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Home Wrecker
I’ve
seen her face before.
Billboards.
Shopping
carts.
Junk
mail.
My
wife, Juliet, left for work three hours ago, and I spent the morning with the
kids, Ryan and Daisy, watching one episode after another of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
Mickey
Mouse.
Or “Mee-Mow” as Ryan calls him.
What
is it about that dude?
He’s
the most popular fictional character in human creation, but what can you say
about him other than he’s got those big round ears, wears red shorts, has a
high voice and seems pretty cheerful?
Not
much, right?
But
there’s something about Mickey Mouse and the whole crew that fascinates little
kids. And from that moment on, the Disney oligarchy has got their corporate
hooks in you.
While
Mickey’s waving one white-gloved hand, the other one is reaching into your
wallet, snatching your credit card, and making reservations for four at the
Magic Kingdom with airfare and hotel reservations included.
Mickey
Mouse.
Mee-Mow.
That
rat.
So
yeah, I was letting television raise my children. What of it?
I
didn’t study how to be a stay-at-home dad in college.
I
don’t have a superhero dad utility belt filled with educational arts and
crafts.
I’ve
got eight to ten hours to fill, and an hour they’re watching TV is an hour
they’re NOT crying or begging for something from the pantry.
Anyway,
we were pretty deep into a Mee-Mow marathon, Daisy in her swingy-swing, rocking
back and forth like a Grandfather clock, and Ryan (holding a recently purchased
Mickey Mouse stuffed animal) and I sprawled on the couch, covered in Honey Nut
Cheerio crumbs, in the dark, with the window blinds shut tight, living like a
couple of mole people, when the doorbell rang.
“Gamma!”
Ryan cried.
Grandma.
He
thinks that whenever the doorbell rings, it’s one of his grandmas coming to
visit and shower him with presents and sugary snacks.
But
the woman in front of me now in the boysenberry blazer and matching skirt is
neither one of his grandmas to Ryan’s disappointment.
“Hi,
I’m Kelli Anne Bradley with Best Offer Realty,” she says.
Best
Offer Realty, or as it’s known around town, “No Offer Reality.”
“I’m
not looking to sell,” I say.
Like
I could if I was.
“No,
I’ve got the house across the street,” she says, turning and pointing at the
newly staked “For Sale” sign with her smiling face printed on it.
The
Rasmussens.
Nora
and Ty.
My
first and only case as a private eye.
Word
around the playground is, after Nora’s demolition session on her cheating
husband’s beloved man cave, she filed for divorce the next day.
Now
the house is on the market along with all the other houses in the subdivision
that haven’t sold in the past five years.
“Well,
good luck,” I say.
I
begin to close the door.
“Nora
referred me to you,” Kelli Anne says.
I
reopen the door.
“Oh?”
“She
says that you’re a private detective.”
“I
do dabble in the sleuthing arts.”
“Daddy,
poo-poo!” Ryan shouts.
“Not
now, Daddy’s acting cool,” I whisper to Ryan.
Kelli
Anne says, “Nora said that you were talented and trustworthy.”
“I
always appreciate a word-of-mouth recommendation. Come in, we can talk about
your case in my office. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a couple asses to wipe
first.”
***
We
walk into the laundry room and I plop Ryan onto the changing table.
I
open his diaper.
“Whoa,”
I say to Ryan. “That’s a man-sized poop, dude.”
I
grab a handful of wipes. I’ve seen parents fold their wipes over and over again
to use every inch of surface area, but I’m more of a “one wipe per swipe” guy.
“This
is your office?” Kelli Anne says.
“Just
until Frank Gehry finishes designing my new building.”
No
response. She didn’t get the joke. I let it go.
“So,
what can I do for you?” I say.
“Someone
in the neighborhood has been tampering with my ‘For Sale’ signs.”
“Tampering?”
“Some
were uprooted, some were chopped down, and one had a mustache drawn on my face
with a black permanent marker.”
Permanent
marker mustaches. Classic.
“Sounds
like a couple of bored teenagers,” I say as I finish up Ryan’s diaper and pull
up his shorts.
I
take Ryan down from the changing table and Kelli Anne hands me Daisy for round
two.
“That
could easily be the case,” she says. “But these ‘For Sale’ signs are important.
Not only are they the most effective advertising I do, but the cost of
replacing them comes out of my commission.”
“They
are nice signs,” I say.
No,
really, they are. I’m not just buttering up my new client. They’re not those
flimsy signs that blow away in a stiff breeze. The signs are solid wood,
painted white, and staked deep into the front lawn.
“So
you see, I need to find out who’s destroying them and get them to, you know,
stop.”
“Not
that I’m ungrateful for the business, but why not just call the cops?”
“The
last thing I need is having the cops constantly patrolling my properties. Can
you imagine if I were holding an open house and there’s a cop car parked out
front?”
“You’re
right.”
“Plus,
you live in the neighborhood, so it wouldn’t look suspicious for you to be seen
in the area.”
“So
you want me to set up some form of surveillance stake-out-type-thing to find
the culprit?”
“Precisely.”
“You
have a number of houses in the neighborhood and that means a lot of ‘For Sale’
signs. I can’t be everywhere at the same time.”
“But
it’s not every house. The signs were only damaged at houses on two particular
streets, Horseshoe Lane and Sugar Cube Way. And that leads me to believe that
this is not the work of some bored kids.”
“If
it’s not kids, who do you suspect did it?”
