The Accidental Detective and other stories Read Free Page B

last three years and that didn’t take into account the alimony she was about to lose.
    â€œI can’t cover that, not with what I get in child support. Not and pay my share of the private school tuition, which we split fifty-fifty.”
    â€œYou could sell. But after closing costs and paying the real estate agent’s fee, you’d walk away with a lot less cash than you might think. Maybe eight hundred thousand. ”
    Eight hundred thousand dollars. She couldn’t buy a decent three-bedroom for that amount, not in the neighborhood, not even in the suburbs. There, the schools would be free at least, but the Dutton School probably mattered more to Sally than it did to the children. It had become the center of her social life since Peter had left, a place where she was made to feel essential. Essential and adored, one of the parents who helped out without becoming a fearsome buttin-sky or know-it-all.
    â€œHow long do I have to figure this out?” she asked Kenny.
    â€œThe balloon comes due in four months. But the way things are going, you’ll be better off locking in sooner rather than later. Green-span looked funny the last time the Fed met.”
    â€œFunny?”
    â€œConstipated, like. As if his sphincter was the only thing keeping the rates down.”
    â€œKenny,” she said with mock reproach, her instinctive reaction to a man’s crude joke, no matter how dull and silly. Already, her mind was miles away, flying through the streets of her neighborhood, trying to think who might help her. There was a father who came to Sam’s baseball games, often straight from work, only to end up on his cell, rattling off percentages. He must be in real estate.
    â€œI OWN A TITLE COMPANY ,” Alan Moore said. “Which, I have to say, is like owning a mint these days. The money just keeps coming. Even with the housing supply tight as it is, people always want to refinance.”
    â€œIf only I had thought to talk to you three years ago,” Sally said, twisting the stalk of a gone-to-seed dandelion in her hand. They were standing along the first-base line, the better to see both their sons—Sam, adorable if inept in right field, and Alan’s Duncan, a wiry first baseman who pounded his glove with great authority, although he had yet to catch a single throw to the bag.
    â€œThe thing is—” Alan stopped as the batter made contact with the ball, driving it toward the second baseman, who tossed it to Duncan for the out. There was a moment of suspense as Duncan bobbled it a bit, but he held on.
    â€œGood play, son!” Alan said, and clapped, then looked around. “I didn’t violate the vocalization rule, did I?”
    â€œYou were perfect,” Sally assured him. The league in which their sons played did, in fact, have strict rules about parents’ behavior, including guidelines on how to cheer properly—with enthusiasm, but without aggression. It was a fine line.
    â€œWhere was I? Oh, your dilemma. The thing is, I can hook you up with someone who can help you find the best deal, but you might want to consider taking action against your lawyer. He could be disbarred for what he did, or at least reprimanded. Clearly a conflict of interest.”
    â€œTrue, but that won’t help me in the long run.” She sighed, then exhaled on the dandelion head, blowing away the fluff.
    â€œDid you make a wish?” Alan asked. He wasn’t handsome, not even close. He looked like Ichabod Crane, tall and thin, with a pointy nose and no chin.
    â€œI did,” Sally said with mock solemnity.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œAh, if you tell, they don’t come true.” She met his eyes, just for a moment, let Alan Moore think that he was her heart’s desire. Later that night, her children asleep, a glass of white wine at her side, she plugged figures into various mortgage calculators on the Internet, as if a different site might come up