The Cool Dad (A Calvin Recker Mystery Novel)- Chapter 6

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6

I don’t lose Henry for long.

We’ve left the men’s room of the Hatchet Public Library. I will spare you the details of what went on in there, not because I don’t think you wouldn’t relish a good bit of potty humor, but because I have already mentally erased the memories from my brain like in The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

I find Henry and Max at one of the more delightful places in the town of Hatchet.

The Icy Igloo.

Best soft serve ice cream in Hatchet.

It’s a round wooden shack shaped and painted to resemble an Eskimo igloo and has been the main hangout for Hatchet High students for decades.

The structure itself has been destroyed and rebuilt three times.

Once it was blown away by a storm that was not quite strong enough to be classified as a tornado.

Once it burnt down in a grease fire.

And once it was actually lifted up and placed on a flatbed truck and dropped on the fifty-yard line by some pranksters at rival East Hatchet before the annual rivalry game.

I see Henry and Max sitting on top of one of the picnic benches set up outside the Igloo. They’re both working on chocolate and vanilla swirl cones. Henry’s wearing a really killer pair of sunglasses with brown tortoise shell frames and blue-tinted lenses and he’s got this hypnotic way of licking circles around the ice cream like he’s working a pottery wheel. Watching him lick the ice cream cone makes me think of how an actor onscreen makes the act of smoking a cigarette more glamorous or the villain makes the act of slicing an apple with a pocket knife seem that much more menacing. Henry is just in the moment, sitting on top of the bench with his feet on the seat and facing out, wearing his shades, and leaning over and licking smooth circles around the cone while not letting a single drop fall. Max, meanwhile, has got ice cream everywhere including up his nose.

I give Henry a little nod just to play it cool and get in line at the Icy Igloo for our order.

I also give a little head nod to the guy taking my order, because it’s none other than Ginny McConkey’s secret pothead boyfriend, Trev. Hey, there’s a lot of competition out their in the weed market and even small business owners like Trev have to get a second job. Also, the Icy Igloo, which is like the THE teen summer hangout, is a great place to meet and expand your customer base.

“One adult swirl cone, one chocolate kids cone, and one kids bowl.”

Trev hesitates over the order.

“Ice cream in a bowl, Trev.”

Trev nods. “That makes a little more sense. Coming right up, Mr. Recker.”

That what I like about Trev, he’s always thinking business.

I pick up our ice cream at the end of the counter, knowing full well that in about thirty seconds, the ice cream will end up on Ryan and Daisy’s faces, clothes and hair. I grab a handful of paper napkins and we take a seat next to Henry and Max on the bench.

 “Ah, ah, ah,” Daisy says, pointing at Henry’s face.

 “I think she likes your sunglasses,” I say. “They are pretty sweet. What kind are they?”

Henry removes them and says, “Oh these? They’re the Persol PO 714. The same shades Steve McQueen wore in The Thomas Crown Affair.”

“Classic,” I say.

I want them.

Would it be weird if I showed up tomorrow wearing the same exact sunglasses?

Daisy points again. “Ah, ah, ah!”

Henry hands over the glasses to Daisy who promptly bends them in half.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, snatching the glasses out of Daisy’s hand and handing them back to Henry.

“No, don’t worry. They fold. See?”

He demonstrates the folding action.

“Those are the coolest shades I’ve ever seen,” I say.

Like I said before, I WANT those shades and I don’t care if Juliet says I can’t pull off the Steve McQueen look.

“Thanks, man. I’m no Steve McQueen, though. But who is?”

“Expensive?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping the lenses off on his T-shirt.

“Sorry, my daughter got her sticky hands all over them.”

 “No. Don’t worry. I think these are knockoffs. I bought them off of a street vendor in Broome. In Australia”

“Australia? Were you there on vacation?”

Check out that detective work!

“No. I lived there for a spell.”

“And now you’re in Hatchet, Illinois.”

“This is a nice little town.”

“Yeah, emphasis on little. But there are two different yarn stores.”

“Two?”

