The Case of a Stealing Houseeeper

Rich people piss me off more than anybody else in the whole fucking world. No, on second thought, that's not true. Rich people are second on my list of people who piss me off. First on the list are civil lawyers because they're fucking assholes as well as being rich.

They're bloodsuckers in business suits in my opinion. I mean, those assholes walk around looking for somebody who got hurt because of their own goddamned stupidity so they can sue the company that made the product. I know because those companies sometimes hire me to find out what really happened when the injured party fucked up and got hurt.

Any reasonably intelligent person, and by that I mean anyone old enough to put gasoline in a gas can, would know that gasoline burns really fast and really hot. It even tells you that on the fucking gas can if you can read. They'd also know if you pour gasoline from a gas can onto a fire, the odds are pretty good that the fire is going to travel up the stream and burn the living shit out of you.

Not so, apparently, because multiple people have tried it. The price for the company that made the gas cans in question -- around four million per case and were at least thirty cases. There were thirty dumb-asses who probably shouldn't even be allowed to leave the house without another adult, well, except in every case, there were other adults with them. I guess the other adults did put out the fire so they did help a little.

Exactly how fucking dumb do you have to be to believe that Red Bull really gives you wings or some sort of physical performance boost? If it really could, it would be against the law to buy the shit without a prescription. That one ended up costing Red Bull thirteen million of which the lawyers probably got about twelve million and each complaining customer got a check for five bucks.

Hell, I've even been sued. This woman hired me to find out what her husband was doing when he wasn't home with her. What I found out was he was fucking his secretary, so that's what was in my report. This asshole scumbag of a lawyer talked the wife into suing me for two million. Her lawyer said what I wrote in my report caused her extreme depression and anxiety that caused her to miss a month of work and to spend a year in weekly sessions with a psychiatrist.

He claimed I should have worded my report so that it was easier on her. He apparently thought the pictures of the woman's husband in the secretary's backyard with his cock balls deep in the secretary were too extreme too.

Now, how the hell was I supposed to change the wording of "These pictures I took should prove your husband is engaging in a sexual relationship with his secretary"? Maybe I should have written, "These pictures of your naked husband on top of his naked secretary by her pool lead me to suspect their relationship may possibly be more than just employer and employee."

I had to go out and hire my own bloodsucker to defend me. He was an asshole too, but he was pretty good. He pointed out to the judge that the same lawyer was representing the wife in her divorce suit and had used my report and pictures as evidence at the divorce hearing. The wife didn't appear to have a problem with the pictures or my report wording then.

Thankfully, the judge had a brain and threw the case out of court. The wife even had to pay the thousand I'd spent on my own lawyer.

Now, I don't get pissed off by rich people because they have more money than I do. My considerable experience has taught me that having more money than you need also means you have more problems than you need. I'm happy as long as I can keep a bottle of Glenfiddich and a carton of cigarettes in my desk drawer and some frozen pizza in my freezer. Being a private investigator lets me do that just fine and I don't have to put up with all the bullshit rich people do. Instead, occasionally I have to put up with the bullshit rich people bring with them when they hire me.

That doesn't happen very often. I'm not a big name PI with a fancy office on the third floor of some ritzy office building and a dozen investigators on staff. My office is what used to be the living room of my apartment which used to be a shoe store, and the only PI working there is me.

I don't advertise anywhere except the phone book because I'm a cheap bastard. Well, that's what my ex always called me anyway. Most of my cases come from someone who knows someone I've helped before. I like it that way. Most of my clients can't afford one of the big PI outfits, and my fee is something they can afford with a little work. They're usually good people who have a pretty good grasp of reality.

I do get some rich person once in a while. I don't know how the fuck they find me but they do. Usually, they hire me for the usual shit -- a spouse that's fucking around on them or somebody went missing that they want to find. Sometimes though, a strange case comes along. That's what this one turned out to be and it's why rich people piss me off.

