Free Death of a Sunday Writer by Eric Wright

it’s too sleazy, whatever that means, I’ll quit. It won’t get boring for a while, at least, and I’m not broke. I can manage. But I may have to pass a test or something. Do you know? Or do you know anyone who knows? You must use private investigators sometimes. For the sleazy stuff.”
    â€œTouché. Be it on your own head, then. Go and see aguy called Jack Brighton. I’ll call him that you’re coming. Then go back to Longborough.” He gave her Brighton’s address and his phone number.

Chapter Twelve
    Brighton’s agency, J.B. Investigations, occupied the second floor of a building on St. Clair Avenue, just west of Bathurst, in an office as featureless as Trimble’s. Lucy watched the numbers carefully, and when she decided she was close enough, she parked in the Loblaw’s lot, just east of Bathurst, planning to shop for a few groceries when she was finished with Brighton.
    The private investigator was about thirty-five. There was nothing about him to indicate his trade: he might have been a real estate salesman, or a professor of sociology, or even a librarian.
    â€œSorry about your cousin,” he said. “I met him a couple of times.”
    â€œHow do you know about him?”
    â€œBuncombe called me. To ask me to help you if you came by. So what can I do?”
    Lucy said, “I want to take over the agency. Keep it going.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m ready for a change.”
    Brighton nodded. “So you want me to tell you how to take away my business? Okay. What do you want to know? You get two licences from the Ontario Provincial Police, one for the agency, one for you. That’s all you need. You won’t get much business, though, so why bother? Come and work for me. I’ll teach you.”
    â€œWhy should I work for you?”
    â€œBecause I’ve got two totally boring jobs on right now that you could do. I need some help, and you won’t get any work on your own.”
    â€œWhy won’t I? And if so, why would you hire me?”
    â€œSame reason for both. You’re a nice, respectable middle-aged lady in from Coburg to do a little shopping. People looking for an investigator want someone lean and mean-looking, like me. But I need someone who looks like you, like a collector for the Heart Fund.”
    Thank God for The Trog, Lucy thought. Without him, that’s what I am. “I already have a case.” She told him about her client.
    Brighton stopped acting laid-back and listened carefully. At the end, he said,” Does he want pictures?”
    â€œPhotographs? He didn’t say anything about that. What on earth would he want pictures for? Pictures of what?”
    â€œThey usually like pictures to show you’ve been on the job. Agoraphobia. That’s a new one. Who is this guy?”
    â€œI don’t know. My client.”
    â€œHe sounds like a flake. Watch it. She may not be his wife.”
    Lucy felt at sea. “Then why is he paying me to watch her?”
    â€œShe probably knows him, and would run if she saw him. Sounds a little kinky.”
    â€œWhat shall I do?”
    â€œTake the money. Tell him where she goes, but find out who she is. At some point you may have to do something.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike telling her she’s being watched. And on whose orders.”
    Lucy looked at Brighton closely. “You’re making this up. Trying to impress me.”
    He laughed, and blushed slightly. “All right, but it does seem a little weird, doesn’t it? If she is his wife, he probably suspects she’s up to something on her night off.”
    â€œThat would fit. What shall I do?”
    â€œFind out a little about agoraphobia, is my advice. Check that they live together. And stay in touch. Let me know how it’s going.”
    â€œBut find out about her.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou’re the gumshoe.”
    â€œThere was another