“Do
you know Flippy?”
Flippy,
a.k.a. Fiona “Flippy” Kruppe, local celebrity home designer and house flipper,
she’s an expert in buying up heavily discounted unsellable homes, fixing them
up, and turning them around for a nice profit.
And
she looks good doing it.
Long
black hair. Tan all year round. Maybe in her early forties, but her body is
still high and tight.
Though
Juliet says that houses aren’t the only things she’s had work done on.
Meow,
right?
But
if there were a show called The
Housewives of Uninteresting Area Codes, Fiona “Flippy” Kruppe would
definitely be a cast member.
She
actually filmed an unaired pilot for Bravo a few years back called Flip the Script, but I guess it got
crowded out by the million other house flipping shows already on the air.
Now
that she’s back in town, she’s been buying, restoring, and flipping houses
throughout the neighborhood.
I’ve
seen her a few times at Home Depot with giant pallets of lumber and light
fixtures, bossing around a team of bewildered South American laborers she
picked up in the parking lot that morning.
“Yeah,
I know Flippy,” I say to Kelli Anne. “What makes you think she’s a suspect?”
“She’s
a gosh darn vulture.”
Harsh
words.
“How
so?”
“Everyone
knows she swoops in on short sales and beleaguered homeowners who can’t find
buyers. But what I think she’s doing is sabotaging the legitimate sales efforts
of the houses she targets, so she can pick up the discounted property when it
doesn’t sell.”
“Uh,
huh.”
“She
also offers a home design service to homeowners who can’t sell with the promise
to make their properties stand out in an already glutted market.”
“Making
money coming and going.”
Or
something like that, I don’t really understand real estate stuff very well. I
should have just nodded.
“I’m
sure you’ve heard the pejorative, ‘No Offer Reality’?” Kelli Anne says.
“People
facing financial ruin can be so cruel.”
“Well,
the reality of the situation is that I think Flippy’s the one responsible for
the houses in the neighborhood not selling at acceptable prices.”
“What
a gosh darn witch.”
Kelli
Anne looks at the kids, then lowers her voice and says, “And I’ve heard she’s
got fake boobs, too.”
“Well
that settles it,” I say. “Calvin Recker is on the case!”
“Great!
Now we just have to negotiate your fee.”
I
pick a number out of thin air.
“Two
hundred dollars plus expenses,” I say.
“What
expenses do you expect to incur?”
Um?
“Forget
the expenses, let’s just make it two hundred dollars even,” I say.
“Deal,”
she says, offering her hand to shake.
I
pick Daisy up off the changing table and say, “Maybe I should wash my hands
first before we shake on it.”
She
retracts her hand. “That probably a good idea.”
***
I
walk Kelli Anne Bradley to the door and immediately dial up my sidekick,
Grover.
See,
here’s the thing about being a stay-at-home dad and a detective, you really
can’t do both at the same time.
Suspects
aren’t courteous enough to work around my children’s set in stone nap schedule.
That’s
why having a sidekick like my old college roommate, Grover, is essential. While
I’m stuck at home with the kids, I can send Grover out into the field to do the
requisite legwork or stakeouts. And it’s not like he doesn’t have the time.
He
doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend or kids or a mortgage.
Ah,
can’t you just taste that free time?
He
does have a job as a freelance film location scout. So he drives around all day
looking for suitable Midwest filming locations for Hollywood production
companies. But those skills are perfect for this kind of sidekick work.
Grover’s
been bugging me about when we’re going to get another case, but since that
first case fell into my lap, nothing has come my way.
Until
today.
I
call Grover.
“We’ve
got a case, G,” I say.
“I’ll
be right there,” he says.
“No
rush, I’ve got a few things to do first. Let’s say, an hour?”
“No,
I’ll be RIGHT there.”
My
sliding glass door in back opens and Grover walks through, shirtless, with a
towel over his shoulder.
“Uncle
Grower!” Ryan yells.
Grover
lifts Ryan up in the air and puts him on his shoulders. “Going up!”
“Were
you outside the whole time?” I say.
“Yeah,
out on the deck, catching some rays, smoking a jay, and listening to a little
Fleetwood Mac.”
“That’s
great, do you mind putting my son down before you decapitate him on the ceiling
fan?”
“Oh,” Grover says, putting Ryan down. “Beautiful
outside, guys. You shouldn’t stay inside all day with the windows shut like a
bunch of mole people.”
“Well,
it’s nice you invited yourself over.”
“You
know what they say, ‘Su casa es mi casa.’”
“They
don’t say that.”
“Hey,
I helped you build that deck two summers ago, and I think that fact grants me
certain unalienable rights under the Fair Use Doctrine.”
“For
instance?”
“For
instance, when you’re on vacation, I can have use of it for barbecue cookouts.”
“You
do that?”
“Or
sleep under the stars with a special lady friend I picked up from the bar that
night.”
“Uh,
what?”
“Or
keeping a little herb garden underneath the lip of the deck.”
“We’re
not talking about a basil plant, are we?”
Grover
gives me a far off spacey look.
Note
to self: get shovel from the garage and dig up herb garden.
“Never
mind,” he finally says. “So what’s this about a new case?”
“I’ll
tell you the details on the way,” I say.
“Where’re
we going?”
“We’re
going on a walk!”
“Yay!” Ryan says, jumping up and down. “Shoes!”
End of sample.
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-Brendan