“And with two different disciplines. Darn That Yarn does crotchet and A Stitch in Time does only cross-stitch.”

“Is there a rivalry between the two?”

“I don’t know. But it would be awesome if there was. A bunch of old ladies going after each other samurai-style with needles.”

Henry nods and laughs. Then he looks over at Max and his smeared face. “Hey, bro. Let’s get you some napkins.”

“Oh, here. I always get extras.”

I hand Henry a stack of napkins. He tries to wipe Max’s face, but Max contorts and swipes at Henry’s hand like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Henry really should know that only moms and their magic mommy spit can get away with wiping the face of any kid over four.

Rookie mistake.

Max wordlessly grabs a napkin and half-ass wipes the chocolate off. He hands the sticky mess back to Henry.

Henry gives the wad a disgusted look, and then walks over to the garbage can to toss it. He comes back and grabs Max’s hand. “Let’s go, bro,” he says to him. Henry looks at me and says, “Nice seeing you again, neighbor.”

Wait! Don’t go! I have so many more leading questions to ask!

“Let’s do it again sometime,” I blurt out.

Ugh.

So lame.

Henry unfolds his awesome Steve McQueen sunglasses and puts them on. “Definitely,” he says.

I watch Henry and Max walk back down the sidewalk. Then I look at my own momentarily neglected children. I notice Ryan’s cone is empty but his face is clean.

He points down. “Daddy. Look.”

I look down and see a glob of ice cream melting on the sidewalk.

At least one mystery is solved.

The Cool Dad (A Calvin Recker Mystery Novel)- Chapter 5

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Here's Chapter 5.

5

But I don’t find Henry Newcombe at the pool or the playground.

After a half day of searching, I find him and Max at the circulation desk of the Hatchet Public Library filling out applications for their library cards. It wasn’t some big clue that led me to the library. I was headed there anyway since our books were about to be overdue. The fine on ten overdue books about trains is no joke.

Henry’s wearing a sun-weathered light blue V-neck T-shirt with one side casually tucked into khaki shorts held up by well-tenderized leather belt. Max stands next to him in a red Angry Birds T-shirt and shorts, holding a stack of Jordan Jetpack chapter books.

I’m sitting in the children’s section with Daisy in my lap and Ryan sitting criss-cross applesauce-style next to me as the librarian who might be pushing two hundred years old sits on a stool and reads a book in front of me, my children and five other kids.

My sexy librarian fantasy is officially squashed.

She finishes the book about a skateboarding radish called Rad the Radish and picks up another picture book and holds it up.

“This next book is a very special book,” she says. “It’s about two plucky little squirrels named Seymour and Simon. The title is I Love Nuts.”

She turns the book around to show the illustration on the first page of two squirrels sitting on a tree branch next to a hollowed-out knob.

She reads, “‘I’m hungry, Seymour. Do you have anything to eat?’ Simon asks. ‘All I have to eat is this big pile of nuts. Would you like to see them?’ Seymour responds.”

The librarian turns the page to show the kids an illustration of the pile of acorns.

“‘I don’t like nuts. I don’t like to eat them,’ says Simon.”

“‘I love nuts,’ says Seymour. ‘There is nothing I like to eat more than nuts. Sometimes I eat one. And sometimes I eat two.’”

Um.

“‘Don’t these nuts look delicious?’ Seymour adds.”

“‘They do look good,’ says Simon. ‘But I just don’t want to put them in my mouth.’”

A loud laugh comes from behind me. I turn my heard around and see Henry Newcombe standing just outside the story time circle. I give him a “Do you believe this shit?” look.

The librarian presses on. “Nuts. Nuts. I love nuts.”

She turns the page.

“Big.”

She turns the page.

“Chewy.”

She turns the page.

“Brown.”

I whip my head around back at Henry and we both mouth the word “brown” and shake our heads.

The librarian turns the page and reads, “Nuts. Why don’t you try my nuts?”

Oh, god. Oh, god. I look back at Henry Newcombe and he’s hyperventilating over a diorama display case. I can’t stop the giggles and Daisy’s bouncing up and down on my lap as I laugh. The kids, mind you, are oblivious, and just want to keep hearing about the squirrels.

