stern pictures of his mother’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Bergner, on the piano. Next to that were framed pictures of three generations of Calhoun men in their Chicago Police Department uniforms. The True Blue Calhouns. Sean curled his lip. Yeah. Whatever.
“Okay,” he began. “I’m here now. So what’s this junk about Dad having an affair?”
“It’s not junk. He is having an affair,” his mother said quickly. “Bebe saw him.”
“Your friend Bebe saw Dad having an affair?” That was a nasty image. Not that he believed it for a minute. “With who?”
“Well, I don’t know who she is. A bimbo.” His mom scurried off to the kitchen, but she stopped in the doorway. “Do you want something to drink? A cookie?”
“No, Ma. I want to know what this is all about.”
“Sit down. Bebe is here. She’ll tell you,” she called out from the kitchen. “Bebe, go into the living room and talk to Sean while I get the coffee. And take the pictures with you.”
Pictures? Could this get any worse? He had the fleeting thought that maybe it was just pictures of more prospective dates. Maybe this was all subterfuge. But Mom seemed awfully hopped up for just another scheme to marry him off.
“Hiya, Sean,” Bebe offered, patting her hair with one manicured nail as she waltzed into the living room. Bebe was not just his mother’s best friend, but also her hairdresser, and her hair had been every color in the rainbow in the short time Sean had known her. Today it was kind of a deep maroon and flipped up on the ends.
“Hi,” he returned. “What’s this all about?”
“Your mom needs you, honey,” she said soothingly. She handed over a stack of photos and then took a seat next to him on the sofa. “I’m real sorry and all, but I saw what I saw. What can I say?”
Sean glanced down at the top picture. “Dad sitting on a park bench wearing a trench coat, with a woman next to him and about three feet in between them. So?”
Bebe tapped the photo with one purple fingernail. “I was at the park, just minding my own business walking my sister’s dog—I was dog-sitting, just in case you wondered what I was doing up there, because that is not my part of town—and who do I see but Michael Calhoun, schmoozing with this chickie who is half his age and has a terrible dye job.” She rolled her eyes. “The roots!”
“And you just happened to have a camera?”
“No, that was the second time,” she told him.
“A second time!” his mother chorused grimly, coming back carrying a mug of coffee and a plate of cookies. “Have a cookie.”
“I don’t want a cookie. And since when do you let people eat or drink in the living room?”
She waved away his objection. “Everything has fallen apart. Your father is cheating on me. What do I care about a little spill in the living room? Bebe saw the schmuck twice with his tootsie. I told you I had evidence.” She sat next to him on the couch, pushing him over from the other side, so that he was squashed between the two women.
“Mom, I really think you’re making a whole mountain range out of a molehill here,” he tried, setting the photos down in his lap. “So he went to the park and some woman sat next to him? So what? Have you found lipstick on his collar? Receipts from crummy motels? Or from jewelry or gifts that weren’t for you?”
“No, of course not,” she said indignantly. “He’s a cop, Sean. How stupid do you think he’s going to be?”
“I have no idea. But I’m not willing to make a case of adultery out of a chat on a park bench.”
She jumped off the couch and started pacing back and forth. “But he lied to me about where he was. Okay, so Bebe saw him in the park and thought it was odd, just the way he was dressed and the way he was kind of talking to this woman out of the corner of his mouth, all strange.”
“I just knew something was weird with him the minute I saw him,” Bebe agreed. “It looked very suspicious, you know? So I didn’t go over, didn’t say hello, nothing, just got the dog and got out of there.”
“And she said to me, why was Michael up at Humboldt Park the other day? And I’m wondering about this, because I don’t know any reason. The man has a desk job. He doesn’t go out in the field anymore. I mean, maybe to a luncheon or something, but the middle of a park? Meeting some young slutty-looking girl? I don’t think so.” Picking up steam as she continued the story, his mother perched next to him again on the couch, nudging him to look at the photos again. “So I ask him where he was that day, and he shrugs and says he was at work. All day. He remembers because it was such a busy day. And, of course, I know he’s lying. So I tell his secretary, who is a doll, to let me know the next time he’s out of the office and doesn’t have an appointment in the book.”
“Oh, Ma…” Sean stared into space. His mother playing amateur detective and checking up on his dad and conspiring with his secretary? And right when the old man was up for a major promotion? He’d never forgive her.
Sean looked up. On the other hand, what was Michael Calhoun doing on that park bench with that woman? He narrowed his eyes at the photos. Ever since he’d cracked a couple of hard cases, people had been teasing him about his “uncanny knack for seeing the truth.” It was a quote from a newspaper account of his career, and the other detectives—and his brothers—thought it was pretty funny to ride him about it. It was a bunch of baloney, but still… If he stared at the photo of his father and the curvy blonde long enough, would he see the real deal behind this shadowy meeting in the park?
“So the next time your father wasn’t where he was supposed to be, I sent Bebe back to Humboldt Park again, you know, disguised, so she could get closer this time. She wore a headscarf and sunglasses and pushed a baby carriage. Your father never suspected a thing,” his mom said with fierce satisfaction.
Bebe in disguise, pushing a baby carriage. It might’ve been funny if it weren’t so horrifying. “Let me get this straight. You had Bebe shadowing Dad at the park?”
“So? She got some very good pictures, didn’t she?” His mother shook her head. “Same woman, same park bench. Meeting her again. And look at her, Sean. Cheap Christmas trash.”
Well, he couldn’t disagree. Bebe’s clear, sharp photographs showed a dyed-blonde with obvious roots and a frizzy ponytail, big sunglasses, and a dark raincoat over her clothes. She had a good jawline, a determined little chin, and what appeared to be a nicely shaped mouth exaggerated by a load of shiny, dark pink lipstick. The raincoat was open far enough in several of the pictures to reveal a low-cut top, very tight jeans, and the most god-awful pair of shoes he’d ever seen. They were clear plastic sandals with very high heels and glitter and stars plastered all over them. He didn’t have to be a detective to recognize hooker shoes when he saw them.
So which was worse? The assumption that his dad was having an affair? Or that he was somehow involved with a prostitute?
“All right,” he said grimly. “You’ve got photos of him with a suspicious woman. Is there more?”
“That’s the thing, Sean. I was waiting for him to have, you know, another unexplained absence. But he hasn’t. Well, until today, but his secretary heard him on the phone arranging to meet Jake, so I think that was okay.”
