Luckily, Mummy didn’t even realize when I snuck her debit card out of her wallet the other day and got some money out of the cash machine in the hotel reception. Her password is the same for everything — 1228, my birthday — making it pretty easy to get the cash. And it’s not like she actually checks the activity in the account, especially since we’re not worried about running out of money… ever.
Picking up the phone, I suck in a deep breath for courage, hoping this call will at least be able to lead me in the right direction, then ring the number at the bottom of the webpage I’m on. After researching every private investigator in the state of Iowa, I think this guy is my best bet. And he looks really nice in his picture.
The phone rings twice, before a woman answers, “Good morning, Rector Investigations. How may I help you?”
In my best grown-up voice — with a British accent, of course — I reply, “Hullo, may I speak with Mr. Stuart Rector please?”
“Umm,” the lady pauses for a second, then asks, “may I tell him who’s speaking and what the call is regarding?”
“Yes, this is Miss Fiona Farewell, and I’m ringing him to hopefully get his help in tracking someone down.” I smile smugly at myself for how adult I sound. I think the accent really helps.
There’s another pause, and then what sounds like a muffled laugh, before she eventually says, “One moment, Miss Farewell. Let me put you through.”
Bursting with both pride and promise, I patiently wait as I tune out the boring music on the phone and make sure I still hear the water running, which I do. After a few seconds, the sounds of the saxophone disappear and a man gets on the line.
“Good morning, Miss Farewell,” he says cheerfully, his nice voice matching his picture. “This is Stuart Rector. Alicia tells me that you’re needing help locating someone. Want to tell me a little bit more about it?”
I clear my throat and nod, unable to keep the excited smile from spreading across my face as I explain everything to him. “Yes, sir. A few weeks ago, a man gave my aunt a gift in the restaurant where she used to work here in San Francisco. I need help finding out who he is and where he lives so we can thank him for it, and I think you’re the guy who can help me do that.”
“Okay, you do know I’m located in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, right?” he asks, clearly confused on why I’m reaching out to him. “Though I do appreciate your faith in me, I’m not sure I can be of much help to you out in California. But I’d be happy to refer you to someone closer to help you out.”
“Well, I actually think the man I’m looking for is in Iowa,” I contend. “You see, the gift was a lottery ticket that was bought in Cedar Rapids, so I thought I should start there with my search.”
I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a door shutting before he speaks again, his tone more serious this time. “Your aunt… she’s the one who won the big Megaball jackpot that was all over the news? The one that got the ticket as a tip?”
“Yes, that’s my Aunt Finley,” I confirm.
“And you’re trying to find the guy who left it for her?”
“Yes, that’s right. We’ve had lots of people contact our attorney claiming to be him, but the real guy is still out there, and I want to find him for her.”
“Can I ask why you’re the one calling and not your aunt, sweetheart?” he questions, then quickly adds, “It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but with all due respect, Miss Farewell, I usually work with other adults on my cases.”
I knew he’d probably ask this, so I’m prepared with my response. “Mr. Rector, sir, I already have a trust fund in my name worth ten times more than the value of your company. I understand you probably don’t work with kids much, but I’m not your average six-year-old. I need to find out who this guy is and what his story is before sharing the information with my aunt, for reasons I’m not ready to tell you yet. Now, you can either choose to help me and get paid a pretty penny for doing so, or I’ll find someone else who will, because the last time I checked, you ultimately work for money, not people. So, with all due respect, I need to know if you’re interested in helping me or not. Otherwise, I’ll stop wasting my time here.”
“Y-y-yes, of-of course,” he sputters. More shuffling papers. “Let’s go over what you know and start devising our plan of investigation.”
“Perfect,” I retort, then we spend the next several minutes discussing the little bit of information I have and where we can begin our search.
When I hear the water turn off and the shower door open, I rush to end the call, giving him my newly set up email address so he can send me the information, then hurriedly hide the iPad back in my bag just in the nick of time before my mum emerges from the bathroom in a silky red robe. My heart pounds rapidly in my chest as I snatch a coloring pencil off the ground and start drawing a unicorn.
