Page 9 of An Unfinished Story
Chapter 4
DISTURBING THEPEACE
Whitaker Grant was on a Sunday-morning stakeout. Not the typical stakeout. And the absurdity had not been lost on him. He couldn’t hold on to a marriage or drop a lick of weight. He certainly couldn’t write another novel, but by God he would catch the man—or woman—responsible for not picking up dog poop in his neighborhood.
Wasting precious writing time, Whitaker hid behind tinted glass in the wayback of his aging Land Rover with his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars, watching for possible offenders in the park across the street. Since his divorce, he’d been living in a bachelorized house along Clymer Park in the tiny city of Gulfport, which bordered St. Petersburg. Lined with tall palms and oaks dripping Spanish moss, the park stretched for three blocks and featured lush gardens and local artists’ exhibits as part of an art walk.
Whitaker was still in his bathrobe, and an empty box of Cheerios lay by his side. Seeing an unfamiliar man walking a springer spaniel through the grass, Whitaker leaned in with intense scrutiny.
When the dog finally took a squat, Whitaker readied himself. What exactly he’d do once he found the culprit, he was unsure. But this had to stop. Such a grand crime cut Whitaker to his core. Three times. Not once! Not twice. Thrice, he’d gone for a stroll around the park in his efforts to shed the ten extra pounds that had sneaked up on him, only to step in the excrement of a dog with a negligent owner. That third time, as he’d hosed off the poop, he’d committed to find this person.
The action in the park slowed for a while. He noticed a cute woman Rollerblading and wondered what her story was. He hadn’t slept with a woman since his ex-wife, not that anyone would be surprised by that fact. Between his 1970s mustache and general disregard for style, he wasn’t exactly the catch he used to be. Some men weathered a divorce and then ran like wild horses toward the closest women. Whitaker’s divorce had only led him further into a lonely depression. A depression he was well aware of and disgusted by.
Whitaker glanced back at his little house, which was about all he had left after the settlement. Lisa had stayed in their mansion near the water, which was paid off courtesy of his novel. He’d asked for enough cash to buy a little house and to buy some time. Oh, and his wine. Considering he was the one who’d curated their robust collection, she hadn’t argued. She was always content with a glass of sauvignon blanc anyway. He’d moved the collection to a wine-storage facility on Fourth Street and visited every once in a while. Though sadly, since he’d lost his wife and his muse, there weren’t that many days worthy of popping corks on good bottles.
Still hungry, he pulled the bag of Cheerios out of the box and shook the crumbs into his mouth. He washed it down with the last of the lukewarm coffee in his travel mug. He always bought his beans from the same roaster in St. Pete, an establishment where the owners happened to be big fans of his writing. With the hazelnut hitting his taste buds, he tried not to think of what the owners would say about his recent habit of taking his coffee with an overly generous amount of creamer. Since the writer inside him had died, Whitaker’s love of subtlety in coffee and wine had perished as well.
A suspicious-looking man walking a mini-poodle—or at least a mini-something—strutted by Whitaker’s house. Was this the guy? The poop Whitaker had stepped in was more medium size, but Whitaker would be the first to admit he hadn’t mastered the proportions of dog size to poop size yet. Hopefully, his limited PI skills (PI standing forpoop investigation) would be enough to bring the perpetrator—or poopetrator—to justice.
Just when Whitaker thought he’d succeeded, the man extracted a bag from his back pocket, snapped it open with a shake, and reached down obediently to collect his dog’s droppings.
Whitaker cursed in disappointment.
A few minutes later, his phone rang. Without looking at the display, he knew exactly who it was and the purpose of the call. And he always picked up for his mom. She was one of his favorite people on earth.
“Hi, sweetie,” Sadie Grant said to her son. “I hope I’m not waking you.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’ve been writing all morning.”
In her typically jolly voice, she said, “Good for you. Well, I don’t want to disturb you—just making sure you’re coming over later.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, knowing there was no way out of this one.
“Honey, I know your sarcasm better than anyone. Don’t toy with me.”
Adjusting his position, he asked, “Why do you insist on everyone getting together when we don’t get along?”
“Oh, honey, who cares about a few hiccups along the way? We’re family. The Grants must stick together.”
Whitaker could see her pumping her fist in the air.The Grants must stick together!He imagined his entire family, every Grant in Florida, marching down Beach Boulevard chanting, “The Grants must stick together! The Grants must stick together!” As if they owned St. Pete before the Native Americans did.
“I think you’re confusing hiccups and hurricanes,” he said. “Besides, I really need to write, Mom.”
Whitaker scanned the park for more dogs.
“Don’t do that, Whitaker. It’s never the same without you.”
Whitaker sighed. “What time does it start again?”
Still happy as can be, his mother almost sang, “The bouncy castle should be operational by three. But come over anytime. Did you get a present for your nephew?”
“Of course I did,” Whitaker lied, wondering what he might find in the house worth wrapping. And where to find wrapping paper, tape, and ribbon.
“By the way, I just told your brother. We’re hiding the liquor. There’s plenty of beer and wine, but I don’t like having everyone hammered on liquor. It shows our bad side.”
“Bad side? We have a bad side?”
Her “Whitaker Grant” sounded like a reprimand. “I’ll see you at the party.”