The ancient librarian shoots me a look like she wants to issue me an afterschool detention. I try to bury my head into Daisy’s shoulder, but I’m still shaking.

The librarian continues, “No thank you. I just don’t have a taste for nuts. Do you have anything else in that little hole of yours I can eat?”

That’s it! Henry and I are D-O-N-E done. Def Comedy Jam audience done.

The librarian tries to ignore our howls of laughter and pushes through to the last page. “Then Seymour Squirrel peers deep into the hole and pulls out a plate and says, ‘Sure. How about spaghetti and meatballs?’”

“‘Yum,’ says Simon Squirrel. ‘I love meatballs!’”

She turns the page and shows off the illustration of the two squirrels sharing a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

She closes the book and says, “The end.”

Ryan says, “Good end,” which is what he says instead of “the end” when we read books together at bedtime.

 “That is the end of story time,” the librarian says. “I hope you little boys and girls enjoyed the books. I know at least two big boys enjoyed it.”

The librarian eases her way up from her stool and hands out stickers to the kids. She collects her books and trudges back to the circulation desk of the children’s section. But then she turns quickly and looks in the direction of Henry and me.

And winks at us.

Henry looks at me. I look at Henry.

Our jaws are on the ground.

“Certainly a curious selection for story time,” Henry says to me.

“Could have been worse,” I say. “Last week she read Yo Llama’s So Fat.”

We both laugh. I realize that this is my meet-cute moment!

“I’ve seen you at the pool, right?” Henry says.

“Yeah. Stable Bluff. I think we actually live right down the street from each other. I’m at two-fifteen Breeders,” I say.

“Two-thirty-five. Looks like we’re pretty much neighbors. I’m Henry Newcombe and the chatterbox next to me is Max. Say hello, Max.”

Max doesn’t say hello and just looks down at his books.

“That’s okay,” I say. “Kids hate forced politeness.” I look down at Ryan and say, “Ryan, say hello to Mr. Newcombe.”

Ryan looks up at Henry, then looks back over to me and says, “I gotta go potty.”

“Right now?”

“Really bad!”

“Just pee-pee?” I ask hopefully.

“No. Pee-pee AND poo-poo.”

There are many upsides to successfully potty training your child, but their impulse with 100 percent accuracy to visit the most disgusting public restrooms we’re within shouting distance of is not one of them. Seriously, who drops a deuce in a public library except a homeless person? If I were homeless and had to go, the public library would be my first stop.

Henry smiles at me and says, “Good luck, neighbor.”

My meet-cute moment is over and I didn’t even get a chance to find out anything about the man other than he lives down the street from me, which is something I already knew. I force a smile at Henry as he waves goodbye, and I death march my battalion off to the men’s restroom.

The Cool Dad (A Calvin Recker Mystery Novel)- Chapter 4

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Hello again.

The Cool Dad is available as an ebook on Amazon Kindle HERE (or click image) for $2.99.

Here's Chapter 4.

4

Juliet comes home from work at 5:30 p.m., five minutes after I frantically finished cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, and afternoon snack.

The toy explosion in the family room is another matter.

“Mommy,” Ryan says, running up to her and jumping into her arms.

Daddy is officially the forgotten man.

Daisy follows after her brother with her Frankenstein walk saying, “Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma.”

“Did you have fun today?” Juliet says to Ryan.

“Yeah, we went to pool and ate cookie cheese and Daddy says we can get a doggy,” he rambles out all at once.

“Really?” she says back, then looks up at me for confirmation

I shake my head.

Ryan runs back to the couch to continue his binge watching of Handy Manny, while Daisy holds tight to Juliet’s ankle.

She drops her purse on the counter and says to me, “And how was your day?”

“Good. I got a new case,” I say after a quick kiss.

“That’s nice,” she says. “What’s for dinner?”

“I was going to serve beef bourguignon, but I didn’t defrost the meat, or shop for the ingredients, but if you can wait, oh, about six hours, I can get started on that right now.”

