by Ron Katz
This mystery short story was originally published on the Sleuthing Silvers website.
“Who just called?” asked Bernie Silver of his wife, Barb.
“Mr. Spam again,” she responded. “This time a realtor asking if we were interested in selling our home.”
They lived in a quiet area of Palo Alto, California, the heart of Silicon Valley. They were semi-retired after careers as investigators for Alpha Insurance Company, sipping some champagne on their pool deck to celebrate Barb’s 69th birthday. Given their ages, they now mainly investigated cases where, as the motto of their firm, Silver Investigations, stated, “age is an edge.”
“I should know better than to answer an unknown number, especially on our landline,” she said, “but the screen showed that the calling number had our area code. I guess old habits die hard—it could have been a new investigation.”
“I hope you didn’t sell our home,” he said. “I kinda like it here, even though I read the other day that Baby Boomers aging in place are part of the reason younger people can’t buy homes: Boomers are living longer, which means fewer homes on the market and higher prices because of the low supply.”
“Guilty as charged,” she said, “but doesn’t everybody age in place?”
“Technically you’re right,” he said. “Everybody ages in a place, but I don’t think Boomers are going to win this argument on a technicality. Oops, sounds like the landline again. I’ll get it, although we haven’t received a meaningful call on it for at least five years.”
“Yes,” she answered, “but, in case of nuclear war, we’ll be among the few who can make calls.”
“The main problem,” he said, heading toward their kitchen phone, “is that the only people we could call are the dozen or so senior citizens who still have landlines.”
***
Upon picking up the phone and hearing the voice of his former boss at Alpha, Al Jordan, Bernie said, “Uh, oh, I don’t think you’re calling to wish Barb a happy 69th.”
“No,” responded Al, “mainly because I thought she was 49.”
“What a relief that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Whattaya got for us? Keep in mind that age has to be an edge.”
“Believe me, you and Barb are usually my last choice. In order to feed all these Millennial mouths on my staff, I’m economically pressured to keep them busy. But your little age niche works well here.”
“How’s that?”
“Read the article at the bottom of page D6 of today’s New York Times and you’ll see. Then, how about lunch tomorrow?”
“Ok,” said Bernie. “One other question: why’d you call on the landline?”
“It is a novelty,” Al said, “but truth is, I like the security of it. Have you had the experience, for example, of talking on your cell phone about something—say a trip to Hawaii—and then all of a sudden your email is flooded with Hawaii advertisements?”
“Privacy does appear to be quite rare these days,” said Bernie, “which is why I enjoy being a private detective.”
“Also,” said Al, “I often get the feeling that people are doing other things when they’re talking to me on their cell phones, like walking through a mall or using the bathroom. People can’t do too much else when talking on their landlines.”
Looking around the small alcove off the kitchen where the Silvers’ landline resided, Bernie agreed. “You’re right, Al. I can’t even turn around where I am. Maybe next time I’ll call you on your landline.”
“Had to get rid of it,” Al responded. “I was tired of my kids making fun of it.”
***
“’How much do I love thee? Let me count the days,’’’ intoned Bernie, as he returned to the patio, holding a copy of the New York Times.
“Not your typical Times headline,” observed Barb. “What’s up?”
“Al wanted us to read this article, something about a possible new case,” replied Bernie.
“Great! I always wanted to investigate the nineteenth-century sonnet, “How Do I Love Thee,’ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” she responded.
“Ah, the joys of being married to an English major,” said Bernie. “However, the article’s about something quite a bit more modern than that,” he said. “Have you heard of The Golden Bachelor?”
“Vaguely. Some reality TV show has been on for years featuring 20 or so women pursuing a bachelor or 20 or so men pursuing a bachelorette. I watched one episode on a plane years ago, and have regretted that waste of time to this day. The show’s set-up seemed cheesy and not particularly believable. But I have to admit that many people—including my cousin Stephanie, who otherwise seems quite normal—seem to enjoy it.”
“Well,” Bernie said, “apparently their ratings were going down, so they recruited a senior citizen—the so-called Golden Bachelor—to be romanced by 20 other senior citizens in order to prove, quoting the article, ‘…that invigorating love stories can unfold later in life.’”
“With all due respect to invigoration,” she said, “I’m not sure we’d want to be investigating that.”
