Writing in Public: Story 1, Scene 3
Writer’s Note: More cyclical additions in the first scene, highlighted in red text. As I put this up, my head’s going “No, this isn’t ready. There’s something wrong with it!” But it doesn’t tell me what’s wrong, so I’m ignoring it, since that’s a sign of mid-story fears.
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We were back out to Harrington’s house for the next three days. This time, no podiatrist appointment, so we sat there most of the day, taking lunch and potty breaks. Rain wandered in, deposited a few test drops, decided it wanted nothing to do with Pismo Beach, and left the clouds behind. The yappy miniature pinscher was back out, barking furiously … probably at a leaf falling. I think a dog like that would make me crazy.
I wanted to say that the Tiger Balm was giving me a headache, but Harrington was behind my pain. Usually these guys got cocky and careless.
Especially after so long.
But no, Harrington never left that house. He came out in the morning to pick up his newspaper and in the late afternoon to check his mail. He had a grocery delivery service show up, and the driver went inside to deposit groceries.
I noshed on some almonds—California-grown—that Granny had brought along for snacks. It was hard ignoring the amount of calories I was consuming, though Granny insisted the good fat in the almonds would help my foot heal.
The mail carrier pulled up in his white truck and left mail in the box. I checked the time. It was only an hour after Harrington had picked up the paper. Why did he wait until the evening to get the mail? What was he doing inside? Writing a novel? Playing video games?
Granny had my iPhone and was keeping herself occupied by reading the notes that had come from the last private investigator. Wouldn’t do much good. I’d reviewed them myself to see what they’d already done. They’d been much like what we were experiencing now. The PI had concluded that the actor wasn’t faking it. The insurance company disagreed.
“He’s been like this for a year?” Granny asked.
“Yup,” I said. “He’s been out to run errands, but nothing that would help us.”
“You broke your foot only two weeks ago now, and you’re already going stir crazy. He can’t be sitting in there doing nothing.” Granny pressed her lips together, which was her thinking face. “How is the insurance company sure he’s faking it?”
“Bragged about socking it to Hollywood on a message board. He blames Hollywood for not giving him better roles and feels this is owed to him.”
Truth was he was probably making more on worker’s comp than he had an as actor.
“What’s on the other side of the house?” she asked. “Maybe we could see in the back windows? He’s got some muscles on him, so he’s been doing weight lifting somewhere.”
I liked how Granny thought. “First thing I checked out. There’s a house on the other side with a tall wooden fence on the property line. That’s the house with the dog, as a matter of fact.”
Just saying that out loud clicked something in my brain. I heard that dog bark when the mail carrier came by and the grocery delivery as well. But I’d heard that dog other times, too. I’d assumed it was visitors on the other side. Could Harrington be cutting out the back? But then he would have had to go through the yard with the dog and I couldn’t believe that the neighbor wouldn’t complain.
Granny got out of the car. “Be back in a minute.”
She slammed the door shut before I could answer or even react. I certainly couldn’t go after her hopping on one foot. She circled around the front of the car and cut across the street, pausing to wave at the runner with the nice legs. I knew what she was going to do and wanted to call her back, but she was on a mission.
So I filmed her as she walked up to Harrington’s door and rang the bell.
Waited.
…And nothing.
No one opened the door. No one looked out a window.
He was gone.
Filed under: Books, Writing in Public Tagged: Granny PI, Morro Bay, Mystery, Pismo Beach, Private Detective
