by Kate Flora
There was never much that could wait. We both knew that. We agreed that I would handle things at Stafford without Bobby, that I would keep twisting our client's arm to get the data for the report that was coming up on deadline, and that I would hand writing that off to Bobby. Suzanne would call when she got herself sorted out. I didn't mention that I'd probably have to spend more time with the police. Suzanne had enough things to worry about.
"Call me when you can," I said. "And please, no heroics. Don't worry about our clients. Lisa and Bobby and I can handle things if you need us to."
I disconnected and filled in Magda, who had been hovering by my elbow. Her gloomy expression got gloomier until I said, "And she wants you to go to her house to work with her, as soon as we figure out who's going to take on which projects and which ones she'll keep."
"She wants me to go there?"
"That's what she said. She needs you"
Though she would vehemently deny it, I was sure I saw the trace of a smile. Most of all, Magda needed us to need her, and Suzanne was her special pet. There was an added benefit. If Magda had to go to Suzanne's house, she might also get to see Paul, Jr. She considered Suzanne's little boy her grandchild, never mind that she had several of her own, and Suzanne and Paul both had living parents. It could be worse. She might droop about like an oversized Eeyore, but Magda also made our work lives work.
Magda mollified, or at least informed, I dove into the rest of the pink slips and spent most of the next two hours on the phone. It was only then that I realized I'd dumped my clean clothes on my visitor's chair and was still wearing smelly soot-and-coffee-stained clothes.
I dashed to the ladies' room, did a quick swipe at my face and arms, and changed into clean clothes. Clean clothes helped, but the worn-looking woman in the mirror needed a facial, a vacation, and an infusion of daily multiples. I told her I was working on it—not a total lie—and went back to traffic control.
In the five or six minutes I'd been gone, the pink slips had managed to have sex and produce offspring. At least, that's how it looked. There was a message from my husband wanting to know how I was doing and saying not to expect him for dinner. One from Roland Proffit, asking me to call. And one from the data-retentive client, saying they were putting it together and would have it for me by the end of the day. So far, nothing from Stafford, but when a client puts you on standby alert, you stay on alert until you're sure the crisis has passed.
I called the client who was sending me data. I wasn't sure what their definition of "end of the day" was, but my clock said it was nearing 4:30, and sometime in the next hour, I hoped to get enough done so I could go home, take the world's longest shower, and then crawl under my bed and moan for a while, doing the decompressing from this morning that I hadn't had time for yet.
The client, in the way that clients will, put me off, saying they'd call back in "the next hour." I wasn't planning to hold my breath.
The clock ticked on. Bobby had a question. Lisa called from the school where she was working and she had a question that required me to find and send her some information. Bobby needed the name of an expert we sometimes used. Suzanne needed her Daytimer and some materials from her desk. A board that was in the process of hiring a new head of school called with some questions and wanted to know if I could sit on in their final set of interviews.
I checked my calendar and said yes.
The clock ticked on. The data didn't arrive. The client didn't call back.
My stomach rumbled like an angry beast but I didn't know what to feed it. I tried to return Roland's call, but he didn't pick up. I hated phone tag. Real tag was fun. Exciting and infused with a sense of danger. Phone tag was boring and infused with a sense of time wasted and clocks ticking, as well as the frustration of being unable to complete a necessary task.
I'd been concentrating on my office phone, but a buzzing from my purse reminded me that my cell phone also wanted attention. Some days, I amuse myself by dreaming up appropriate tortures for the people who thought all these electronic devices would enhance our lives. Too often, the way they demand our obedience is more in the nature of those electric shock collars that people use to train dogs. Only now we're all busy training each other. Or ourselves. My phone was constantly startling me with the tones to announce arriving text messages and reminders about what was on my calendar. Sometimes even in the middle of the night. Youngsters may have a handle on how to manage these devices. I find them rather willful little beasts.
Andre, dear man that he was, had called to ask if I was doing all right. Then he had called to ask when I was coming home. Then if I was coming home. And finally, to let me know that he probably wasn't going to be home anytime soon, so if was I coming home, I'd better just go ahead and eat something. I tried calling him back and went to voicemail. Marriage by phone tag. Described like that, it didn't sound appealing, though the truth was that when we were together, we usually had a pretty great time.
Roland had called the office but he'd also called my cell to set up a follow-up interview, hopefully one that could take place soon. There was heavy emphasis on the soon. In his message, he expressed surprise at how little information anyone who knew her seemed to have about Ginger, and hoped I might know more. She was a mysterious person, he said. Her co-workers knew little about her, other than some vague details about her stormy relationship with someone named Randy. No one knew about any parents or other relatives or could recall her ever having mentioned them. No one could direct him to her best friends, or even to any casual ones.
