelle opened her mouth to argue and Ivy shook her until it closed.

You are marrying a wonderful man. That is the whole point of this shindig. You are marrying your love. That’s the important part. Remember that. And I swear, if you don’t stop having these meltdowns, I’m going to call him up and tell him he’s marrying a crazy woman.

Michelle pouted at her.

But I want my wedding to be perfect.

Then elope, Ivy said, letting go of her shoulders.

Michelle’s eyes went wide and she imitated a drowning fish for a second before she went back to pouting.

I suppose I deserved that.

All of that and more, Ivy said with a big eye roll. I can’t keep running around every time your anxiety flares up over this wedding. I’m working a case, Michelle. You know, paycheck, money, the income which I need to pay my bills and pay for that bridesmaid dress I’m wearing to your wedding and all of that. You have got to settle down. Your blood pressure isn’t going to take much more of this and mine definitely won’t.

I’m sorry, Ivy, Michelle said looking properly chastised. It’s just the stress of this whole wedding is really getting to me. The flowers and the food and the venue and-

And the fact that you keep watching those wedding shows and reading bridal magazines and you’ve got this whole grand idea in your head of what a wedding is supposed to look like and be like and you’re being typical Michelle about it and trying to strive for perfection. Ivy took a breath. You need to settle down. Everything’s set. All you have to worry about now is fielding RSVPs. That’s it.

What about my bachelorette party?

Don’t worry about it, Ivy said. You’re going to have a great one. And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll set it up with a Mexican theme and you’ll be the piñata because I’m not the only one you’re driving crazy. I’m just the one you’re driving crazy the most.

Sorry, Michelle said.

You will be. Now, are we good? Can I go back to work now? I left Leo searching escort sites. Between him and Art, my computer is probably sticky and full of viruses.

What?

Ivy shook her head. Never mind.

Thanks for being so understanding, Michelle said, giving her a hug.

Yeah, yeah, Ivy said, patting her on the back.

They said their goodbyes and Ivy headed back toward the parking garage. She didn’t even make it across the street before she was stopped in her tracks, this time by a different woman.

Fearing it might just be a hallucination, Ivy watched her mystery blonde disappear into a building across the street.

4

Ivy scrambled for her phone. She missed the opportunity to get a shot of the woman, but she still got a few shots of the building before booking it back to her office. For once one of Michelle’s bridal tantrums worked out in Ivy’s favor.

Leo and Art were still in the office when Ivy made it back, sweaty and hungry and tired of people getting in her way. Buddington wasn’t exactly a metropolis, but 75,000 people was a lot more than the 7,000 Ivy grew up with, especially when they all seemed to be on the road at the same time, and that’s usually how it felt to Ivy, especially when she had somewhere to be.

I haven’t found anything, Leo said as she walked into the office. Art’s been no help.

You won’t even let me LOOK at the screen, Art said, almost pouting.

Well, that’s all right, Ivy said, shooing Leo out of her chair and sitting down behind her desk. She took a minute to fan herself with her hands. I managed to catch a huge break after dealing with Michelle.

What was her problem this time? Leo asked, working his way around the desk and Art’s chair before sitting down in his usual one.

Bridesmaid dresses. She thought they were horrible, I told her they weren’t, and after a few good hard shakes, she agreed with me, Ivy said. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and retrieved the USB cord from her desk.

You’ve always been very persuasive, Sunshine, Leo said with a nod. Art laughed.

It’s my way with words, Ivy said without missing a beat. She plugged her phone into the computer and downloaded the new pictures onto her hard drive. Anyway, as I was leaving I saw my mystery blonde walking into an office building across the street.

Really? Did you follow her? Leo asked.

Of course not.

Pictures downloaded, Ivy put away the USB cord and brought up Google.

Why not?

What good would that have done? Ivy asked. I don’t know her name. What was I supposed to do? Run in there and ask if a blonde walked by? Follow her up to her office and ask her name? I’m supposed to keep my distance on these jobs. Following her cold into a building is the opposite of that.

Ivy searched for the name of the building.

I try to keep my life as little like a sitcom as possible. As such, I try not to go willingly blundering into blind situations like that.

And yet, you end up doing a lot of that anyway, Leo said with a smile.

Ivy glared at him.

You got pretty lucky with her just showing up like that, Art said. Who knows? Maybe you would have gotten lucky again.

I’m only lucky when my life is on the line, Ivy said.

Maybe it is, Leo said.

Ivy raised an eyebrow at him.

The front door opened.

Detective Barnabas Baz Johnson swaggered through the lobby, into the office, and straight to the coffee pot.

Is this fresh? he asked.

Of course. I just made it today, Leo said, giving Ivy a pointed look.

He’d drink swill, Leo, Ivy said.

No taste, Leo said, making a face.

Baz and Ivy had grown up together in that little cornfield town, inseparable since kindergarten. When Ivy moved to the big city to pursue the glamorous life of a private investigator, Baz followed, transferring from the small town police department to the big city precinct, quickly working his way up to detective. He swore that Ivy would be dead in a week if he wasn’t there to look after her.

Hey, Baz, Art said, getting the detective’s attention. What do you hear about that lady getting killed?

Yeah, Leo chimed in. Suddenly it’s not safe for Ivy to stalk Edmund Whitesale. People are getting murdered on their front lawns.

Baz looked at Ivy, serious and concerned.

You were at the Bang House last night?

Yeah. Up the tree. Why? Ivy was doing her