The Grass is Always Greener and other stories Read online

  "I can't believe we missed that," the brunette hissed.

  Blondie just shrugged. "Maybe it's not in his name." She started toward the door and then stopped. "I gotta pee before we leave. Who knows how long we'll be sitting around after we call in."

  With that, she pushed into the bathroom. I followed her in, but she was already in the stall. There were three or four urinals in the men's room to the one stall in the women's. The inequity had always irritated me, but now I had bigger fish to fry. Or flush.

  Speaking of flushing, what was Blondie doing in there? The toilet had already flushed three times, and I was getting impatient. Finally she emerged, slamming the metal door hard against the tile wall, as she made for the mirror.

  "Damn toilet," the blonde was muttering. "Goddamn thing flushed while I was sitting on it."

  The back of her skirt was spotted with water. Now she turned her attention, and wrath, to the sink. "Damn sink." The water was going on and off convulsively. "Godddamn faucet. What the hell is wrong with this thing?"

  Blondie certainly didn't expect an answer, so I just watched as she pivoted to the towel dispenser next. "Don't know what I need a goddamn towel for," she said as she waved her hand in front of the red light. "I didn't even wash my frickin' hands."

  With that, she slammed her way out of the ladies room. As the door swung closed behind her, the towel dispenser finally burped up a towel.

  Good things come to those who wait. But then who had the time these days?

  As if in witness to that fact, the door swung open again, and an elderly woman entered as fast as her orthopedic shoes would take her. She nearly dove into the toilet stall.

  I sighed and stepped to the sink, rethinking the conversation I'd overheard. Was Blondie a hooker? Or a gold-digger, working Tom for his money? And sorely disappointed with the apparent lack of it?

  She'd said, "There he is," when they came in. Like she and the brunette had been looking for Tom, specifically. Well, if the two of them were planning to shake him down, they sure hadn't done their homework. The brunette admitted they hadn't even known about the double-wide.

  She was right that the trailer wasn't in Tom's name. His brother had needed to reinvest the proceeds from the sale of rental property, so he'd bought the trailer for Tom. Tom was repaying him monthly in the form of "rent." I wasn't sure if that was strictly legal, but. . .

  That's when it struck me. What an idiot I was. The little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot called them, were beginning to fail me.

  Blondie had to be a cop.

  Making the brunette, of course, her partner. The blonde had said they'd be "sitting around" after "calling in." A stakeout, maybe? The existence of the double-wide was new information for them, so I was sure they hoped it would yield some evidence.

  Evidence of Mia's disappearance.

  The police, I mused. Wasn't that just be perfect? So much better than Tom simply being taken in by a hooker or a con artist. And so much more efficient than the mischief I had been able to play on him while keeping my distance.

  Ahh, the ethernet. Doppelganger of the 21st Century. Putting an "out of office" reply on his home and office e-mail when I knew he was going to be gone had been a snap. Including an address and interactive map practically made him a turn-key burglary victim. "Breaking and Entering For Dummies."

  Then I'd e-mailed the electric company to have service cut off. That had just been fun, plain and simple.

  But damn. I hoped the kids I'd "chatted" into taking Tom's boat for a joyride hadn't obliterated any evidence. There was always the double-wide, of course. Who knew what they could find in there with my help? E-mails to a phantom-—and bogus—-lover, perhaps? For all his sins, Tom wasn't unfaithful. Merely cheap, stupid, and uncaring.

  Deep in thought, I absently waved my hands under the faucet, unable to coax even the intermittent flow of water Officer Blondie had.

  My arms were ungodly weary--though the "ungodly" part could be said of the rest of me, too, I suppose.

  The lock on the stall door rattled, startling me. Two more flies buzzed by, taking the place of the one the bartender had killed.

  "Vengeance is mine," sayeth the Lord. But that was in His own good time. I didn't have that kind of time.

  I wanted it now. In my time. Mia tempo, so to speak.

  As the old woman shuffled up behind me, I glanced up automatically, intending to meet her rheumy eyes in the mirror.

  Silly me.

  The only eyes in the mirror, of course, were hers.

  The End

  Sandra Balzo is an award-winning author of crime fiction, including eight books in two different mystery series--one set outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and the other in the High Country of North Carolina. Balzo's books have garnered starred reviews from Kirkus and Booklist, while being recommended to readers of Janet Evanovich, Charlaine Harris, Harlan Coben, Joan Hess and Margaret Maron.

  Other books by Sandra Balzo

  Maggy Thorsen Mysteries

  -Wisconsin Coffeehouse-

  UNCOMMON GROUNDS**

  GROUNDS FOR MURDER**

  BEAN THERE, DONE THAT**

  BREWED, CRUDE AND TATTOOED**

  FROM THE GROUNDS UP**

  A CUP OF JO**

  TRIPLE SHOT

  Main Street Murders

  -High Country Mysteries-

  RUNNING ON EMPTY

  DEAD ENDS

  HEAVEN'S FIRE**

  -Romantic Suspense-

  **Available for Kindle