Written by RF Wilson – Ice cubes swirled in the clear brown liquid. I lifted the glass, took a sip. I’d seen a lot in my day. Nothing shocked me anymore. Surprised, maybe. But no shock. Until Mildred Bloomingthal came into the saloon.

First: No one would expect Mildred to enter, ever, the Lamppost Tavern.

Second: She sat on the stool next to me.

“People said I’d find you here, Harry.”

“Safe bet on a Friday afternoon.”

“I understand it’s a safe bet any day.”

“Touché.”

“They also say you’re the one I should talk to about Earl.”

“Shall we go to a booth?” I asked.

“Thank you, yes.”

“And may I buy you a drink? It being Friday afternoon and all.”

“A Brandy Alexander would be nice.”

We got our drinks and moved out of whispering distance from the bar. The place would soon be full with the Friday night crowd, those about whom Billy Joel crooned.

Mildred was not a bad-looking dame. In her fifties, like me; well-preserved, unlike me.   Classmates at Dalton High, we ran in different circles. She was class president, Merit Scholarship winner, editor of the school paper. I graduated.

Mildred began. “I want you to find out who Earl is seeing.”

High school sweethearts, married since they finished college. Pillars of the community. He was a partner in the city’s most prestigious law firm. On the board of the hospital, community college, etc. As far as I knew, Mildred never worked outside the home. Raised three kids, volunteered everywhere.

“What makes you think he’s seeing someone?”

“I wasn’t, as the saying goes, born yesterday.”

“That’s not very helpful,” I said. “But, say he is. Why me?”

“Because, Harry, you still have a good reputation as a detective.”

I noted the qualifier. I used to drink a lot, burned many bridges. Tried AA. Didn’t take. But as I got older, getting drunk got harder. Now, three drinks, I’m good.

“I appreciate that. But, I’m pretty much retired. Why not see my partner?”

“Charlie? He’s a kid.”

“Forty-five.”

“Charlie doesn’t know who’s who around this town like you do. Who’s safe to talk to, who’s not.”

She reached over the table and put a hand on mine. Her eyes misted over. “I don’t want to lose him, Harry. I can’t bear the thought. You have to help me. I don’t know what I’m up against.”

I followed Earl from his home to work, sat outside his office building, feeding a meter till he came out at 3:00. He walked to the downstairs entrance of the Johnson House, an old downtown hotel with a saloon and a shoe-shine stand on its lower level. After two days of this, I planted myself in the hotel lobby at 3:05. At 3:10, I watched the old-timey floor indicator show the elevator stopping on the fourth floor. Clever man, avoiding the lobby.

The next day, I stationed myself near the fourth floor elevator. When Harold got off, I glanced down at my cell phone as I stepped on the elevator, then back out as if I’d forgotten something. I watched him let himself into room 417.

Ten years ago, five dollars would have gotten me most anything I wanted to know from the front desk.

Now, these kids go to college to learn how be hospitable, consider themselves professionals. They were not, however, angels.

I waited until the clerk was alone. Her name badge read “Helen McLaughlin.”

“Helen. I need your help,” I said, smiling, holding my hand palm down on the counter with a ten-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers. “Who’s in room 417?”

She looked around as if for help, or to make sure no one was in hearing distance.

I turned my palm slightly so the bill was more visible.

She leaned toward me. “She’s registered as Mabel Kinsey.” Her voice held something unsaid.

“But?”

Helen leaned closer. “It’s Mildred Bloomingthal.”

I must have looked, well, surprised.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Helen said. “She comes in every day about two; leaves about four.”

After I’d greeted the couple outside the door to room 417 at 4:00 the next day, we sat over drinks in the Jackson House bar.

“You are good, Harry,” Mildred said. “We really thought it would take longer.”

“The love life had gotten stale,” Earl said. “We thought if we did something clandestine, sneaking around, that would be fun. Then Mildred said, what if we had someone try to find us? Forgive us, Harry. Won’t you,?”

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RF Wilson writes in Asheville, NC, where he lives with his wife, Beth Gage. He is the author of the novel, “Killer Weed,” recently published by Pisgah Press. His short story, “Accident Prone,” appears in the anthology “Carolina Crimes” published by Wildside Press, which has been nominated for an Anthony Award as Best Mystery Anthology of the Year.