Juliet smiles. “So, frozen pizza?”

“It is Tuesday,” I say.

“Actually, honey, it’s Wednesday.”

She’s right. When you’re not working it’s sometimes difficult to tell one day from the next.

“That’s what I meant.” I reach into the freezer and hold up three frozen discs. “Sausage, pepperoni or supreme?”

“Let’s go all out and treat ourselves with the supreme.”

I turn on the oven and Juliet gets to work peeling and chopping the fruit and vegetables for the kids.

“Tell me about the case,” she says.

“You know that house they finally sold at the end of the block?”

“The Seattle Slew? I’m so glad a family finally moved in.”

“The Newcombes. Henry, Elise and Max. Max came from Elise’s prior relationship. And her father apparently bought the house for the couple as a wedding present.”

“Wow. He really went off registry.”

“That’s what I said!”

We high-five.

“Anyway,” I continue, “the father wants me to investigate his new son-in-law.”

“Cheating-husband case?”

“Probably. But you never know. It could be a cheating-wife case. Or, maybe the guy who hired me has ulterior motives and by spying on his son-in-law, I will de-facto be spying on his daughter who’s actually not his daughter but his wife. Or it could all come down to a shady land deal. You can never quite tell where these things will end up when you start a case.”

“Oh, the places you will go,” Juliet says.

Ding. The oven is ready. I slide the pizza in.

“Are you and Grover just going to do surveillance?” she asks.

“He is. But the client actually wants me to befriend the guy. Get to know him. I guess the wedding was pretty sudden and he doesn’t know the guy all too well.”

“What’s your plan? Ring his doorbell and ask him to come out and play?”

“No, I figure I’ll just run into him at one of the usual spots. Pool. Playground. There’s only so many places you can take a kid in this neighborhood.”

“Just try not to get hurt,” she says.

The Cool Dad (A Calvin Recker Mystery Novel)- Chapter 3

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The Cool Dad is available as an ebook on Amazon Kindle HERE (or click image) for $2.99.

Here's Chapter 3.

Enjoy!

3

Yeah I do!

His name is Grover.

I learned pretty early on that it’s hard to be a stay-at-home dad and play detective at the same time. I can’t just up and leave the kids behind to follow a lead.

That’s where my buddy Grover comes in.

Grover’s perfect. There isn’t anyone I know who has more free time and less responsibility than my old college roommate.

And check out what he does for a living.

He’s a movie location scout.

He gets freelance assignments from producers to drive around and find suitable Midwest film locations and takes pictures of them.

He’s worked on some pretty big films, too.

The Dark Knight.

Transformers: Dark of the Moon.

Man of Steel.

And a whole bunch of independent movies that no one has ever seen.

This one horror movie he worked on called Knifer 2: Back to the Cutting Board was unwatchable. It’s not even worth streaming.

Also, and this is not an unimportant point, Grover is a pretty big dude. He’s like a hair over 6’5”, and works out like it’s an activity that he actually enjoys. I haven’t worked out since the kids were born. Who has the time? I don’t, but Grover does.

Private detectives get the pulp beat out of them all the time on cases, so it helps to have an intimidating sidekick to watch your back.

Not that Grover is a violent dude. Ninety-nine percent of the time Grover is as gentle as a petting zoo goat. The reason is because 99 percent of the time Grover, like the goat, is stoned.

But let’s hope, not right now.

I call Grover.

“Go for Grover,” he answers.

I hear him huff and puff.

“You sound like you’re exerting yourself? Did you attach your bong to an exercise bike?”

“No. I’m outside running. But I’m going to file that idea away for later.”

“Jogging?”

“No, that’s what you do. Jog. I run.”

I don’t even do that.

“How far?” I say.

“Um, I’m on mile eleven.”

“Jesus, Forrest Gump. Are your nipples bleeding yet? What would possess you to run that far?”

“There’s this outrageously hot chick like twenty yards in front of me. Here, let me take a picture of her ass. Hold on.”

Click.

Do-do-do.

