Maddie Cochere - Two Sisters and a Journalist 01 - Murder Under Construction by Maddie Cochere

tell if it was friendly or contentious.
    Now I had a dilemma. Should I stop and say hello, or simply walk out and pretend I didn’t see them. After leaving money on the table, I approached the two men.
    “Hi, Stewart,” I said. He knew I had already made it a habit to call him Stewie, but I gave him the courtesy of using his formal name in front of his guest. I paused to give him an opportunity to say hello and introduce me, but he did neither, and both men simply stared at me. I became flustered by his lack of manners and said lamely, “I had a great lunch. Try the chicken pizzaiola.”
    The man with Stewie showed obvious irritation by my interruption. Stewie was curt. “I’ve been here before. It’s a nice restaurant. I’ll see you later, Jo.”
    I barely uttered a good-bye before dashing out the door. The encounter was extremely uncomfortable, and I didn’t understand Stewie’s rudeness.
    The walk back to the office wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as the initial walk to the salon, and I arrived with minimal perspiration. Stewie was friendly when he came back to the office, but I pretended to be wrapped in work. His attitude at the restaurant made me angry with myself for agreeing to go out with him on Saturday.
    I spent the rest of my afternoon searching online for information to become a private investigator. I was discouraged to see college classes in criminology took four years to obtain a degree. That wasn’t my plan. I wanted to pay a fee, take a test, and get right to work. The only other way to become a private investigator was through on-the-job experience under a mentor. I’d have to ask Jackie about that. And I’d need a gun.
     
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
     
    My core temperature was rising as the sun beat down on my head. I knew if I didn’t go home before too long, I might have another episode like the one I experienced at lunchtime.
    So far, I had walked back and forth across half of the construction site, and so far, there was nothing to see but dirt and rocks. The police didn’t find any evidence here, but I wouldn’t be convinced until I checked for myself.
    I spotted a piece of paper sticking out from under a rock, but upon further investigation, it turned out to be a piece of plastic. Leave no stone unturned ran through my mind. I couldn’t help chuckling at the thought. Turning over every stone in the construction site would take the better part of a year. I quickened my pace. My neck and back were starting to hurt.
    Being a private investigator wouldn’t be exciting all the time. I knew there would be tedious tasks like the one I was doing now, and late-night stakeouts might be boring. What if I couldn’t stay awake? I used to eat on long trips to keep from dozing, but eating on stakeouts would probably pack on the pounds fast. And running! What if I had to chase a suspect? He’d be long gone before I was barely able to work up to a jog. I definitely needed to get in shape.
    A honking horn brought me back to reality. I looked up to see I was only a few feet from the roadway. I didn’t know who honked as they drove by, but I threw my arm up in the air to wave anyway. There was no reason to be unfriendly.
    The cars reminded me again that Ruby had been brought here from another location. It dawned on me that there probably weren’t any clues in the site itself, but maybe there were some along the roadway where the vehicle had parked.
    I climbed up the grade and alongside the road. As I searched for clues, I endured several more honking horns. I threw my arm up with every honk. I didn’t want to be in the grocery store next week and have Mrs. Murgatroyd from Faye’s Dry Cleaning complain, “I saw you walking along the road, and I honked. Why didn’t you wave?”
    There was very little trash. The local jail used the current crop of prisoners as cleanup crews on the weekends, and they did a nice job of collecting trash right down to cigarette butts. I checked the entire grassy area between the