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She was blonde, maybe forty, with perfect makeup and a hairdo that was probably sculpted by some gay hairdresser named Chad on a weekly basis. She walked like she had a stick up her ass, and that's usually a dead giveaway. Rich people send their daughters to special schools to learn how to walk like that.

Her name was Victoria Worthington. When she told me her name, I knew she was rich. Rich fucking people always have fancy first names like Harrison or Theodore or Victoria or Rosalind and you can't call them Harry or Ted or Vicky or Rosy. If you try that, they'll inform you they are to be addressed by their full first name. To me, that's sorta like when I was in the Army and had to call everybody by their rank. Come to think of it, that's exactly what it is. They're informing me that they outrank me, and that pisses me off.

The other tip-off was all the jewelry she was wearing and the "GG" on her purse. That's another thing about rich people that pisses me off. They go out of their way to show other people that they're rich.

Anyway, she looked at the chair I offered her, brushed the seat cushion with her hand a few times and then said thought she'd just stand. I said, "suit yourself" and sat down, took a pad and a pen from my desk, and then asked how I could help her. She smiled a fake smile.

"My housekeeper is stealing from me. I want you to prove it so I can fire her."

Well, that made no fucking sense to me at all. PI's don't normally deal with actual crimes. That's what the police are for. I said if she thought her housekeeper was stealing from her, she should go to the police.

She frowned and flicked her manicured right middle fingernail with her manicured right thumbnail.

"I don't want to do that...the publicity, you know. Somehow it would get to the media and I'd have to stop having Wednesday lunch at the country club."

She glared at me then and pointed her finger at me.

"I was told that you are very discrete. I should warn you that if word of this gets out, my lawyers will sue you for everything you have now and everything you might have in the future. Do we understand each other?"

If I hadn't already been pissed off, that would have done it. They always have to tell you they have lawyers - not a lawyer, but lawyers - meaning if they sue you, you might as well bend over, grab your ankles and get ready to take it up the ass. When I get pissed, I'm not my normal, mostly polite self anymore.

"Look bitch, if you're gonna threaten me, you can march your fucking ass right back out the door you came in. Just don't let it hit you on the way out. I don't wanna have to fix the fucking door."

Victoria's mouth fell open.

"I've never had anyone talk to me like that in my entire life."

"Well, you never met me before either. Now, you gonna act like a person who wants me to do a job, or are you gonna keep acting like a rich bitch with her panties in a wad and leave? I don't really give a shit either way."

Victoria stared at me for almost a minute, and I could tell by the look on her face that she was just as pissed as I was. She probably didn't want to give in, but probably didn't really have a choice. The big PI companies are as discrete as I am, but there are what the media always calls "confidential informants". Usually the confidential informant is a secretary or even a janitor at the agency who recognizes a person and calls the reporter who is paying him or her for information. Then, the reporter starts his own investigation. Since I'm my own secretary and janitor, I don't have any confidential informants on my payroll.

Finally, Victoria cleared her throat and smiled.

"I see that dealing with you is going to be somewhat of a challenge. I can work with that, I suppose.

"I don't want my housekeeper to go to jail. I just want her gone. She's a Hispanic woman about fifty, and she might claim age or race discrimination if I just fire her. My lawyers tell me that if I have proof that she's stealing from me, they'll make her resign and sign a non-disclosure agreement in return for me not filing a criminal complaint. What I want you to do is give me that proof. I'm prepared to pay you double your normal fee if you give it to me."

Well, what I really wanted was to give her was my middle finger and then kick her in the ass to help her leave, but money is money and I couldn't turn down six hundred a day instead of my usual three hundred.

"OK, I can do that for you. I'll need some information before I start though. How do you know she's stealing from you?"

Victoria frowned.

"Really I don't, but some things just don't look right. Reba - that's her name, Reba Mendoza - Reba cooks all our meals so she buys the groceries. She also keeps the wine cellar and the bar stocked. She has a personal credit card for that, but the monthly statements come to me. When I get the statement every month I review the charges and then pay it. Over the last six months, the bills have been almost double of what they were before but we aren't eating more food and nothing has changed as far as the wine and liquor we have on hand. There have also been charges at businesses she never used before."