“Agreed, but there are some other facts in the article that might cause someone to want to hire private detectives. Like it appears that the Golden Bachelor, a chap named Gerry Turner, might’ve been a fraud. He claimed to have had no romantic relationships since his wife of 43 years died several years ago, but there was an article in The Hollywood Reporter quoting a woman who said she had lived with him for some time since the death of his wife. When asked about that report, according to the Times, Mr. Turner said that ‘he had given the article only a ‘cursory look’ and could not speak to its accuracy.”
“The old non-denial denial,” observed Barb.
“And, there’s more,” added Bernie, with the breathless dramatic effect of the voiceover in a late-night TV ad. ”Here’s the connection to the famous poetry quote in the headline—Gerry Turner did marry one of the contestants, a 70-year old financial adviser named Teresa Nist, and they’re now getting divorced.”
“Lots of people get divorced,” she said. ”Not a federal crime last time I checked.”
“Not a crime, I agree,” he said, “but they got divorced after only three months.”
“Fraud generates a marriage, which then ends in a quickie divorce,” she mused. “There’s a lot of manure there, so there must be a pony somewhere.”
“I agree,” said Bernie, “especially since neither Gerry nor Teresa consented to be interviewed by the Times. In fact, they still seem to be pushing elder inspiration. According to the article, Teresa said on Good Morning America ’Don’t give up. We say stay in it, stay hopeful, because we are.’”
“Hopeful for what,” queried Barb, “a 90-day marriage after a fraudulent courtship on national television?”
“Dunno,” replied Bernie. “I’ve had indigestion that’s lasted longer than their marriage.”
“Al said he’d reveal all at lunch tomorrow. In the meantime, why don’t we do a little research by streaming a few Golden Bachelor episodes tonight.”
“I’m not going to watch people humiliate themselves on national TV ‘til Al starts paying us,” she said.
“You’re right again,” he responded. “Age will definitely not be an edge if a goofy TV show puts me to sleep.”
“Dreaming, no doubt,” she said, “about how you might be the next Golden Bachelor.”
***
“This must be a thorny case for us to rate this place for lunch,” said Bernie, as they waited for Al Jordan to arrive. The Fog Harbor Fish House on Pier 39 in San Francisco has beautiful bay views and award-winning clam chowder.
“I don’t have a good feeling about it,” agreed Barb. “Age may give us an edge in some situations, but it also lowers my threshold of disgust.”
“You’re in the wrong business, my dear,” said Bernie.
“I agree. I’m not taking this case unless there’s some sort of plus factor.”
“Helping lonely older women avoid fraudsters?” he asked.
“Speak of the devil,” she said, looking over Bernie’s shoulder as Al Jordan approached. He was a well-dressed, if somewhat paunchy man in late middle age, in a conservative suit accented by a white silk pocket square.
“My favorite golden married couple,” he said.
“Too bad they don’t make TV shows about that,” responded Barb. “Contentment is too boring, I guess.”
“Happiness apparently doesn’t sell,” said Al. “But, as you’ll see at lunch, there’s a big market for chicanery, leading to marriage, and then leading simultaneously to both world fame and infamy.”
“Let’s not discuss that before the clam chowder,” said Bernie, as they headed to their corner view table, which seemed to be suspended over San Francisco Bay.
***
As they sipped their espressos after a satisfying meal, Al said, “You may wonder why I asked you here?”
“Indeed,” said Bernie, “how did a respectable insurance company like Alpha get tangled up with a tawdry show like The Golden Bachelor?”
“If we took only virtuous clients,” replied Al, “we wouldn’t be writing many insurance policies. You could say that our clients need insurance because they aren’t 100% virtuous.
“In this case, perhaps the Bachelor/Bachelorette TV series are not the most wholesome fare, but they have been very profitable for a very respectable production company that is one of Alpha’s best clients. The programs, for example, have the contestants doing a lot of extreme adventures, which leads to many injuries, which leads to pricey insurance policies.”
“But we’re not here because someone broke a leg in a motorcycle accident,” said Barb. “In fact, many people our age are well past their extreme adventure stage.”
“If they ever had one,” added Bernie.
“You’re right that no one broke a leg,” continued Al. “But it seems that the Golden Bachelor broke a heart because he was not honest about his background.”
“Many bachelors aren’t,” said Barb. “I’m not seeing how this leads to an insurance claim.”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” said Al. “That’s why I need the help of my Golden Detectives.
