Monday, June 2, 2024. 

She entered the bar like a bad breakup song—smudged mascara, cherry lipstick, black leggings, stilettos, and an oversized sweatshirt. Like a poet without a rhyme. Said she’s been in town six weeks, I’d have guessed six hours. Said she writes smut novels I probably haven’t heard of. 

“Try me,” I dared. She wouldn’t give titles. Ordered tequila. Neat. I thought it was a bold choice, but I’ve mixed worse decisions before. 

She threw it back like a woman trying to forget her own name. That name? Tabitha Wesson. I noted a small birthmark in the shape of Belgium under her sharp jawline. 

Maybe that’s her real name. Maybe not. She paid her tab with plastic and was back at the Fourth Wall Lounge the next night. Looking more like a local. Lip gloss, dark hair in a messy bun, and a Temple University shirt she said she found at a thrift store. 

Ordered Rosé on a tab for “Tabitha Wiggins”. Sat at a table in the corner with a notebook and pen. Eyes shifting around the bar. 

“What happened to Ms. Wesson?” I asked, wiping down the bar as she approached for a refill. 

“I don’t know who that is,” she stated flatly. Took two large gulps from the refilled glass. Paid in cash. 

At her empty seat, I found the note. Folded twice, handwritten in blue ink. Not subtle. Coded enough to throw off the most basic intercepter.  

“Dear mr. malone, 

I heaRd you havE A flaiR for mysTery. never uSe my former name. They’re liStening. i wish to ask for youR assistance in finding my stalker. there are several whO might have a reaSon to track mE. i doN’t know who or how, But thEy keep following. i’m tiRed of startinG over in new cities. will you help me? 

-tw.”

If this woman were new to town and heard my name, it was likely she came from my old stomping grounds in Detroit. If someone tracked her down in Detroit, there weren’t many places they couldn’t track her down. And if she was talking to any of my old contacts in Detroit? That meant she was desperate. 

Back in my bachelor pad—a yurt behind the bowling alley—I searched for “Dire Arts” by T.S. Rosenberg. Sure enough, I found a romance novel steamy enough to fog the waiting room windows. Angel Ray, an illustrious adult film actress with a past as colorful as her résumé, becomes entangled in a brief but intense relationship with an obsessed fan-turned-stalker. Cliché, but I took notes. 

Predictably, Tabitha was back the next evening, blonde, wearing a black cocktail dress and smelling of Chanel. I asked whether the tab was under “Rosenberg”. She smirked sideways and looked at me through hooded eyes. Ordered a whisky sour for “Wiggins” using a smoky voice I barely recognized. If not for her Belgium-shaped birthmark, I might have thought she was a different woman altogether. Aside from writing, she said she was a freelance accountant. Handled high-profile business clients online. Offered to pay me handsomely for my assistance and bent forward to expose cleavage. I told her neither was necessary and continued shelving clean glassware under the bar. 

“Very well,” She pouted. “Name your price.”

“Your real name will do for a start,” I clipped. “And two hundred, even, but only if I solve your case,” I said, eyes narrowed. “Let’s not discuss here.”

“Where can I meet you?” She whispered, leaning in further. Trying to overwhelm me with cleavage and Chanel. She was barking up the wrong tree. I slid her tab across the bar on a beer-stained clipboard.

Lucky Strikes…$3.00 

Fifth Ave.…..$5.00 

Due…………$08:00

If she had good sense about her, I’d see her the next morning at the bowling alley. That early, we were likely to be the only patrons there, and I knew Chuck, the owner, was trustworthy.

Chuck, a man of few words, runs the Lucky Strike. Doesn’t get involved. Just stay behind the painted lines and return the shoes untied. Rents the corner of his lot to me where I keep my yurt. It might be a code violation. He doesn’t ask permission. 