I get the picture text. “Yeah, nice,” I say. “What about her face? All I see is ass, shoulders and ponytail.”

“Haven’t seen it. I’ve been behind her the whole time.”

“How long have you been following her?”

“About ten miles.”

“Has it occurred to you that she might be running AWAY from you?”

“She does seem to speed up every time I get close. I figured she was just trying to play hard to get. I was thinking that maybe after she stops we could split a protein gel. What’s up with you? Diaper wipe drama?”

“No, we’ve got a case.”

“Paying?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind of case?”

“Cheating husband with a twist.”

“Is there sidekick work involved?”

“You know it.”

“Fuck yeah!” he yells. “Holy shit, she turned around!”

“And?”

“I’m going to veer off. See you in thirty. I’ll take a shower at your place.”

“Please don’t.”

Click.

He’s there in twenty-five.

The shower wakes up both kids.

Naptime is over.

It’s time for a walk around the block.

Ryan is out in front on the Breeders Street sidewalk in his red Schwinn tricycle with me close behind, and Grover, in back, pushing Daisy in her red and yellow Cozy Coup push car.

“SLOW DOWN!” a woman yells.

Not at us.

At this Dodge Grand Caravan going thirty-eight in a twenty-five.

That’s Mona Denkle yelling. She took her constant bitching on the Stable Bluff Facebook page about cars speeding in the subdivision offline and to the streets. She sits in a lawn chair on the sidewalk wearing a reflective vest with a hand-painted “SLOW DOWN” sign in one hand and a radar gun in the other. When she sees a resident or a pizza delivery driver coming along the curve too fast, she jumps into the middle of the street waiving her sign and screaming. Then she takes a picture of the car and license plate and shame-posts it on the subdivision’s Facebook page with the caption, “If I were your child, they would be dead!”

It’s a bit much.

“Good afternoon, Mona,” I call out.

“Did you SEE how fast that Caravan was going, Calvin?”

“How fast?”

She checks her radar gun. “Forty-frickin’-one! This isn’t Talladega. Children play in this subdivision.”

“Well, they would if they could ever put down their iPads.”

“We need speed bumps in this neighborhood. I’m putting together a sign up sheet to present to the homeowners association. I’ve got your support, right?”

“Right.”

Yeah, right. The last thing I want is stupid speed bumps messing up my car’s suspension.

“I can always count on our friendly neighborhood private detective.”

I smile and put my foot on the back of Ryan’s tricycle and push it forward to get him going.

“Fight the good fight, Mona,” I say.

Mona nods and sits back down in her lawn chair. She takes a quick sip from her thermos, and then leans forward with her radar gun primed.

We continue on down the sidewalk. I make mental notes on whose lawn looks better than mine until we get to the end of the block where the residence of Henry and Elise Newcombe sits.

The house is the same exact model as my own: the Seattle Slew Series. The developer named all the models after Triple Crown-winning horses. I guess it was supposed to add a touch of class.

Gallant Fox, Man O’ War, Citation, Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Affirmed.

Man O’ War didn’t actually win the Triple Crown. I think the developer messed up and meant War Admiral, but since the Man O’ War was one of the more popular models; they didn’t bother to change it.

 Even though all the houses in our neighborhood look about the same, if you get a bunch of homeowners together for a real John Cheever-style cocktail party, they all ask each other, “What series do you live in?” It’s just a not-so-subtle way to gage how much money you have versus someone else. Especially those top-of-the-line Secretariat Series snobs. “We’ve got a super family room AND a tandem garage.” Oh, la-di-da, go fuck yourselves.

Click.

Grover snaps a picture of the house with his iPhone.

“An establishing shot,” Grover says. “For the case file.”

“Good thinking.”

“So, what’s the plan, detective?”

“First, I run into this Henry Newcombe and we get to talking. Then we become friends and I get all the inside dirt. Meanwhile, you do the at-a-distance surveillance. You find out where he goes and who he sees when he doesn’t think people are watching.”

“Maybe we should switch that,” Grover says. “I’m much better at making friends than you are.”