“One of the losing contestants on the Golden Bachelor, a competitive rower and rowing coach named Mara Jepson, has brought a $10 million lawsuit against our production company client for fraud. She’s gone so far as to publish a book about her experience of being humiliated on national TV by competing, on false pretenses, for the affections of the GB.”
“Out of idle curiosity,” asked Barb, “what is the title of her book, which, no doubt, will be a bestseller?”
“The Golden Baloney,” said Al. “This lady knows their vulnerabilities.”
***
That evening, Barb and Bernie were still trying to absorb what Al had told them when they began watching—at their hourly rate—The Golden Bachelor.
The first episode consisted of flamboyant entrances by the 21 contestants, most saying something suggestive to the 72-year-old fit and attractive bachelor, Gerry Turner. In turn, he said something encouraging to them, along the lines of how interesting and attractive they were and how he couldn’t wait to get to know them better.
“Most of his lines could have come out of a dating manual for high school kids,” observed Barb. “How could anyone fall for this stuff, even if they were the only person he was dating, let alone one out of 21?”
“It does seem like he was scripted,” said Bernie, “perhaps by someone who writes bad romance novels.
“But the women were no better, sashaying around and uttering lines that would have ended up on the cutting room floor of a raunchy romantic comedy. How about a drink before we watch episode two?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m going to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. This assignment—and it’s not yet clear what Al wants us to do—is, I am sure, not for me.”
“The whole thing’s more than a little creepy,” agreed Bernie, “but no worse than some of our other assignments–impersonating deceased people, for example. Besides, this program is a cultural phenomenon, watched by millions. We need to stay current, plus we made a deal with Al that we’d watch it—need I remind you—at a very generous hourly rate.”
“If this trash keeps us current,” Barb responded, “I’d prefer to live in the past.”
***
The other episodes went by in a slow-motion blur. Romantic dates on mountaintops, near waterfalls, on motorcycles and going down zip lines in tropical valleys were punctuated by Turner saying things like “I’m not looking for the woman I want to live with; I’m looking for the woman who I can’t live without.“ The women were equally corny, rhapsodizing over Gerry’s “integrity” and their “connection” to him.
“This guy must be the world’s greatest salesman,” lamented Bernie. “I see how you can have a ‘connection,’ whatever that is, but how can you date 21 women and have ‘integrity’?”
“Not to speak of the on-camera make-out sessions,” added Barb. “I’m embarrassed just to watch, even with my own husband.”
Gradually the twenty-one female contestants were winnowed down, by way of an excruciating rose ceremony. Those staying in the competition get a rose, after which the otherwise genial host intones to the rejects, in a hushed voice appropriate for the funeral of a young person, “Ladies, I’m sorry, but, if you did not receive a rose, please take a moment and say your good-byes.”
“I agree that’s bad,” said Bernie, “but, unfortunately, it gets worse. How about those hometown visits?”
“Meeting the families of several contestants, all but one of which will be eliminated,” echoed Barb.
“And in each family, someone takes the GB aside and extracts a promise that he will not hurt their relative, who is very vulnerable from some trauma like the death of a spouse or a divorce.”
“Beyond the hometown visits, the finals are the worst,” continued Bernie. “Intimate evenings in a row in some exotic setting with the two finalists, one of which will be left in the lurch after hearing numerous false promises.
“And, when he’s confronted by the loser with his false promises, his defense is that the promises were true at the time he made them.”
“What a novel concept,” said Barb: “short-term integrity. I am not going to help Al and Alpha defend this lawsuit in any way shape or form.”
“You can tell him tomorrow in person,” said Bernie, looking at his phone. “He’s just texted an invitation us to his office at 9 for what he calls ‘an important meeting that will explain everything.’”
***
Waiting for Al Jordan the next morning in Alpha’s conference room in the Transamerica Building, Bernie said to Barb, “Break it to Al gently that we’re not doing this investigation. He’s given us many good assignments, and, by trying to give us this one—whatever it is—he’s just doing his job.”
“So, what you’re saying,” she responded, “is that my plan to say, ‘There is no way on earth that we’re taking this morally wrong assignment to protect the producer of a program that degrades women and encourages male frauds’ should be toned down.”
As Bernie nodded agreement, Al walked into the room with an attractive 70-year-old woman in a designer track suit, who looked like she worked out every day. Her relatively unwrinkled face was framed by well-coiffed ash blond curly locks.
“Mara,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to two of my top investigators—Barb and Bernie Silver—who specialize in cases where their age gives them an edge. Barb and Bernie, please meet Mara Jepson, a competitive rower and rowing coach, who was one of the unsuccessful contestants on The Golden Bachelor show. She’s been a widow for ten years.”