It did sound like there was something going on, but I could think of only one way to prove what that was and if the housekeeper was responsible. I didn't think Victoria would agree with the idea.

"Well, I'll need two things from you. First, I'll need copies of your credit card statements for the last year so I can see if there are any trends. The second thing I need is a way to be in your house so I can stay close to this housekeeper. I could follow her around town when she does her shopping, but I won't be able to get very close or she'll suspect something's up. I'll need to get close enough to her that she trusts me. Got any ideas?"

Victoria frowned for a few seconds, and then beamed a smile that seemed to be almost genuine.

"You can be Reba's driver."

"She has her own driver?"

Victoria nodded.

"Reba doesn't have a car, so I furnish her with one. She also doesn't have a driver's license, so I hired a college boy to drive her around when she needs to go shopping. That worked until he graduated this spring. Now, I have to send Jamison, my own driver, to take her shopping. It seems like every time I need to go somewhere, Jamison is driving Reba around on her shopping trips. Having a driver for her will free up my schedule and let you figure out how she's stealing from me. When can you start? I need to know so I can get some uniforms for you."

Well, the whole thing about a housekeeper having her own car and driver seemed a bit much, but then, I suppose rich people can't have their housekeepers taking the bus to the grocery store. It would just look bad, you know, like they were cheapskates or maybe didn't have as much money as they wanted people to believe. As the last rich client I had told me, "It's important to keep up appearances."

When his check bounced, I figured out the appearance he wanted to keep up was just the appearance of being rich. I hadn't started doing anything yet, so I wasn't out any money, but it still pissed me off. That's why I pulled a blank contract from my desk, filled in her request and my fee, and told Victoria once she signed my contract for services, I could start as soon as she was ready for me to start. She signed the contract without reading it and then asked me for the size shirt and pants I wore, and said she'd have them delivered to my office when they were done.

"Once you're properly dressed, come to the estate and I'll show you your car and introduce you to Reba."

Yes, that's another thing that pisses me off about rich people. They always have to tell you they live on an estate, not a house. It's always an estate. Well, some rich people call it a compound, like it's a fucking military base with a fence around the whole goddamned place and it's staffed by armed guards, but usually it's "the estate".

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My uniforms arrived a week later. It had been years since I'd worn a suit and tie, but I figured I could tolerate the black suit, white shirt and black tie for a couple days a week. At eight in the morning the next Monday, I dressed up in my monkey suit and drove to what Victoria had called her estate.

I'd expected a pretty big house on a pretty big lot. There are a surprising number of those around Nashville, Tennessee. The recording industry and banking people who work there do like to show their wealth.

The house wasn't just big. It was enormous. The lot was at least ten acres of carefully manicured lawn with big oak trees and a shit load of flowerbeds. I parked my minivan on the circular cobblestone drive at the front door and then walked up and rang the bell.

The woman who answered had to be Reba, but if she was fifty, she was a very well preserved fifty. She also didn't look like a housekeeper. I'd formed this image in my mind of an older woman, probably at least a little overweight, and dressed in baggy pants, an equally baggy shirt of some sort, and pink running shoes. This woman wore a snug fitting pantsuit with low heels that accented her sensuous, mature body. Instead of some white hairs in the dark brown hair she wore in a short haircut, she had long, coal-black tresses that reached to below her shoulders and sort of flowed around and over the heavy breasts that pushed out her white blouse.

She smiled a perfect, pearly-white smile.

"May I help you sir?"

Before I could answer, I heard Victoria's voice.

"Let him in, Reba. He's here to see me. You can go back to whatever you were doing."

Reba opened the door and then left as Victoria walked up.

Apparently Victoria was a late riser. She was wearing white satin pajama pants and a button up top and the fur on her slippers looked like mink. Her hair and makeup still looked perfect though, so she must have planned on meeting me dressed like that.

"Mr. Meers, please drive your car around back by the service entrance. I'll meet you there. We'll talk in my office before I introduce you to Reba."