Like clockwork, the blonde turned up at eight precisely, wearing pink yoga pants and that oversized sweatshirt from the first night at the bar. No makeup. Black purse swaying from one shoulder. Starbucks coffee in hand. The conversation went as follows:

“Mr. Mallone,” She nodded, sliding into the plastic seat to lace a pair of tan and burgundy rental shoes.  

“Ms. Rosenberg?” I raised a brow.

“Pen name.” 

“Enlighten me.” I tapped a golf pencil on the scoresheet.

“In due time, Mr. Mallone. I’m being stalked.”

“I gathered. Call me Jazz.

“Where you from?”

“Vegas,” too quickly.

“Where are you really from?” There was a pause. I wasn’t getting much from this woman to go on. Told me an obsessed fan from Dallas might be stalking her across the country, or a jealous ex from Sacramento might be tracking her, or perhaps her own mother had hired a private investigator. She couldn’t know for sure. 

“I value my independence, Jazz,” was the only explanation she gave. I moved on. 

“What’s your real name?” 

“Candice Cœur.” 

Nice try. Candy Heart was a character from Dire Arts. Yeah, I read it.

“Are you here to waste time, or do you actually want help?” I pressed, gentle but firm. She sauntered to the return, bowled a spare, and then sat down, pulling an expired ID from a stack of cards deep in her wallet. A dark-haired teenaged version of the blonde woman sitting next to me was pictured smiling next to the name Alice Goodine, from Wichita, Kansas.

Said she needed a place to lay low for a while and a landlord who accepts cash without questions. I smoothed my goatee. Contemplating. Against better judgment, I sent her to Chuck. Normally, I’m not in the habit of referring clients so close to home, but she seemed harmless enough. Keeping her close allowed me to gain a better read on her. 

“Tell him Jasper sent you,” I said as she swayed her hips toward the front desk.

“I knew I could trust you, Jazz,” she hummed over one shoulder. Eyes smoldering and voice registering lower. She left her coffee cup on our desk. Placed her rental shoes on the counter in front of Chuck, unlaced. I watched her posture change in real time. From hunched and guarded, to confident and flirty. Dug out the vape from my breast pocket and took a few puffs, observing Tabitha Wiggins seduce my friend Chuck into letting her sign a lease. I had to chuckle. This case was going to be interesting.

Back in my yurt, I puffed on the vape. It helps me think. My trusty HP laptop came to life with a sound like a lawnmower. The string of twinkle lights overhead dimmed from the extra strain on the extension cord. 

I began with a simple search of Alice’s aliases using a VPN. 

“Alice Goodine” had a Facebook account that hadn’t been updated since 2015. 

“Tabitha Wesson” returned a LinkedIn and a business page for freelance accounting. 

“TS Rosenberg”, a self-published author, had a series of six dark romance novels. 

Found a TS Rosenberg fan page, run by someone called Alexander. Seemed obsessed. Had photos of TS at a few different book signing events and one from her LinkedIn profile.

Tabitha had no family links, no relationship updates. No socials under known aliases. I wasn’t learning much. Figured it was worthwhile to shell out $20 from a burner account to see what “exclusive fan club” information I might glean from Alexander. Could be valuable, especially if they were Tabitha’s stalker. I’d cancel before next month. 

Added “Sacramento” to my search. Boom.

Marcus Chesterfield v. Washoe County.

Now I was getting somewhere. Marcus (28), of Sacramento, CA, was charged in Reno, NV, in May of ‘21 for domestic violence against Theresa Weston (25), of Las Vegas, NV. According to the report, she was pregnant at the time of the incident. Where is the child now? 

I sat with my vape pen and questions at the bottom of the steps in the sun outside the Lucky Strike. Tabitha stepped out of an Uber with a single suitcase rolling behind her. I offered to lug it upstairs. 

“The name Marcus mean anything to you?” She stiffened. Told me he was after money she never owed him. 

“What about the—”

“Mifepristone. I couldn’t have it. Not there.” I apologized for the intrusion. 