“Having random people over your apartment to smoke doesn’t count as ‘making friends’.”

“Casa de Grover: Come for the bud, stay for the effervescent personality and sparkling conversation. When you work in the film industry, like I do, you have to be able to make fast friends.”

“You’re barely in the film industry. I’m his neighbor. We both have kids. He hasn’t been in town long enough to meet many people. It’s natural for us to strike up a friendship. You’re Mr. Outside.”

“And if shit goes down, I start throwing haymakers.”

“Shit go down? Why, Uncle Grower?” Ryan says, looking up at Grover.

“Because, Ry Guy,” he says to Ryan, holding up two fists. “Sometimes in life, you’ve got to bring the thunder AND the lighting.”

Ryan nods like this makes sense.

I say to Grover, “I don’t think we’ll need the services of any thunder or lightning for this case. At worst, we’ll get a little cheating-husband action. I saw this dude at the pool and the housewives were practically throwing their Spanx at him.”

“Good-looking guy?” Grover says.

I nod.

“Not as good-looking as me, though. Right?”

“Better.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“I don’t even know what that means. Just follow him around, take the pictures and try not to get made.”

“What are we getting paid, anyway?”

“Five hundred a week.”

“Plus expenses?”

“Yes, plus expenses.”

“How long do you think we can stretch this out for?”

“At least a couple weeks, I imagine. Our client clearly has the means.”

Grover pounds his fists together. “I am so pumped for this.”

I smile. “Me too.”

“So what’s the next move?” Grover says. “Knock on his door?”

“No, I’m thinking maybe I’ll run into him at the pool or in the park.”

“Ah, a meet-cute.”

“A what?”

“Like in a romantic comedy when the couple accidentally run into each other in an adorable way. You could spill coffee on him. Or overthrow a football in the park and have it land on his picnic blanket. We could get a dog.”

“I want a dog!” Ryan says.

“No,” I say.

“I want a dog right NOW!” Ryan screams.

I turn to Grover. “Look what you started.”

Grover says, “I think getting a dog is a great idea. He could help us solve crimes!”

The Cool Dad (A Calvin Recker Mystery Novel)- Chapter 2

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Here's Chapter 2.

2

Naptime.

I’ve looked forward to a lot of things in my life.

Summer vacation.

Opening day baseball.

The new Radiohead album.

But I’ve never looked forward to anything as much as I look forward to NOT seeing my own children for a few hours each day.

Every action I take with the kids all day long is geared toward getting them tired enough to get to this point.

Naptime.

Me time.

I walk downstairs after successfully setting Daisy down in her crib with her pink blanky and, after two separate trips to the potty, Ryan in his big boy bed with his blue blanky, two green binkies, a stuffed Mickey Mouse, a stuffed brown bear named Muddy, three Matchbox cars, a wooden serving spoon (I don’t know why either), and a sippy cup of water. For added security, on the floor lined up next to the bed, there’s a Tonka garbage truck, a Tonka fire truck and a Tonka tow truck. The boy is prepared.

What should I do first? Clean up the disaster of a kitchen after lunch and pick up all the mac n’ cheese and pools of Go-Gurt that always ends up glued to the floor or grab a big bag of potato chips and couple juice boxes, plop on the couch, and continue watching this TV series I found on Netflix called Ninja Awesome?

It’s about ninjas.

And there’s like 150 episodes.

Awesome.

The answer is obvious.

I open the pantry and grab the bag of chips I keep hidden from the kids on the top shelf tucked behind the cereal boxes. I sweep the Cheerios off the couch to clear a spot to sit and fire up episode forty-eight of Ninja Awesome.

I crunch my chips and watch the silent ninja, katana poised, approach the door of a split-level ranch house in the San Fernando Valley.

Ding-dong.

A ninja would never ring the doorbell. That’s my own front door.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

I swear, if the person ringing the doorbell is anyone other than a couple of Girl Scouts selling Thin Mints and Tagalongs and they wake up the kids, I’ll be royally pissed.

I run to the door before they ring the bell again and open it.