Recovering from her surprise, Barb said, “We must be in the wrong place. We thought we were coming here for a meeting about your insured, The Golden Bachelor, not the woman who’s suing for $10 million.”
“The TV show is our insured,” said Al, “but we have some serious questions about whether our insured intentionally ignored Gerry Turner’s misrepresentations about his past. If the TV show’s harm is self-inflicted, Alpha does not have to defend against Mara’s $10 million lawsuit.”
“I’m not seeing how we can help,” said Bernie, “and we are very uncomfortable with the whole situation.”
“Oh, you can help, Mr. and Mrs. Silver, you can,” said Jepson between sobs. “I need your help to get back my self-esteem and to make sure what happened to me does not happen to anyone else.”
Jordan placed on the conference table an edition of The Hollywood Reporter and said, “Why don’t you take a look at the article I’ve marked in this edition?
“Then,” gesturing at the conference room’s plate glass window that faced the office’s reception area, he added, “come to my office, where we can have more privacy.”
Al and Mara left the room.
The Silvers sat in silence for a few moments, and then Bernie said “I missed the part of your speech about not being a part of degrading women and encouraging male frauds.”
“Very funny,” she said with a grimace. “Al’s the head of investigations here for a reason. Among other things, he knows how to throw a curve ball. I’m guessing the assignment’s different from what we thought, so let’s read the article and then see what he has in mind.”
***
They marched into Jordan’s office about a half hour later. Bernie held up The Hollywood Reporter, and said, “We agree with you, Al. I don’t see how Gerry Turner could have put this over on anyone, especially sophisticated Hollywood suits.”
“According to the article,” continued Barb, “far from being a grieving widower who hadn’t been kissed in years, he had been living with someone in a small town—Hudson, Indiana. He had started dating this person one month after his wife died. This would have to have been Gossip Topic A in this small town, which the TV show could have found out with even a superficial investigation.”
“That’s not the worst of it from my point of view,” said Jepson, no longer sobbing, but still dabbing her eyes. “He was billed by the people who recruited me as a ‘retired restaurateur,’ which sounds a lot better than what The Hollywood Reporter article stated: that he owned a Mr. Quick hamburger drive-in that he sold in 1985, and, after that, he was a hot tub installer and a maintenance man at a mental health center.”
“Would knowing that have made a difference to you, Mara?” Barb inquired gently.
“Absolutely,” Jepson responded, starting to sob again. “My late husband was a psychologist, who, coincidentally, worked at a mental health center. I have been very lonely in the ten years since his death, but I wouldn’t have been at all interested in a fraud like Turner.
“More importantly, given his background, I think Gerry’s true economic circumstances are why I lost this stupid competition. It’s fair to assume that he was looking for some financial security, so it was no coincidence that he chose to marry Teresa Nist, a successful financial adviser.”
“Considering their 90-day marriage,” said Bernie, “I’d say that, in a way, you were lucky.”
“Not at all, Mr. Silver, because, if I had known the truth, I would never have humiliated myself by participating in this fraudulent show. My friends warned me against it, but I was desperate.
“I had been alone for 10 years after a happy marriage of 35. I had experienced a number of comically mismatched dates arranged by well-meaning friends. Then, I went on the dating apps, where men 20 years older than me were looking for women 30 years younger than me. And most of those men were married.”
“I still don’t see how we can help,” said Bernie. “The scam is over and done, and the show’s producers and the Golden Divorced Couple are all keeping quiet.”
Barb added, “I’d be surprised if all the incriminating evidence had not been destroyed, leaving the show’s producers free to say that they were taken in by Gerry Turner, along with millions of other people, who thought he was Mr. Golden Perfect.”
“I agree with all that,” said Al. “but what we have in mind is an undercover operation. The Golden Bachelor was so successful that there will be a female senior citizen sequel, The Blonde Bachelorette.”
“If I have to pose as one of the competitors for the Blonde Bachelorette’s affections,” said Bernie, with a not quite straight face, “I guess I’d be willing to make the sacrifice.”
“What we have in mind for you, Bernie,” said Al, “is some undercover, background work in Hudson, Indiana. The key to cracking this case, however, is Barb being willing to compete to be the Blonde Bachelorette. That way she can see whether the producers are willing to accept problematic backgrounds from her competitors.”