Marcus had motive, but not likely means. If it was money he was after, he didn’t have it to trail Tabitha, or Theresa, or whomever she was to him. 

A travel tag on her case read: DAL to DTW—Dallas to Detroit, 8/15/23. So, she was in Detroit. Who was she in Dallas? 

The place wasn’t much. One main room. Kitchen appliances in the corner. A small bathroom tucked in next to a closet big enough for a single bed. Smoke detector missing a battery. It was probably a code violation—Chuck didn’t ask permission. Everything was brown. I preferred my cozy yurt to this. To each their own.  

I asked about her mother. Still in Kansas. Hasn’t spoken to her since 2015. No surprises there. Said she left home to make it big in Hollywood. Don’t they all? 

“Why not go back?” I tried next. 

“Nothing for me there but a domineering mother, a drunk step-dad, and a nine-to-five and the Piggly Wiggly,” she replied. Fair enough. This woman—whoever she was—had been hurt before, by a few men who were close. Why did she trust me? Why now? Which of my contacts in Detroit sent her here? 

I offered to help her move in some furnishings from secondhand shops. She said she’ll order it all online and have it delivered. I’ll give up vaping if she stays here until her lease is up. 

Tossed a book at me from her suitcase. A signed copy of Forbidden Lust, by TS Rosenberg. Thanks, I guess. I had to get ready to open the Fourth Wall Lounge. Stashed the book in the yurt. Changed my vest. Refreshed my deodorant. Tied my hair in a bun. Changed the vape cartridge. Cherry Vanilla Pop.

Sure enough, Tabitha showed again wearing an Eagles shirt and black jeans. Ordered a Manhattan. On the rocks. Extra cherry. Sat in the back, typing on a MacBook. Stayed until close working on that seventh smut novel. I offered to walk her home. The tab she had open on the screen before she snapped the lid closed was a PayPal account under the name Alexa Clemens. I didn’t want to pry, but she was asking for my help. Mentally filed the name as possibly another alias. 

I tossed. Turned. Couldn’t sleep. Cracked open Forbidden Lust and began skimming. 

Tall man, pretty woman, tireless thrusts, breathy moans, —it was standard smut with no creative twists. Candy Heart, an escort from Dallas, falls in love with a client, Rich Haffort, against every policy she had. This was not my typical genre, so I flipped ahead toward the end. Candy was searching for a way out. Her John was looking for her, she was ignoring calls from her former clients, and the name Rich was absent from every page. Now that was interesting. 

I set the book aside and my HP screen illuminated the yurt. One unread E-mail: Alexander, founder of the TS Rosenberg fan page. Sent three hours ago. He returned a personalized message of gratitude and a receipt for my payment to the user, “Alexa Clemens”. 

This was precious. 

Delivery trucks woke me the next morning. First came the high-end furnishing store: couch, table, chairs, bed frame, mattress. I wasn’t sure if the movers could pivot the large sectional up those narrow stairs, let alone how all of that furniture would fit in Tabitha’s little room. Next, United Parcel delivered four large boxes and seven smaller parcels up those stairs. A mail truck brought two more boxes just ahead of a Door Dash delivery. 

I looked around my yurt, blowing a cloud of vapor with a low whistle. I made decent cash shaking out cocktails and wiping tables. Occasionally, I’d get paid for solving a case in my spare time. Tabitha, whoever she was, appeared to be running one hell of a side hustle. I decided to pay her a visit. 

Tabitha answered the door holding an Allen wrench. She was wearing a pair of blue overalls and appeared to be assembling her bed frame. I offered to lend a hand in exchange for some of her Door Dash pizza. She was happy to accommodate.

I tightened the bolts. She handed over a slice of pie on a white paper plate. I casually asked what she knew about Alexander Clemens. 

“He’s just a fan,” Tabitha shrugged on one of the couch sections. 

“The one who might be stalking you?”

“Maybe.” 

“Are you his accountant?” 