And it’s not Girl Scouts; it’s an older man with steel gray hair and matching suit.

I’m about ready to whip out my pre-prepared, “I already have a church I don’t go to, but thank you for this pamphlet and I find your belief system weird” speech, when the man says, “Mr. Recker, my name is Don Harper, and I want to hire you for a case. Kelli-Anne Bradley referred me to you.”

Kelli-Anne Bradley is a local real estate agent at Best Offer Realty who hired me to find out who was damaging her For Sale signs. It was my second case. Thanks for the referral, Kelli!

“Step inside,” I say. “And don’t mind the mess.”

He steps inside and eyes a pile of what looks like every Lego ever made. “Are your children up?”

“No, it’s naptime,” I say. “We can talk in my office. Follow me.”

We walk through the land of Legos that is the living room, past the nuclear waste site that is the kitchen, and a pillow cushion fort set up in the family room, until we reach the sliding glass door that leads to the deck.

“You’re office?” Donald Harper says.

Hey, man. If you’re going to hire a stay-at-home dad detective, you have to expect a certain amount of quirk.

“It’s a nice day,” I say instead. “Can I offer you a juice box?”

He looks at me funny like, “Is that a real question?”

It was a real question. Does he think I have a decanter of Scotch sitting around? And besides, juice boxes are A. delicious B. fun and C. potent enough, based on evidence provided by my own children, to supply you with sufficient energy to run through walls.

“No, thank you,” he says. “This is a nice deck.”

I was hoping he’d say that so I could say this to him, “Thanks. I built it with my own two hands.”

“Impressive.”

Yes it is. Of course, I failed to mention how much of the deck I built with said hands compared to my much more competent father-in-law, but we’ll just leave that part unsaid.

“So, Mr. Harper. How can I help you?”

“It’s my daughter.”

That’s a good start.

“Is she missing?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

“She hasn’t run away or been kidnapped?”

“No, actually she lives just down the street at the end of your block.”

“The new house?”

The famous last house built in the Stable Bluff subdivision. It only took five years, a few housing market collapses, and series of deep discounts to sell all the lots in fulfillment of the developer’s divine prophesy.

“I bet your daughter got a great deal. What’d she pay, three? Two-eighty? Two-fifty? Not two-fifty? Two-forty? If she paid two-forty, I’m breaking down in tears right now.”

“Whatever the price was, she got a great deal, because she didn’t buy the house. I did.”

“Very generous.”

“It was a wedding gift.”

“You obviously went off registry.”

“Do you mind if I sit down,” he says, reaching for a deck chair. “Or did you build this with your bare hands as well.”

That cut like a knife. I lean up against my Weber grill, my baby, and think about barbecuing some ribs tonight, or maybe some grilled chicken, but who am I kidding, it will be hot dogs for the kids, again. I wish I had a really killer barbeque sauce or rub recipe, something I could bottle and sell. How does “Cayenne Calvin’s Secret Suh-Weet Q Sauce” sound? Oh, it looks like Don Harper is ready to speak again. I smile and nod and non-verbally indicate he has my full attention.

“My daughter, Elise, has always had problems with men. Tall men, short men, handsome men, bald men; all her relationships have ended poorly, often with me having to get involved to untangle her from whatever she got herself tangled up in.”

“That sounds awfully vague. What type of problems? What tangles? Was bubble gum involved?”

“Drugs. Drinking. Bad loans. My daughter is a wonderful person. A beautiful woman. But she doesn’t see herself that way. I don’t know what she sees reflecting back at her in the mirror, but it isn’t what her father or anyone else sees. If I had to forward a guess, it would be that she sees herself through the man in her life. If she’s dating a real loser, than that’s how she sees herself while she’s with him. The last boyfriend, Lyle, got her pregnant. Christ, what a fuck-up he was.”

“He left?”

“Three months into the pregnancy, Elise had a craving for olives and Captain Crunch cereal. You know those crazy cravings women get.”

“Oh, I know,” I say. “For my wife’s first pregnancy, it was Nutty Bars and chocolate milk shakes and for our second, Daisy, it was eggs Benedict. That poor girl’s got hollandaise sauce pouring through her veins.”