“I don’t think I qualify,” said Barb, fingering her salt-and-pepper hairdo.
For the first time, Jepson smiled. “No problem, Mrs. Silver. Let me introduce you to my hairdresser, and you’ll never look back.”
“Hmmm,” mused Barb. “Why do bachelors get to be ‘golden’ while bachelorettes have to be ‘blonde?’”
“Just another reason to take this case,” said Al. “You will show them that they shouldn’t judge a blonde by her hair color.”
“What about the reliability of The Hollywood Reporter,” queried Bernie. “It’s not exactly the Bible.”
“Nobody has denied anything in the article,” answered Al, “so we are taking it as the gospel.”
“Assuming I agree, against my better judgment, to take this, uh, unusual assignment,” said Barb, “what exactly is the kind of fakery among the contestants that I’m supposed to be uncovering?”
“We don’t know,” said Al. “Figuring things like that out is why you make the big bucks.”
***
Three weeks later, after submitting a detailed application with numerous come-hither photos, Barb was selected to interview in the semi-finals of the competition to become the Blonde Bachelorette.
She was sitting in the spacious library of a mansion on a fifty-acre estate in a semi-rural area outside of San Diego. The mansion had been rented by the TV show. It had 40 rooms; three exotically shaped swimming pools; and six hot tubs, one under a ledge, from which, at the touch of a switch, a waterfall would materialize.
“So sorry about your late husband, Mrs. Callen,” said Kevin McAndrews, the ultra-charming, if somewhat syrupy, host of The Blonde Bachelorette. He looked like Mr. America, his huge muscles seeming to burst out of his bespoke Italian suit. In fact, as a champion weightlifter, he had won the Mr. America Pageant fifteen years earlier.
“Please call me Barb,” said Mrs. Callen, a made-over version of Barb Silver. She had a resume’ created by an artificial intelligence program that had scoured the backgrounds of all females who had ever appeared as TV bachelorettes sought after by male contestants or who had been contestants competing for a TV bachelor, including the Golden Bachelor. She featured ash blond hair; a black, sleeveless lace blouse; white linen pants; and a resume that said she was a real estate broker, dealing primarily in expensive homes in Westchester, New York.
Everything about her was different except her first name, which, when she was undercover, she always kept. That way, if her name was suddenly called by someone, she could respond normally without having to think about it.
“How about a cup of coffee, Barb? We have this fancy Italian espresso machine that our guests all love.”
“I’d prefer a glass of wine, if you don’t mind,” said Barb, crossing her legs. “Talking about my late husband makes me nervous.”
“I understand why wine helps, even if it’s only 2 p.m.,” said McAndrews, opening a cabinet behind him and pulling out a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape 1964.
“I’m from New York,” said Barb. “It’s 5 there.”
“Why does talking about your late husband make you nervous?”
“Well, for one, I’m in an interview attempting to get an audition to become the Blonde Bachelorette. That’s not exactly the image of a grieving widow.”
“Are you a grieving widow?”
“I can be.”
“Have you had an active social life since your husband’s death.”
“Depends on how you define ‘active.’”
“That’s an interesting way to put it,” said McAndrews, “considering that the point of the show is to demonstrate that people of a certain age are still capable of romantic love.”
“Oh,” said Barb, brightening. “Then I’m definitely in the running.”
“But not too capable,” said McAndrews, “if you know what I mean. Speaking of which,” he continued, appearing to change the subject, “New Yorkers are sometimes intimidating. Do you think that that would be a problem for the men who are trying to romance you?”
“Yes, but, having been single for the last ten years, I can do demure, if that is what’s called for.”
“But, again,” he responded, “not too demure. What would you say if I told you that you might be put into some sexual situations during the course of the show?”
“That’s pretty much what I’d expect from a show called The Blonde Bachelorette.”
“Perhaps, but it’s one thing to expect it and quite another to experience it with multiple suitors.”
“Men don’t seem to have that problem,” responded Barb. “So, let me just say that it is what it is.”
“OK, we’ll be finishing our initial screenings next week, and I’ll be in touch then to let you know if you make the finals. That would mean another week here of mental and physical tests. Without pre-judging anything, I will say I like your flexibility.”
“Great,” she exclaimed. “’Like many women of a certain age who have been alone for years, ‘Flexibility’ is my middle name.”
***
Eight days later, Barb got an email from McAndrews, sent to the account she’d set up for Barb Callen. The subject line contained just one word: “FLEXIBILITY.”