“Hey, peanut,” she smiles over at me while drying her hair with a towel, “wanna go up to the salon and help me finish cleaning out my station? After that, I thought maybe we could have lunch at that pizza place you used to like to go to all the time. You know, the one with the funny-looking rat that always likes to give me weirdly long hugs?”
Wow. Sometimes I swear there’s no possible way I can be her child. I mean, seriously. Not only do we look nothing alike, like as opposite as you can be and still have the same skin color, but I think my IQ surpassed hers in the womb. At least she didn’t call it Chuckles and Cheese-tits this time though, right?
“Actually, if it’s okay with you, I just want to hang out here today. Those brownies I made last night were a little dodgy, and my tummy doesn’t feel great,” I reply, while rubbing my hand over my belly and kind of hunching over to convince her I’m telling the truth. Which I’m not. But I need some alone time to work on the things I discussed with Mr. Rector. It’s time for Fiona to play Sherlock Holmes.
Her face crinkles with concern as she tilts her head to the side. “Are you okay? I don’t have to go today if you don’t feel good. I’ll just call Donna and tell her I’ll swing by tom—”
“No!” I cut her off, my arms falling to my sides. Too much, Fiona, too much. “I’m okay, really. You should go ahead and go. Maybe even have a bite with a friend or something. I know I heard you talking to Ella the other day about meeting up. Plus, I’m sure Aunt Finley will be back soon. She left a while ago, saying she just had to do a couple things and would be back shortly,” I lie.
Aunt Finley listed off at least six or seven places she had to go on her errand list then kissed me and said she’d see me at dinner. But my lie is totally justified in my mind. It’s for the greater good of everyone. She needs to find Mr. Sexy Eyes before she loses her marbles. And I’m forced to bloody deal with two wonky Farewell women in my life.
“Peanut, I’m not leaving you here by yourself, especially if you aren’t feeling good,” Mummy argues, striding over to feel my forehead with the back of her hand. “Well, no fever, but still…”
“Mummy, I promise I’ll be fine,” I try out my bossy voice. “Plus, Travis will be here with me. It’s not like I’m keen to burn the place down.”
Her eyebrows lift so high they almost hit her hairline. “And I’m supposed to believe that?” She snickers.
A small chuckle bubbles up in my throat. “No cooking whatsoever, I promise. Not even the microwave. If I get hungry, I’ll order room service,” I assure her.
As she twists her lips to the side, pondering my offer, I cross the pointer and middle fingers on both my hands behind my back and attempt to twist my toes like a pretzel stick, silently chanting, Say yes… say yes… say yes.. over and over in my mind.
“Let me talk to Travis and see what he says. I’ll have to take Dax with me, but if Travis is okay with staying, and it’ll only be for a little bit until Fin gets back,” she shrugs her shoulders, “then I’m okay with it.”
“Splendid!” I yell, catching myself before pumping my fist in the air. “I mean, yes, that will be good. I’ll just stay here and color and watch TV a
nd do all the other things kids my age do. You go do adult stuff. I’ll be fine here, resting.”
Hesitation flashes in her eyes for a fleeting moment, but she smiles, ruffles my hair, and says, “Okay, peanut, but you call me if you need me. I’ll be home in a jifster.” She pads away to her room, and seconds later, I hear her on the phone with Travis, confirming he’s more than okay with my plan. Just like I knew he would be, if he wants to keep saying nighttime prayers with her and Dax.
An hour later, once Mummy has put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and tried on at least four different outfits before deciding on the first one she put on her body, she finally leaves. Wasting no time whatsoever, I pull my iPad back out to check to see if the email from Mr. Rector is in my inbox yet, and I let out a small cheer when I see it is. Included in his message is his agreement for services, as well as copies of the emails requesting security surveillance footage that he’s already sent to the corporate office of the gas station where the ticket was sold, and the owners of Impasta Italian Restaurant.