We both shake our heads in agreement on how crazy women can be during pregnancy, which is something guys feel they can do when women aren’t in the room.

“So Elise had a hankering for olives and Captain Crunch, and Lyle the Loser volunteers to drive to the store to pick some up for her.”

“And he never came back.”

“That’s right. He took their only car, emptied their joint checking, and took the diamond earrings I gave her for her high school graduation. Can you imagine that? He left his pregnant girlfriend and unborn child stranded in an apartment complex with no vehicle and no money.”

“Did you ever find Lyle?”

“Oh, sure. He blows into town every once in a while, pretending like he’s interested in the son he abandoned. But he doesn’t care about him, he’s just looking for another hand-out.”

“From you?”

“That’s right. Look, Mr. Recker.”

“Calvin.”

“Calvin. I’ve made two worthwhile things in my whole life: a beautiful daughter and a pile of money. And like most men who make a lot of money, I think that I can use the second thing to save the first. So I pay whatever I need to pay to help Elise. But now there’s a third thing in my life.”

“Your grandchild.”

“Max. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how grandparents feel about their grandchildren.”

“I think my parents forgot my name when my first child was born.”

“They’re our chance at turning back the clock.”

“So you want me to keep an eye on your daughter in her new house down the street?”

“That’s right.”

“But you said the house was a wedding present. Did Elise marry Lyle?”

“No. And thank God for small favors. Three months ago, Elise went on a trip with some girlfriends of hers to Australia. I bought her ticket of course. I thought it would do her good to get away and have some fun. That I got to spend some time with my grandson was a bonus. While there, the ladies went snorkeling. But something malfunctioned with Elise’s equipment and she would have drowned if it weren’t for a local surf instructor who saw her struggling from the shore. He swam out and pulled her back to shore, gave her mouth-to-mouth, and brought her back to life. It turns out the instructor was an American. They spent the rest of the vacation together. And when it was time to fly home, he came with, as her husband.”

“That’s fast.”

“Now this husband of hers is handsome. Real handsome.”

“Is his name Jake Ryan?”

Don Harper shakes his head. “No, Henry Newcombe.”

“Mr. Harper, I’m sure you are rightfully gun-shy about Elise’s past relationships, but this all sounds like a real love story.”

“A love story is just that. A story. Not the real thing. There is no one on this planet who thinks Elise is beautiful more than her own father, but seriously, why would a younger good-looking guy who somehow won life by spending his days on the beaches of Australia drop it all for a woman in her late thirties with a eight-year-old son he’s never met? Then agree to move to a subdivision in Hatchet, Illinois, in a house bought by her father? He doesn’t even have a job. He just stays at home and watches the kid.”

LIKE ME! I mean, like me.

Don Harper continues, “Who is Henry Newcombe? What does he do all day? And can I trust him with not only my daughter, but my grandson?”

“And maybe catch him cheating on Elise with any of the Stable Bluff housewives? And those housewives, let me tell you, are ready and willing to cheat. Next to bitching about the local elementary school on Facebook, bed hopping is like their number one hobby.”

“It’s more than that, though. I want you to really get to know him. Become his friend,” Don Harper says.

“His friend?”

“I figure you two would have a lot in common. You are both stay-at-home dads in a sea of suburban women. It’s not like he has any friends around here. You could have play dates or whatever you call them. Maybe take him out for drinks, get him drunk, and see what comes out when he spills his guts. Maybe he’ll tell the real story about why he gave up the young man’s dream in paradise for an insta-family in fly-over country.”

“But if it gets out that I’m a private detective, won’t his guard go right up?”

“Oh, let him know you’re a detective. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it. I sure do. Take him on a case if you’d like.”

“It will make it tough to do surveillance if I’m spending all this time with him. You’ll probably want to know things about him that he won’t even let his friends see.”

“That’s true. You’ll need someone else.”

Don Harper thinks for a second.

I take a sip from my juice box.

“Do you have a sidekick?” he says.