What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas—unless you have caller ID.
It was a Wednesday afternoon when I received the suspicious phone call. The phone number wasn’t familiar. And neither was the perky voice attached to it.
“Hello, may I speak to Christopher?” the woman asked. The only women who ever called my husband at home were his mother and Betsy, the blood drive recruiter. This wasn’t his mother and whoever it was sounded wanton. Meaning, she was “wanton” more than his blood. I figured she must have a motive—and blonde hair.
“He’s not home,” I said.
“Did I call his home number? I’m sorry, I meant to call his work,” she said, sounding flustered. “I’ll catch him there.” Catch him! I mouthed. Now I suspected her of having blonde hair and blue eyes.
“Can I tell him who called?” I asked, eager to learn the identity of this mystery caller.
She wouldn’t give it up. “This is, uh, I, I’ve never actually met him,” she stammered. “I got his number at the conference in Las Vegas.”
Never met him? But she had his home number? That’s like me never having met her but knowing she was blonde, blue-eyed, and racked with a chest that stretched further than the Mojave Desert.
“What’s this regarding?” I asked.
“I’m calling him as a business prospect,” she answered.
I could guess what kind of “business” she was up to. She quickly said goodbye and hung up the phone. I just as quickly called Chris.
“A woman just called the house looking for you,” I said.
“A woman? That’s intriguing. Did you get her name and number?” he asked.
“Oh sure! I also got her hourly rate and said you’d be in touch next time you were in Las Vegas. No, I didn’t get her name and number! Besides, she wouldn’t say.”
“Well, I have no idea who she is,” he responded.
Sure, I thought. And I have no idea who’s going to be making you dinner tonight, and the night after that, and the . . .
“Do pasties and tassels help jog your memory?”
“‘Pasties’?” He asked. “Did Richard put you up to this?” (The pasties were a random accusation, and I hadn’t spoken a word to his friend Richard.)
“You tell me!”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’re interested in pasties, and what Richard has to do with this.”
“Because his friend Melanie told us at the hotel piano bar that she had stopped at a lingerie store to buy pasties.”
“Was his friend standing next to the piano or laying across it?”
“She’s an attorney!” He emphasized ‘attorney’ as though it were interchangeable with ‘nun.’
“Fine,” I said. “That explains Melanie. But what about the woman who called?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I can get her number off caller ID!” God bless modern technology. I gave him the number and told him to call me back when he reached her.
He rang me back a few minutes later. “Her name is Simone.”
“Well, who is she?” I demanded.
“She’s an insurance rep and works with my colleague Todd. He saw her at the conference and suggested she contact me about a real estate deal. He sent her my contact information and included my work and home phone number on the Email.”
“So you weren’t up to any funny business?”
“Come on, Lisa. After twenty years of marriage, shouldn’t we be able to trust each another?”
“Yes,” I agreed. We should be able to trust each other—as long as we have Caller ID.