Haunting Harold Page 3

  * * *

  Shortly after noon, Harold walked out and got in his car. I started up mine, and followed him the mile or so to the Cool Springs Mall, where he pulled into the parking lot for an Olive Garden restaurant. When he parked, I did the same, and watched as he left the car and went inside.

  This was going to be a little trickier. Here I’d either have to risk the perimeter of the building, which might not tell me what I needed to know, or take the even bigger risk of going inside, where Harold would certainly see me.

  I knew he wasn’t having sex in the restaurant. There was no question about that. So he was not actively cheating on Heidi at the moment. But he might be meeting his mistress for a romantic meal, just the two of them. And sitting out here, there was no way I could tell which of the many women heading inside might be meeting Harold.

  Or which of the men, for that matter. It might be a perfectly legitimate business lunch, or just a friendly get-together with a golf buddy.

  But unless I made it inside the restaurant, I’d never know.

  I waited for Harold to disappear. Then I gave him a minute to get seated before I opened my door and swung my legs out. It was nice to move again after such a long time in the car. I took a second to shake out my arms and legs before I sauntered casually toward the entrance.

  A man in faded jeans and a brown suede jacket got there just before me, and held the door open so I could walk through.

  I gave him a sunny smile. “Thank you.”

  He nodded politely and made a quick right into the men’s room. Straight ahead was a hostess stand with a college age girl in black behind it. “Table for one?” She looked at me down her nose.

  “I’m meeting someone,” I said. Partly it was knee-jerk—who wants to admit they’re lunching alone?—but partly I wanted an excuse to take a walk through the dining room. “Would you mind if I look around for my friend?”

  She waved a limp hand. I wandered into the dining room, keeping a sharp eye out for Harold. When I spotted him, he had his back to me, so I was able to duck back out of sight before he had a chance to spot me. The couple at the table next to where I was standing gave me a sort of strange look, though. I smiled. “Process server.”

  They exchanged a look. I dropped back out of sight. I had what I needed. Harold’s lunch partner was another guy. Half Harold’s age, and similar enough in looks that they were probably related.

  Back in the lobby, the hostess gave me a sort of jaundiced look.

  “I didn’t see her,” I said brightly. “I’ll just use the bathroom before I sit down and wait.”

  She didn’t answer. I ducked into the bathroom, did what I needed to do, and went out to the lobby, where I told the hostess that my friend had texted me, and wouldn’t be coming after all. “I’d like a house salad and breadsticks to go, please.”

  She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but I think she wanted to. She put the order in, though. I paid, and two minutes later a bag with a salad and breadsticks appeared. I ate in the car, while I watched the entrance to the restaurant.

  Harold and his lunch partner came out after about forty-five minutes. They stood outside for a minute and talked before they embraced, slapped each other on the back, and went their separate ways. I used my phone to snap a couple of pictures, just so I had something I could use to prove to Heidi that I was working, and sent it off to her with a cheery, I just spotted your husband having lunch at Olive Garden. Hope you’re doing well!

  She sent me back a Thanks, and that was that. If she’d asked me Who the hell is that?! I would have tailed the younger guy back to wherever he was going and tried to figure out who he was. Since she didn’t, I followed Harold back to the office for another couple hours’ vigil.

  By now I was getting to be an old hand at this. When Harold left at three, I tailed him back up Granny White Pike to the Richland Country Club, and watched him change into plaid pants before heading out on the links with a friend. I knew the guy, as it happened—John Oliver, another of David’s clients—and I was sure they weren’t having an affair. Like Harold, John was on his second or third wife—her name was Gwendolyn—and on the fateful night when David crashed his car, the Olivers had also been in attendance. These two were old friends and golf buddies. David and Farley used to play with them.

  And speaking of David: he always used to tell me it took about four hours to play eighteen holes of golf.

  Now, he was either lying and spent the other two hours with his mistress, or Harold and John only played nine holes. Or perhaps the four hours required two more players. Either way, they were done after two hours and a little bit, and came rolling back into the lot in their golf cart.

  They went inside the club and changed, and they probably stopped at the bar, too, for a drink. At least it took almost another hour before they came back out, dressed in business casual again. They exchanged a handshake and went to their separate cars. I watched John drive away while Harold sat in his car fiddling with something. I was a little too far away to see what it was, but I thought he was most likely using his phone to look something up, or maybe to send a text.

  A flash of color outside the car made me turn the other way. And lo and behold, there was the young woman from the gym this morning again, wearing the same dress and the same boots. She crossed behind my car, so I didn’t get a good look at her in the rearview mirror, and anyway, she had blond, wavy hair halfway covering her face. She moved up between the row of cars where Harold was parked, and brushed right past his driver’s side door before crossing the roadway and disappearing into the country club.

  Harold’s door opened, and he jumped out. I watched as he ran after her, across the roadway and through the door into the country club.

  A minute later he came out, looking frustrated. I deduced the young woman had either refused to talk to him, or she’d been gone when he got inside.

  He got into his car and sat there for a while. A long while.