“Not exactly,” she squirmed.  

“You’re Alexa,” I deadpanned. Not a question. She didn’t deny it. Wanted to know how I found her out. Tabitha Wesson’s LinkedIn photo on TS Rosenberg’s fan site. And the PayPal tell. 

It’s not Alexander or Marcus. That leaves her mother as the most plausible stalker. But why? 

Days turned into weeks. Tabitha Wiggins frequented the bar. Tried on drinks like outfits. Typed on her MacBook at the corner table. I kept an eye out for suspicious activity—either by the woman or someone who might have been watching her. I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. 

A man showed up in week five dressed in slacks and sweaters from J.Crew and L.L.Bean. Caught an eye for Tabitha. He asked me to mix another “whatever the hottie in the corner was drinking”. All said and done, he turned out to be a hapless local named Taylor who thought he had a chance. Tabitha laughed him out of the bar. Not rich enough for her taste. She was after men who wore Italian designers, not middle-class knockoffs. I suspected she needed money that could travel. Not money tied to a 401k. 

My next big break came after a month of quiet rhythm. I was beginning to think Tabitha had finally thrown her stalker—if she had been truthful about having one. Tabitha paid in cash after using the Wesson card on the first night. Then one night she left a shiny card with her tab by the name “Rebecca Dillon”.

I whispered that I knew this wasn’t her card. Technically, I could run it, but morally—

“That’s my legal name,” she murmured in my ear. I wasn’t sure. She flashed me a new ID with her photo and Rebecca Dillon, of 27 Fifth Avenue, apt 2. I let this one go, for now. Looked up the name later, not expecting to find much. It’s common. The kind of name you adopt when you’re looking to stay lost in a crowd. 

Found one Rebecca Dillon with mutual friends from Detroit. Wasn’t Tabitha. Profile said she owns a bakery on the east end. 

Small business owner. Maybe the kind that hires a freelance accountant to file their taxes. I’d have to think on this some more. In the meantime, I texted my buddy Zap to tip off Rebecca to be careful.

Another two months. No leads. No sign of a stalker either. Until there was. 

A woman in a ball cap and sunglasses approached me early into my shift at the Fourth Wall. Before Tabitha usually showed. Ordered a Bloody Mary. Virgin. 

“You know any regulars goes by the name ‘Wesson’?” She asked, voice scratchy. Kept the shades on even in the dim lighting under the bar. She was a woman on a mission.

“Been a long time since I heard that name,” I answered. “What’s it to you?” I continued wiping out a stein with the bar rag, pretending not to be too interested. The woman opened her wallet and showed me a senior portrait of Alice, then a fuzzy close up on her Belgium-shaped birthmark.

“Bit older now. Seen anyone resembling her?”

“Ma’am, I see lots of folks come and go. But I’ll keep an eye out. Is she in trouble or something?”

“Depends. You got any kids?” The woman changed the subject.

“Nope.” 

“Well, you can surely understand the ache of a parent missing their child, can’t you?” 

“Sure, can. Any good parent would want to know where their kid is,” I reasoned.

“My client wants her little girl back.”  

I had a dilemma. With a single nod of confirmation, I could unravel Tabitha’s entire mythos before she could pick up her next Door Dash order. But should I? Again, what was it to me? The woman left me with her business card, in case I suddenly remembered anything about Wesson or Wiggins.

One minute after five, Tabitha strolled into the Fourth Wall wearing pumps and her computer bag swung on one shoulder. I slid her a rum and coke across the bar on top of the private investigator’s card. Rebecca thanked me for the drink, sat calmly at her corner table working, and paid her tab in cash, along with a $200 check. I never saw her again. 

Three weeks after her disappearance, I finally received my TS Rosenberg fan club certificate. Signed by Alice Goodine and sealed with a cherry red lipstick kiss. 

I never cashed the check. Didn’t want to know whether it would bounce. Sometimes, I like to keep a little bit of the mystery alive.