Eager to get things started with the investigation and to do my part to help out, I pull up the Uber website on my iPad and book a car for forty-five minutes from now, and then dash into the bathroom and hustle to get my hair and teeth brushed, and change out of my pajamas. Exactly twenty minutes later, I shove my lucky spatula into my backpack and throw it over my shoulder then grab my posh new umbrella and head out the door.
“And just where do you think you’re going, Miss Thang?” Travis looks up from whatever he’s doing on his phone as he stands guard outside our suite in the hallway.
“We,” I motion between the two of us, “are going downstairs to the business center so that I can sign and email a contract back to the private investigator I just hired. Then, I’ve got an Uber picking us up to take us to the restaurant where Aunt Finley used to work. We need to do a recon mission, see if I can find out anything from people who might’ve been working that night.”
He opens his mouth to give me an ear-bashing, but I hold my umbrella up at him and pop it open in his face. From behind the tan plaid vinyl, I continue talking, “Now, if you’re good and keep your cheeky mouth shut instead of arguing with me about this like you think you’re about to do, I’ll even buy you lunch and put in a good word for you to Mummy. Maybe she’ll let you have Bible study with her in the shower like she sometimes lets Dax.”
Spinning on the toe of my Union Jack Vans, I close the umbrella and march toward the elevator, his echoing footsteps right behind me, as I mumble under my breath, “That’s what I thought, Dr. Watson.”
Travis doesn’t say another word while I print, sign, and send the contract back to Mr. Rector. He even opens the door for me to get in the back seat of the waiting hired car and gives the driver the address of Impasta. I can already tell he’s going to be a great assistant.
During the short trip from the hotel to the restaurant, I fidget nonstop with the strap on my backpack, rolling it into a tight ball then letting it uncoil before starting over. This first scouting mission has my belly all in collywobbles. I really want to uncover something that will help with the investigation, maybe even discover the identity myself! Then I might have to rethink my decision to be a chef and consider the CIA. They’ll be knocking down my door by the time I’m ten.
The car pulls up to the curb outside the building, and Travis gets out first then helps me up onto the path, keeping a tight grip on my hand as we weave through the other pedestrians to the door of Impasta. I’ve only been here one other time when I came with Aunt Finley to pick up her check, but I remember loving the rich, mouthwatering smells of homemade tomato sauce, sizzling Italian sausage, and fresh basil that filled my nose the second I stepped inside. And once again, I have to pause briefly right after we clear the entrance and inhale deeply, allowing the scrum-dilly-umptious scents to overtake my senses.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Impasta. A table for two?” the hostess asks, as she approaches the wooden stand to the right of us. “Do you need a kid’s menu, honey?”
I jerk my chin to the side to glare at her then shake my head curtly. “No, thank you. I’m not interested in connecting the dots to draw the bloody boot of Italy or finding my way through some ridiculously easy maze that’s supposed to look like a bowl of spaghetti. But maybe my dad would like to.” Squeezing Travis’s hand, I peer up at him with my sweetest little-kid toothless smile. “What do you say, Poppy? Want me to school you in a game of tic-tac-toe while we wait for our food?”
Travis opens and closes his mouth several times, looking like Nemo floundering out on the deck, before he finally answers, “Just two adult menus, please.”
The hostess closes her flycatcher and grabs a couple of the laminated menus, leading us over to a table by the window, but before we sit down, I stop her. “Would it be okay if we sat up there?” I ask, pointing to the tall tables situated in a semicircle around the bar.
“But that’s the cocktail area of the bar,” she stares at me blankly, “and you’re a kid.”
“You must’ve earned an A in school for stating the obvious,” I deadpan, then sigh before explaining the law to her. “It’s only illegal if I’m sitting at the bar itself, or of course, if I’m drinking alcohol… but I kicked my whiskey habit last week, so there shouldn’t be any problem.”
The poor woman peers over at Travis for help, but he just shrugs his broad shoulders and says, “What can I say? My girl knows her stuff.” Then, glancing down at me, he tugs on my ponytail and winks. “But I thought brandy was Sherlock’s drink of choice?”