  The young woman did not come back out of the country club. Eventually, Harold gave up and turned on the car. I debated for a second whether I should follow him or stay here and wait longer, in case the young woman came back out.

  But Heidi had hired me to follow Harold. So follow Harold was what I’d do. And anyway, she’d shown up twice today. She might show up again tomorrow, and I could try to catch her then.

  I pulled the Lexus out of the parking spot and waited until Harold was out of sight down the winding driveway to the street before I headed in the same direction myself.

  Chapter 3

  I must be getting better at this surveillance thing. On the way back to Forest Hills I managed to put a couple of cars between me and Harold again, as we headed down Granny White Pike and then east on Old Hickory Boulevard. One of them was a black truck—small world—and the other a minivan with a couple of bouncing kids in the back.

  At this point I figured we were probably headed back to the castle in Forest Hills, but I stayed on Harold until he turned in through the gate. The minivan had gone straight on Old Hickory Boulevard when Harold, the truck, and I turned north on Hillsboro Road, and the truck had taken a right half a block before Harold turned, on the street where I’d been hanging out and waiting for Harold this morning.

  I continued straight up Hillsboro Road and turned on Abbot Martin, which would take me through Belle Meade and home.

  The office was closed for today, and Rachel had dropped Edwina at the house on her way out to Bellevue and her own place. She was thrilled to see me, her entire back half wiggling with pleasure when I let myself in and she met me in the foyer.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” I leaned down to scratch the top of her head, between her flappy bat ears. Her fur is short and soft and feels like a Persian rug under my fingernails.

  She grinned up at me, tongue lolling. Boston Terriers have great personalities. Or at least this one did.

  “Go outside?” I suggested.

  She wagged, but didn’t prance toward the door. Rachel must
have had her do her business before she put Edwina in the house.

  “Food?” I tried.

  Edwina turned and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen. I put my purse in the foyer and followed my dog down the hall for dinner. After eighteen years of sharing meals with David, and then the time eating alone after David moved out, it was nice to have company again.

  * * *

  The next day was pretty much a repeat of the previous day. I picked up Harold’s trail outside Somerset in the morning, and followed him to the gym. The blonde wasn’t there today, and as previously decided, I hadn’t brought any coffee.

  Then, after Harold’s workout was over, I followed him from the Y to the office. There was no convenient truck between us today, although when Harold turned into his parking lot and I continued toward the McDonalds, I did see one in my rearview mirror.

  There are a lot of black trucks on the road, however, so that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  I parked in the same place I did yesterday, and watched Harold’s door until lunch—thirty minutes later today—when he came out of the building with two co-workers. They looked like another doctor and maybe a nurse: twenty years younger and wearing scrubs. The three of them piled into Harold’s Mercedes (with the lone female in the back seat) and left. I trailed them down to Cool Springs again, and into the parking lot of a Red Lobster. And I took a picture of the three of them, just in case Harold was carrying on with the nurse and the other doctor was window dressing. Then I settled in to wait, with the lunch I had packed before I left this morning.

  They came out after an hour, and we went back to the office, where Harold stayed until three-thirty. I followed him to another medical building a few miles south, where maybe he had a consultation or something. Or where maybe he was carrying on with someone, but there was no way to know that. I was getting annoyed. How was I supposed to figure out who Harold was cheating on Heidi with, if everything he did took place behind closed door?

  He came out after another hour, looking the same as when he’d gone in. His shirt was still tucked in, his tie was on straight, and his hair didn’t look like anyone had run her fingers through it. He got back in the car and we headed out.

  I think I’ve forgotten to mention that I was driving Rachel’s car today. It’s a small, white, Toyota: about as far as it’s possible to get from the black Lexus SUV I’d been driving yesterday. It was the one thing I thought I was doing right in this whole mess. I may not be figuring out what Harold was doing, but at least he wasn’t noticing me following him.

  He was noticing someone else, though, and so was I. The blonde hadn’t shown up outside the Y or at Red Lobster today, but when we turned up Hillsboro Road toward Somerset, there she was, standing by the side of the road.

  The Mercedes rolled out of its own lane and across the road, halfway into oncoming traffic. The car in that lane, a beefy Range Rover, laid on the horn and made an evasive maneuver, and by the time Harold had straightened up the Mercedes and I had a chance to look in the rearview mirror, the woman was gone.

  At the next cross street, Harold turned the car around and went back, presumably to look for her. I’m not sure, actually, since I couldn’t really execute the same U-turn without drawing attention to myself. As it was, I shrank into the seat as he came past me, although I needn’t have bothered: all his attention was focused on the piece of road where the woman had been. But she must have been gone, because it was only a few minutes later that Harold—alone—came back up the road again. I fell in behind once more, and followed until he turned into Somerset.

  At that point, I went back down the road and spent a couple of minutes looking for the woman myself, but she was long gone. Next time she showed up—and by now I was fairly certain I’d see her again, probably tomorrow—I’d get a picture. Then I could ask Heidi whether she had any idea who this was. As it was, asking her, “Do you know a woman around thirty, with wavy blond hair, in a gray dress and boots?” wasn’t likely to be very helpful.

