The Accidental Detective

got a balloon and balloons come due. All at once, in a big lump. Hence the name. You had a three-year grace period, in which you had an artificially low rate of 3.25 percent, with Peter’s three thousand in rehabilitative alimony giving you a big cushion. Now it’s over. In today’s market, I recommend a thirty-year fixed, but even that’s not the deal it was two years ago. According to today’s rates the best you can do is …”
    Frankennystein used an old-fashioned adding machine, the kind with a paper roll, an affectation Sally had once found charming. He punched the keys and the paper churned out, delivering its noisy verdict.
    “A million financed at thirty-year fixed rates—you’re looking at $7,000 a month, before taxes.”
    It was an increase of almost $4,000 a month over what she had been paying for the last three years and that didn’t take into account the alimony she was about to lose.
    “I can’t cover that, not with what I get in child support. Not and pay my share of the private school tuition, which we split fifty-fifty.”
    “You could sell. But after closing costs and paying the real estate agent’s fee, you’d walk away with a lot less cash than you might think. Maybe eight hundred thousand. ”
    Eight hundred thousand dollars. She couldn’t buy a decent three-bedroom for that amount, not in the neighborhood, not even in the suburbs. There, the schools would be free at least, but the Dutton School probably mattered more to Sally than it did to the children. It had become the center of her social life since Peter had left, a place where she was made to feel essential. Essential and adored, one of the parents who helped out without becoming a fearsome buttin-sky or know-it-all.
    “How long do I have to figure this out?” she asked Kenny.
    “The balloon comes due in four months. But the way things are going, you’ll be better off locking in sooner rather than later. Green-span looked funny the last time the Fed met.”
    “Funny?”
    “Constipated, like. As if his sphincter was the only thing keeping the rates down.”
    “Kenny,” she said with mock reproach, her instinctive reaction to a man’s crude joke, no matter how dull and silly. Already, her mind was miles away, flying through the streets of her neighborhood, trying to think who might help her. There was a father who came to Sam’s baseball games, often straight from work, only to end up on his cell, rattling off percentages. He must be in real estate.
    “I OWN A TITLE COMPANY ,” Alan Moore said. “Which, I have to say, is like owning a mint these days. The money just keeps coming. Even with the housing supply tight as it is, people always want to refinance.”
    “If only I had thought to talk to you three years ago,” Sally said, twisting the stalk of a gone-to-seed dandelion in her hand. They were standing along the first-base line, the better to see both their sons—Sam, adorable if inept in right field, and Alan’s Duncan, a wiry first baseman who pounded his glove with great authority, although he had yet to catch a single throw to the bag.
    “The thing is—” Alan stopped as the batter made contact with the ball, driving it toward the second baseman, who tossed it to Duncan for the out. There was a moment of suspense as Duncan bobbled it a bit, but he held on.
    “Good play, son!” Alan said, and clapped, then looked around. “I didn’t violate the vocalization rule, did I?”
    “You were perfect,” Sally assured him. The league in which their sons played did, in fact, have strict rules about parents’ behavior, including guidelines on how to cheer properly—with enthusiasm, but without aggression. It was a fine line.
    “Where was I? Oh, your dilemma. The thing is, I can hook you up with someone who can help you find the best deal, but you might want to consider taking action against your lawyer. He could be disbarred for what he did, or at least reprimanded. Clearly a conflict of interest.”
    “True, but that won’t help me in the long run.” She sighed, then exhaled on the dandelion head, blowing away the fluff.
    “Did you make a wish?” Alan asked. He wasn’t handsome, not even close. He looked like Ichabod Crane, tall and thin, with a pointy nose and no chin.
    “I did,” Sally said with mock solemnity.
    “For what?”
    “Ah, if you tell, they don’t come true.” She met his eyes, just for a moment, let Alan Moore think that he was her heart’s desire. Later that night, her