I grin up at him, knowing he heard my Dr. Watson comment earlier, and nod. “Glad you’re paying attention.”
Ignoring the hostess altogether, we walk over to the cocktail area, where I know Aunt Finley used to work, and sit down at one of the empty tables. I can’t be certain which one it was Mr. Sexy Eyes sat at that day, but I at least want to get a feel of the space from close proximity, in case it leads to any information.
“Good afternoon, guys,” a different lady greets us, one that has on the uniform Aunt Finley used to have to wear, placing small white napkins in front of us on the table as she talks. “I’m Julia, and I’ll be your server today. What can I start you off with to drink? A soda or raspberry lemonade for you, little lady? Maybe an ice cold draft beer for you, sir?”
When she says the word ‘beer,’ it triggers my memory and I remember Aunt Finley saying something about Mr. Sexy Eyes drinking root beer, and how he was the only person she’d ever had order that.
“As much as I’d love one, I think I’ll just have an iced tea,” Travis tells her, then shifts his attention to me. “What about you, Sherlock? You can have a soda and I won’t tell your Mom.”
“I’d like a root beer, please,” I order, with a satisfied grin, then twist in my chair to retrieve my iPad to jot that note down to share with Mr. Rector later. We just got here, and I already have a clue!
Julia leaves to go get our drinks while we decide what we want to eat, but I find it hard to concentrate on the list of food in front of me. Instead, my eyes comb over every square inch of the bar area, hoping something — anything — will lead to another hint, another step closer to finding him.
“Do you know what you’re having?” Travis asks, as he scans the menu. “Everything looks good. Dealing with a pain-in-my-butt all morning must’ve worked up my appetite.”
I ignore his playful jab, still searching the room. “Yeah, the veal saltimbocca is delicious. Aunt Finley used to bring it home for me all the time.”
“The veal what?” he exclaims. “How do you even know what that is, much less pronounce it?”
I slice my gaze over to him and smirk teasingly. “Sal-tim-boc-ca,” I repeat, breaking the word down into syllables for him. “It’s a combination of Italian words that literally means ‘jumps into one’s mouth.’ The dish can be prepared with veal or chicken, and it’s topped with prosciutto, sage or basil, and usually a white wine sauce. Here, they serve it o
ver a bed of sautéed spinach, but you can get linguini instead if you want. I learned how it’s made watching Giada on the Food Network, but I’ve never actually cooked it myself. Though now that we’re talking about it, I really need to try it out. I think it would be good with a wild mushroom and parmesan risotto.”
He gapes at me like I’m speaking a second language, disbelief sparkling in his green eyes, and I beam from the inside out. I like impressing him.
“Who are you, and how are you Farrah’s kid?” He laughs, shaking his head.
I want to tell him I wonder that same thing often, but the waitress returns with our drinks, setting Travis’s tea down first, then a brown glass bottle in front of me along with a frosty mug. “You know, I’ve been waiting tables here for almost five years, and you’re only the second person who has ever ordered a root beer. And the first one,” she chuckles as she leans in close to me, and whispers, “was cuter than Justin Timberlake, and he had the most beautiful blue eyes, just like you do.”
Normally, I’d be eating up these compliments from a stranger, because I’m a kid and I feed off flattery and feeling important, but right now, all I can focus on is her saying ‘the most beautiful blue eyes.’ What are the odds that two different guys drink root beer at this restaurant with these unforgettable eyes? She’s got to be talking about Aunt Finley’s Mr. Sexy Eyes.
“Do you remember a girl who worked here named Finley?” I blurt out, ready to fit the puzzle pieces together.
“Yeah, of course, we worked together all the time.” Julia, I think she said her name is, narrows her eyes on me then tilts her head to the side. “Wait a minute, you’re her niece, Fiona! I knew you looked familiar.” Shifting her gaze over to Travis, she creases her brow, trying to place him as well. “But who are you? Fiona’s dad?”