  And didn’t this person own any other clothes? She’d been wearing the same dress and boots for two days.

  That probably meant something, but damned if I knew what.

  Rachel was waiting at the office for her car, so I drove there and parked in the lot. When I walked in, she had her coat and hat on, ready to go.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll take my own car tomorrow, so you don’t have to wait for me. Hot date?”

  Over on the sofa, Edwina was wagging her stub of a tail, tongue lolling.

  Rachel didn’t answer, but her cheeks got a little pink. Maybe she really did have a date. It would be the first, I thought, since her husband died. Some women, after their husband’s die of a heart attack in someone else’s bed, take a while to get back up on the horse.

  I decided to give her a break, and quiz her about it tomorrow instead. So I went over to greet Edwina and lift her down to the floor. “Need to visit the flower bed before we get in the car?”

  She pranced toward the door. I opened it, and she passed through and over to the patch of ground she uses for her bathroom at the office. Rachel walked past me, too, tying her scarf.

  “I’ll lock the door,” I told her. “Be careful out there.”

  “I’m meeting him in a public place. And we won’t be going back to his place. Or mine. It’s just a date.”

  Good. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

  “There won’t be anything to tell,” Rachel said. “Didn’t I just tell you we wouldn’t be going to his place or mine?”

  She had. But there were other things she could tell me. Like, who this guy was, and where she’d met him.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough, though. “Have a good time,” I told her.

  “Thank you.” She got into her car while I gathered up Edwina and put her safely into the Lexus. Then we went our separate ways on Music Row: Rachel north past the roundabout to Interstate 40, and me south toward Belmont College, and the smaller roads to Hillwood.

  * * *

  The next day was Friday. I was set up outside Somerset as usual by seven-thirty. Harold came through the gate as usual at a little after eight, and drove to the Brentwood Y. I stayed in the car, in the parking lot, and kept an eye out.

  The blonde had shown up here two days ago. Not yesterday, though. She seemed to vary the places she appeared. The gym, the golf course, near where Harold lived.

  So far I hadn’t seen her at his office. Maybe that would come today.

  Or maybe she’d be back at the gym this morning.

  I looked around. There was no sign of the VW Beetle she’d driven the first day I’d seen her—and if I saw that again, I’d definitely try to catch the license plate, now that I knew that the woman was significant.

  Then again, she could be like me, switching cars every day or two.

  I had considered the possibility that she might be Harold’s mistress. Or perhaps Harold’s ex- mistress, who didn’t want to be an ex, so she was now dogging his footsteps, trying to get him to take her back.

  Or perhaps to drive him crazy.

  Maybe he’d bought her the gray dress. Maybe that’s why she kept wearing it. Or maybe it was what she’d worn when he dumped her, or when they first met.

  If I ever caught up with her, I’d ask.

  It wasn’t to be this morning, though. She didn’t show up at the gym. Harold came out after his usual workout, and got in the Mercedes. I followed him to the office and parked in my usual spot. Harold went inside. I settled in to wait.

  By now, I don’t mind telling you, I was thoroughly disillusioned, not to mention bored. I had been at this for two days. I’d seen no evidence that Harold was cheating. He went to the gym, he went to work, he went to lunch with people, and he went home. Sometimes he threw in a game of golf. It was all open and above board. No sign of anything hinky.

  Or very little sign. There was the blonde. And also a black truck. I’d seen it a couple of times. Following Harold from the gym to work,
following Harold from Richland Country Club and home last night.

  It was getting a little bit crowded behind Harold, frankly.

  I decided to stretch my legs by taking a walk around the parking lot of the building next door to Harold’s office. There were no less than four black trucks parked in the lot. No yellow VW Beetles, but plenty of black trucks. Two of them had a view of Harold’s building. I snapped pictures of all four license plates and went back to my car, where I texted them all to Rachel. And followed up with a phone call.

  “I just sent you four license plates.”

  “I got them,” Rachel said.

  “Any way to look up who they belong to?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe you could narrow it down a little?”

  I guess I could try. “How was your date last night?”

  “Fine,” Rachel said.

  “I didn’t realize you’d started dating again.” It must be five years or so, maybe, since her husband died. It was after that, that she’d gone to work for David.

  “I hadn’t, really,” Rachel said. “But I met this guy in the grocery store last week. And then I saw him again a couple days later. And he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. And then he asked me out to dinner. And I thought, he seems nice. And it’s been a long time since I had a date.”

  I could definitely relate to that. My last date had been with David before we got married. Eighteen-plus years ago.

  Nobody was inviting me to dinner, though. Or at least no romantic prospects. The last time I’d had dinner with anyone, it was my divorce attorney Diana Morton, during the time when I’d been stalking her husband. Dinner had consisted of Chinese takeout in Diana’s kitchen.

  Mendoza had also been present. If only Diana hadn’t been there, it would have been a perfect date.