Word Sleuths Chapter One

I knew it was a mistake the moment I called him, but I had no choice. I needed a ride. There was a life at stake.

Pretty Boy was excited when he arrived. Sometimes I think that he lives for this sort of thing, so much so that he waits at the phone for my call. He should know better than that. I'm not calling him, mainly because he's always calling me, hoping to get me interested in another case or in advertising an agency that I have told him numerous times I do not want. I'm a writer, not a sleuth, and I don't care how hard he tries to convince me otherwise.

He bolted into my apartment like an irritating ball of energy the instant I opened the door. "What's the job, Boss? Where are we going?"

"It's not a job," I told him. "It's a mission of mercy. And it's upstate. Is your gas tank full?"

"Always," he proudly proclaimed, though there was doubt in his eyes. I guessed that he was at about a quarter tank, but still, it was sufficient for my purpose, so I didn't say anything. On the way to the car, he kept pestering me about the case until, at the passenger door, I finally broke down and told him it was a missing person case. "Are we hired to find a missing person, or someone held for ransom?"

"You watch too much TV," I told him, sliding into the car. "Let's just go."

And we did. I told him our destination and he whistled, impressed. "Swanky neighborhood."

I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Nobody uses 'swanky' anymore."

"I'm bringing it back," Pretty Boy replied carelessly. "Like in those old movies. Pretty classy word, don't you think?"

"No," I replied, then focused on my research. But it was hard to Google anything when Pretty Boy kept yakking away. I tried to ignore him, but it became increasingly harder to tune him out, especially when he started making guesses about what the case would entail. His flights of fancy got so annoying that I had to kill them once and for all. "Look. I don't know what happened yet. Okay? And I won't know that until we get there, and I can take a look around. Right now, I need to do some research, so can we please have some peace and quiet for a while?"

"A while" lasted five minutes. "So, they didn't tell you anything about the case?"

"They?" I asked, preoccupied with the article I was reading.

"Yeah," Pretty Boy replied. "You know, the client?"

"Client?" I asked, now only pretending to read. This conversation was swiftly headed into dangerous territory, so I decided to play it dumb. Maybe I could throw him off the trail, somehow, before I had to explain myself.

"Yes," Pretty Boy said, his tone a little strained with suspicion. "You know, the ones that pay us?"

"I thought you said we weren't paid for the last couple of jobs?" It was a sore point for him, and I hoped to distract him with it.

"Usually pay us, then!" he corrected himself, suspicion growing stronger in his voice. After driving for a while, he glanced at me and demanded, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

I pretended to be engrossed in an article that I was no longer reading. He repeated the question verbatim, then changed it up a little. When I still didn't answer, he pleaded, "Please tell me we're getting paid for this one!"

I couldn't leave him hanging, so I told him it was pro bono. And when he drove on with a blank stare on his face, I told him, "That means we're doing it for free."

"I know what it means!" he insisted.

He drove on in silence for a while, but just when I thought we were done with the conversation, he asked, "So, who's the client? Some poor family looking for a runaway or something?"

"No," I told him. Then, just so he wouldn't inundate me with questions, I told him, "She's sixty years old and retired."

"So..." Pretty Boy let the word linger in the air as he thought it over. Then, he ventured, "She lost someone?"

"No," I replied. "She's missing."

"So..." he said, letting the word linger again. "Her family hired us?"

I didn't reply. My phone became quite interesting. He repeated the question, forcing me to tell him, "She has no family left."

"Then who hired us?" Pretty Boy insisted. "And how do you know she's missing?"

"I don't," I admitted. "But she hasn't played in three days."

And that was a slip of the tongue that even Pretty Boy couldn't ignore. "Played? What do you mean, played?"

I couldn't tell him to forget what I said; that would only make him more curious, and the conversation would drag out forever. But before I could say anything, Pretty Boy sharply demanded, "Who's the client?"

"Well," I explained as gently as I could, "I suppose I am."

Pretty Boy drove on for a while, letting that sink in. Then, he asked, "So, is it you, yourself, or a clone you, or some parallel universe you?"

We'd obviously had a few too many weird adventures together if he could manage to say that with a straight face and deliver it so calmly. And for me to take it the same way.

"Me," I told him. "Just me."