The message was equally direct: “I look forward to seeing you in two weeks, Barb,” followed by the password to get through the gate of the estate, plus three heart emojis.
***
Two weeks later, Barb and Bernie were at San Francisco Airport eating takeout sushi before their respective flights to San Diego and to Fort Wayne, Indiana.
“You owe me for this one,” he said. “Hudson, Indiana vs. an estate outside San Diego is no contest.”
“Makes up for some other times,” she rejoined, “like when I was buried under pounds of makeup to make me look 90 in the Deadly Donations investigation and you were at UC Berkeley chit-chatting with an art history professor. Remind me, what is your itinerary?”
“SF to Chicago,” he replied, “and then a puddle jumper to Fort Wayne. From there, Hudson’s a fairly short drive: I-69 north, left on State Route 4, and you can’t miss it.”
“Unless you blink,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “See you in a bit. Keep your cell phone on.”
“Will do,” he said. “Don’t be too flexible. Aren’t you going to be cold on the plane in that sleeveless blouse?”
“I have a sweater,” she said, “but it’ll be warm in San Diego, and, if I’m going to be evaluated like a piece of meat, I may as well show off one of my best features, my tanned, toned arms.”
“They look even better than usual,” said Bernie, admiringly. “I noticed you bought some device for toning them from Amazon.”
“I did buy a device from Amazon, but that’s a business expense. I tone them the old-fashioned way, by working out.”
“Business expense?” he queried.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m banking that women of a certain age competing in a beauty contest will be concerned about their arms, which will attract them to this device. That will set them up to, hopefully, give me some helpful information.”
“I think I’m seeing the light,” said Bernie.
“Cellulite,” she said, with a jaunty wave goodbye.
***
Having flown over 2/3 of the country, Bernie took a taxi into downtown Fort Wayne, Indiana. His first stop was a garage where he could rent an old pickup truck. Then he went to a Goodwill store, where he bought some second-hand, unstylish blue jeans and a flannel shirt that had seen better days. Some old work boots, a t-shirt that had once been white, and a green mesh John Deere baseball cap completed his new wardrobe.
Then he drove the 35 miles to Hudson, checked into a Motel 6 and headed to The Shady Nook, a bar and restaurant referred to in The Hollywood Reporter article as Gerry Turner’s “bachelor clubhouse.” The Nook had a nicely tended yard in front and an untended parking lot in the back, with some random litter partially scattered by the wind from four large trash cans. Bernie parked in the lot and entered through a rear door leading to the bar area.
It was 3:30 p.m., so the only other person there was the bartender, Sam Johnson, which is how Bernie had planned it.
Johnson was a burly fellow dressed somewhat similarly to Bernie, with a black beard that looked like it had not been trimmed in years. They got to be on a first-name basis after an hour and three beers. Johnson then asked, “What brings you here, Bernie.”
“Just passing through,” said Bernie, “but I couldn’t resist coming to what I heard was the Golden Bachelor’s favorite bar.”
“He’s put us on the map alright,” said Johnson. “Another guy just like you was here asking questions about Gerry before Gerry even appeared on the show.”
“Just like me in what way?” asked Bernie.
“Same old clothes,” said Johnson, “and same fancy manicure.”
Reddening, Bernie said, “OK, you got me. I should’ve thought that not many guys around here get manicures. But maybe I’m sufficiently interested in Gerry Turner to pay for some information about him.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” said Johnson. “Been there and done that. In fact, I’m not sure I should be talking to you at all now. Lemme just check this fancy non-disclosure agreement I had to sign.”
He opened up a drawer next to the cash register, looked at a document in it for a moment while scratching his head, and then said, “I’m not sure what my rights are here. Let me check with my lawyer, and I’ll let you know around 11 a.m. tomorrow, when we open for lunch but before customers start arriving.”
“Lawyers are expensive,” said Bernie, handing Johnson five $100 bills. “This oughta pay for an hour or two of lawyer time, and then, if you get the OK, we can talk about further compensation for your time.”
“No promises, Bernie. The Golden Bachelor is one of Hudson’s own, and his secrets will not come cheap.”
Waving as he headed for the door, Bernie said, with as much conviction as he could muster after having imbibed three additional beers, “Maybe what Hudson really needs is a Golden Bartender.”
***
In the meantime, Barb was settling into her luxury bedroom at the estate she had previously visited.