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After I parked the minivan, I followed Victoria down a hallway with six doors that opened off it. She stopped at the last one, opened it, and then waved me inside. She closed the door once she was in.

"Have a seat, Mr. Meers. We also need to speak about your conduct while you're here."

I thought about brushing the leather seat of the chair she'd offered and then telling her I'd rather just stand, but then I remembered what she was paying me. After I sat down, Victoria walked around her walnut desk, and eased down in another leather chair, this one with a high back.

She picked up what looked like a credit card and handed it to me.

"I had my husband, Morris, leave the gate open when he left this morning, but it will be closed from now on. You'll need this key card to open it to come in."

She opened a side drawer of the desk then and handed me a small stack of paper.

"These are copies of the credit card statements for the last year. I don't want you to look at these while you're here. Reba might see you and change what she's doing.

"Now, as for how you are to act while you're here, you will take your orders from Reba and you will not question them. You will also not tell her why you are here. All she will know is I have hired another driver for her. I saw the cigarettes on your desk, and any smoking you do will be done outside. Have I explained myself sufficiently, or do you have questions?"

I had to fight down the urge to tell her to go fuck herself, but that's what I was thinking. After careful consideration of what I was going to buy with what she paid me, I figured I'd just play it by ear and do what seemed right to me at the time. I folded the stack of paper and stuck it in my inside jacket pocket and put the key card in my hip pocket.

"No, I understand. All I need is for you to introduce me to Reba and tell her what I'm going to do for her."

Victoria's introduction of me to Reba took all of twenty seconds. She just walked me back to the kitchen and said, "Miz Mendoza, this is Mister Meers. He will be your driver until further notice." Then, she walked off. That walk still looked like she had a stick shoved up her ass.

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Reba waited until she heard a door close, and then turned to me and grinned.

"Are you gonna be as stuck up as she is and make me call you Mister Meers? I'll have to do that when she's around and you'll have to call me Miz Mendoza, but I'd rather you call me Reba when she's not. Do you have a first name?"

Well, right then I decided I liked Reba because she cut through all the shit and told me what she thought. That wasn't going to change my investigation, but it would make it a lot easier to do. I stuck out my hand.

"Just call me Harry. That's what everybody else calls me and I like it that way."

Reba shook my hand and then smiled.

"OK, Harry it is. So, you're gonna be my driver?"

I nodded.

"That's what the lady hired me to do. She also said I'm to take my orders from you. You got any orders for me?"

Reba grinned again.

"Just one for now. Her highness has her lunch in the dining room at noon every day except Wednesday when she eats lunch at her country club. She'll be having a salad with a glass of white wine. You'll have lunch with me here in the kitchen after I take hers to the dining room. I'm not much for salads because I do actual work. What do you like to eat for lunch? I'm a damned good cook, so you'll like it."

I liked Reba even more after that. I didn't miss her calling Victoria "her highness". Evidently she and I had the same opinion of Victoria.

It was still just ten, so I asked Reba to show me where her car was. I figured I'd check it out and maybe act like a real chauffeur and polish it a little like real chauffeurs do in the movies. Reba led me through a door in the kitchen, then down a hall, and finally into a four-car garage that looked more like Reba's kitchen than a garage.

There wasn't a drop of oil anywhere on the white, epoxy coated floor and the four stalls had low curbs built into the floor so you'd know when you were in far enough. There was a Mercedes Benz parked in the first stall and an SUV parked in the last stall. Against the wall opposite the garage doors was a small bench with a cabinet underneath and nothing on the polished maple top.

Reba noticed me staring and laughed.

"Looks like you could eat off the floor, doesn't it? Well, you probably could. When he's not driving Victoria around, one of Jamison's jobs is keeping the cars and the garage spotless. My car is the dark blue Escalade on the end. The black Mercedes is Victoria's car. The second space is for Mr. Worthington's red BMW. He does his own driving and he's at work right now. The third space is where their daughter, Gillian, parks her Volvo on the weekends. She stays at her sorority at Vanderbilt during the week."