He drove on for a while longer, then asked, "So, who is she? Your grandma? Aunt? Ex-girlfriend?"

"An acquaintance," I replied.

He nodded, staring straight ahead. "How long have you known her?"

"About a year," I told him.

"Have I met her?"

It was the stupidest question of the day, so far, but I didn't dare insult him by pointing it out. "No. But then, neither have I."

I swear he almost slammed on the brakes. I felt his reaction even before I looked up from my phone to see it. He was staring at me.

"You might want to watch the road," I advised, nodding at the windshield.

"Can you tell me something?" He was trying to keep his cool, and doing a pretty good job of it, too. Following my advice, he asked, "We're not driving upstate for no reason, are we?"

"Of course, not!" I assured him.

"Okay," he nodded. "So, how do you know this woman, anyway?"

"We compete on Word Sleuths," I told him.

"Word Sleuths?" He was confused, now. "What's that?"

"A game app," I told him. "You solve mysteries by solving word puzzles and getting clues from the answers."

"And you met her through this game?" Pretty Boy asked. He was still doing a great job keeping it together.

"We're always in the top two ranks," I told him. "Sometimes I'm number one, sometimes she is. We switch it around quite a bit. She's an excellent player. We have a friendly rivalry."

Pretty Boy grunted acknowledgement, so I took that as encouragement to continue. "At least we did, until three days ago."

I didn't give him the chance to ask because I didn't need prompting. "Suddenly, she wasn't playing anymore. I suspect foul play."

The car lurched as he tapped the brake, then thought better of stopping in the middle of the interstate. Instead, he pressed the gas, making the car roar along faster than before. He was probably getting upset.

"Let me get this straight," he said tightly. "And stop me if I'm wrong. You play a game with an elderly woman and the moment she stops playing, you think she was murdered?"

"It wasn't right away," I pointed out. "It took a few days to figure it out. And, I said I suspect foul play. There are many kinds of foul play, you know."

"Does it matter?" Pretty Boy snapped. "The point is, the lady doesn't play for a few days, and you think the worst! You know, there are other reasons she might have stopped playing!"

"I know that," I told him.

"Do you?" he demanded, turning to glare at me. "She could have gotten bored or found something more interesting. For goodness' sake, she's sixty years old! What if she just -?"

He didn't finish the thought, probably thinking that he'd spare my feelings. He needn't bother. I'd already considered that.

"There was no obituary," I told him. "I checked."

"Then she just left the game, or something," he decided. "Probably decided the competition was too much for her!"

"Not her," I told him. "She lived for it."

"Did she tell you that?" he demanded sarcastically. I had the feeling he already knew the answer.

"No."

"Did she ever talk to you at all?"

"No," I admitted.

"Then, how do you know?" Pretty Boy demanded, and the veins in his temple throbbed dangerously close to bursting. At least he wasn't taking his rage out on the other motorists. Then, it finally dawned on him to ask the obvious question, the one that I would have asked long ago. "How do you know any of this, anyway? How do you know who she is or how old she is if you've never met her before? What kind of app is that, anyway?"

"It's fairly easy to get all the information you need," I told him. "Even from a game app. Do you really want me to tell you how?"

Pretty Boy concentrated on the road for a while, fighting the urge to ask. Finally, he grunted, "No! I don't want to know!"

I knew it wasn't over, but I let him drive on in peace until he was ready to talk again. It gave me time to quickly finish my research and stuff the phone away before he spoke again.

"Do you know how crazy that sounds?" By his tone, he didn't expect an answer, so I didn't give him one. He drove a little farther before he said, "And you want to know something even crazier? No matter how weird that whole thing sounds, I believe you." He bowed his head and sighed, taking his eyes off the road. I would have pointed it out if he hadn't remembered what he was doing. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and with a deep sigh he whispered to himself, "Gosh, I can't believe I'm doing this!"

Then he turned to me. "And what if you're wrong? What if there isn't any 'foul play'?"

"Believe me," I told him whole-heartedly. "I'll be very happy to be wrong."

He held his gaze on me as long as he dared, then glared ahead. He held it in, but I knew what he wanted to say, so I said it for him.

"But I'm not."

He nodded grimly, muttering, "I know."