Shortly after she arrived, Kevin McAndrews knocked on her door and gave her a warm hug.
“Ms. Flexibility,” he exclaimed. “You look fabulous!”
“You’re so sweet,” she purred, batting her eyes. “Can you tell me what I should expect this week? I know how to be blonde, but I’ve never before competed to be a bachelorette.”
“There will be 20 of you here for the next week,” he said. “Prepare for psychological tests and interviews, plus some physical competitions in things like pickleball and motorcycle riding. Despite all that, there will be some fun. You’ll enjoy meeting your fellow contestants, and you’ll have access to all the pools and to the library where you interviewed, which will be your break room. I’ll see you at dinner. In a few minutes, someone will be coming up to fingerprint you, so don’t be alarmed.”
“Am I being investigated for a crime?” asked Barb.
“Just routine,” McAndrew responded breezily. “Your middle name is ‘Flexibility,” and mine is “Thorough.”
***
Bernie pulled into The Shady Nook at 11 the next morning. He parked near one of the trash cans, and, on his way into the bar, he tipped it over.
“Hair of the dog that bit you?” greeted Sam Johnson, as Bernie blearily made his way toward the bar.
Nodding his head emphatically, Bernie said, “Not at my best this morning, Sam. I’m afraid I tipped over one of those trash cans in your parking lot.”
“Not the first time this has happened,” responded Johnson, grabbing a broom and dustpan and heading toward the back door. “No worries.”
As Johnson slipped out the door, Bernie hustled behind the bar, opened the drawer with the non-disclosure agreement Johnson had looked at the night before, and quickly took a picture of each page with his iPhone. As he suspected, the document was countersigned by an employee of Kroll, one of the largest private investigative agencies in the world. More important, the document was dated a month before the first episode of The Golden Bachelor aired.
When Johnson returned a few minutes later, Bernie was sitting on a barstool, absently looking at his phone.
“Sorry, bro’,” said Johnson. “My lawyer says ‘no go’ about me talking to you.”
“Not surprised,” said Bernie. “Do lawyers ever say ‘yes’? Lovely as Hudson is, I’d best be getting back to California.”
“Truth be told,” Johnson continued, “I’m just as happy not to be talking to you, Bernie. Despite being somewhat economical with the truth, Gerry Turner is really a nice guy.”
“Truth is probably overrated,” Bernie replied, “when you’re courting 21 women simultaneously.”
He then tipped his John Deere cap and tossed it to Johnson as he exited. “My gift to you, Sam,” he said. “I won’t be needing it any time soon.”
***
Her first full day back at the mansion, Barb showed up at 6:30 a.m. in the library/break room where she had interviewed with McAndrews. As she expected, no one was there yet, but she hoped to get some alone time with the first other finalist to arrive.
Fifteen minutes later, finalist Sallie Harris, looking around tentatively, entered the room. She was a stockbroker, with the standard-issue ash blonde hair and designer sweatsuit of bachelorette contestants. Her makeup looked professionally applied, which provided Barb with a conversational gambit after the conclusion of their preliminary getting-to-know-you small talk.
“I can’t believe you’re 70,” said Barb, referring to the minimum required age of a Blonde Bachelorette contestant. “You look 50!”
Blushing, Harris replied, “I try my best, but it’s a losing battle, especially my saggy arms. Yours are terrific, Barb. What advice can you give me to get rid of these batwings?”
“Your arms look great,” said Barb. “Baby batwings at worst.”
“They bother me is all I can say,” said Harris. “Whether it’s my fault or society’s doesn’t really matter.”
“It is society’s fault that aging women have to worry so much about their arms,” said Barb. “Since I can’t change society, I use some mechanical help, a device called Celluloss that removes cellulite with a combination of electrical stimulation, laser beams and vibration.”
“Can you tell me where to get one?”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Barb. “Why don’t you come to my room for a demonstration?”
“I’m there,” said Harris. “Thank you so much, Barb. If I spent only half the time I now do thinking about my arms, I’d probably be a millionaire bachelorette.”
***
When they arrived at Barb’s room, Barb pulled from her suitcase a foot-long device that looked like a portable massager with a circle of red lights in its head.
She handed it to Harris along with a 5×7 instruction card written in the small-print, broken English commonly accompanying products made in China. After putting on her reading glasses, she pointed out to Harris where it said the first session should be 15 minutes long. “Read this,” Barb said, “and you can do your first session right here.”
Harris studied the instruction card for a few minutes, and said, “It states that it works best with massage oil. Do you by chance have some of that?”
“No problem,” Barb responded. “We are full service.”
***
In the community of twenty contestants at the mansion over the next week, friendships were formed, rivalries occurred, and all manner of praise and criticism were heard. Both good news and bad news travelled rapidly through the grapevine of this newly-formed community.
One result which Barb had hoped for and anticipated, was that each contestant visited her room for a Celluloss session. Flabby arms, it appeared, were a problem sweeping the nation, at least the Bachelorette Nation.
***
“You’re a hero, Bernie,” said Al Jordan, clapping Bernie on the back. Bernie and Barb were back at Jordan’s Transamerica Building office in San Francisco a week later. “I wrote to our contact at the TV show requesting the Kroll investigative report on Gerry Turner.”
“Did they give it to you?” asked Bernie.
“No. Even better, the next day they withdrew their request for Alpha to provide insurance against Mara Jepson’s $10 million lawsuit. They knew that we knew that they knew about Gerry Turner’s background before foisting him on the Bachelor Nation. Mission accomplished!”
“I completely understand,” said Bernie. “Having commissioned an investigative report on Gerry Turner from a top-notch investigative firm before Gerry was selected as the Golden Bachelor, the TV show had to know about his romantic past in a small town, where everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
“Exactly,” said Al. My only regret is all the expense we had to go to in order to get Barb to San Diego as a top Golden Bachelorette competitor. Turns out that the glamour assignment wasn’t necessary.”
“On top of that,” Barb added, “after all my preparation, I lost out. A very attractive young lady named Sallie Harris was selected.”
“Young?” queried Al.
“Yes,” answered Barb. “As it turns out, she was suspicious because she was the only candidate who did not need reading glasses to read a very small instruction sheet that I was able to observe everyone reading.”
“Instruction sheet for what?” asked Jordan.
“A device that supposedly reduces cellulite on the arms,” Barb responded, “a very attractive proposition to many women. The contestants flocked to my room to use the device, but in order to do that, they had to read the fine print instructions, which only Sallie Harris could do without readers.”
“Once I saw her reading, with her naked eyes, small print that I could barely make out with my readers, I checked her out further. I was able to get her birth certificate, which shows she’s 45, a huge advantage in a competition with 70-year-olds.”
“A 45-year-old who looks 70?” questioned Jordan.
“It’s easier to use makeup to look older than to look younger,” said Barb. “And it looked like she had some professional help.”
“Still not seeing how you got to this conclusion,” said Jordan.
“Well, my assignment was to find someone being deceptive about their background. Gerry Turner was deceptive about his previous love life, but, because that’s more of a guy thing, I wasn’t looking for that. I was thinking along the lines of something women often lie about.”
“I get it” said Jordan, “Age.”
“Exactly, but with a twist for this unusual situation. Normally women say they’re younger than they are, but that wouldn’t work if you wanted to win a competition where the minimum age is 70. What makes sense in that situation is to say you’re older than you are. That way you can enter the competition, but you are likely to win because you have the advantage of being more youthful than your competitors.
“That’s exactly what happened with Sallie Harris. Thanks to the miracle of modern makeup, she looked old enough to be a credible 70, but her 45-year old body enabled her to easily win all the physical competitions.”
“Great detective work,” said Al, “but how does that help me and Alpha?”
“How soon you forget,” said Barb. “The truth came out about Gerry Turner, and there was a lawsuit that Alpha was asked to defend. Don’t you think it’s likely that the TV show knows Sallie Harris’s real age and that the Gerry Turner scenario will repeat itself?
“Good point,” said Al. “And, thanks to you, Alpha will be ready if and when that happens.”
“It might happen sooner than you think,” said Barb. “I made some pretty good friends among my fellow losing contestants during my week in San Diego. Some of them might soon be receiving, from an anonymous source, a copy of this birth certificate. I think they’d have a pretty good lawsuit.”
“Do you think the TV show knew her true age?” asked Al.
“How could they not?” responded Barb. “It took me only an hour to track down her birth certificate.”
“Plus,” added Bernie, “they may have thought their ratings would be higher with a youthful-looking 70-year-old. They could demonstrate to their audience that 70 is the new 45.”
“When, in fact,” said Barb, “in this case, 45 is the new 70.”
For other Sleuthing Silvers stories, see thesleuthingsilvers.com
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