Her neighbors described cordial, but distant, relationships. They'd observed no one coming or going from her apartment other than Ginger herself or the boyfriend, Randy. Roland couldn't even locate that ubiquitous Maine feature, the nosy elderly neighbor who sat in her window and kept tabs on everyone. He hoped I might know something.
Normally, cops shared almost nothing, so I was surprised at how much he'd told me. Maybe it was to secure my cooperation. There was a note of desperation in that "something."
Why me? I was just one of her clients. Someone who'd spent some time with her looking at real estate. Tromping through attics and basements discussing furnaces and plumbing, wiring and sump pumps was not ordinarily considered the foundation of a close relationship. In the time we'd spent together, Ginger had been outgoing and confided things about her life quite easily. She was bubbly and cute and seemed like a fun person to spend time with. It was odd that she wouldn't have had a raft of friends and be on great terms with her neighbors. Even odder that the people in her office couldn't fill him in a whole lot better than I.
Of course I would do whatever I could to help. It was just that my goal right now was to put this morning's awful events behind me as best I could and immerse myself in my clients' troubles. It looked like Roland wasn't going to let me.
The divinely charming Lt. Sporty Scafaro had called to tell me that I'd left my jacket behind and they were going to keep it as evidence. As evidence of what, I couldn't guess. Proof that I really had used it to beat out the flames? Or did he expect that on further inspection he'd find receipts for eight space heaters hidden in the lining? Or maybe tiny flecks of orange plastic from unreeling all those extension cords?
Oh man. I needed to stop this. I needed to still my cranky mind and keep a louse like Scafaro on a back burner where he could simmer without causing me any grief. Right now, my back burners were getting pretty crowded.
On the front burner was our unresponsive client. We couldn't just say to heck with the report. We had way too many hours in and needed their check for our bottom line. I tried once more and didn't get an answer. I looked at my e-mail and the fax, but nothing had come in. If it came in the morning, we were going to be hard pressed to get the report done on time. One more thing that would make tomorrow another miserable day.
I sighed and reached for my coat.
The phone rang. Every instinct said to let it go to voicemail, but I am a slave of duty, and the caller ID
said it was Stafford Academy.
"This is Reeve Barrows," the voice said. "Is this EDGE Consulting?"
"Reeve, it's Thea."
"Thank god," he said, "we really need your help."
My heart sank.
Chapter 6
By the time I got off the phone, it was after six, and I'd agreed to be at Stafford by nine the next morning. That meant leaving at the crack of dawn. Reeve had a genuine dilemma. Two students—one a venture capitalist's daughter from Manhattan, the other a minority scholarship kid from the Bronx—had been selling Molly to their classmates. Molly. MDMA. A club drug. Bad enough by itself, but one of their customers had gotten happily high and dehydrated, then hyperthermic. She'd gone outside to cool off, passed out, and nearly died of hypothermia.
She was recovering at a local hospital and her parents were threatening to sue. The VC parents were helicoptering in with lawyers and entourage in tow. VC daughter and minority boyfriend were trying to get each other off the hook. Cops were circling. As soon as the word got out, reporters would be everywhere. And the headmaster was AWOL—at some off-site meeting and not responding to his phone.
I asked a bunch of questions, made some notes about steps to take, repeated the basic instructions I'd given him earlier about controlling information flow and securing the campus. I made sure he had the school's lawyer and head of trustees in the loop. I cut him off when he tried to tell me it wasn't his problem. Until the Head of School resurfaced, it was. I said I'd call him in the morning from the road with some further instructions. Then I grabbed my stuff and headed for the door before the phone rang again.
I needed to try Andre again. Schedule some time with Roland—the first twenty-four hours being critical and all that. I was so tired even the drive home felt daunting. Finding a body and getting grilled by cops—even friendly cops like Roland—takes it out of you. I still hadn't eaten, but there are very few places that serve food that don't smell like grilled or fried meat. I'd have to drive to Portland if I wanted vegetarian or vegan cuisine, so I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I'm way too young to feel tired. That's what I tell myself. Other times, I wonder if I have some fatal disease that just hasn't been diagnosed. On my rational days, I think I suffer from a middle-years version of old timer's disease—no timer's disease. Most of my friends have it, too.
I threw my stuff in the back seat and told Siri to call Roland.
When he answered, Roland sounded tired and cranky. "I've called you a dozen times," he said, "and you don't call me back. You know this is a critical time for us. You want the monster who did this to walk because we can't get good information?"
"But I did call you back."
Roland didn't respond.
His anger wasn't directed at me. But despite what he'd said in his messages about people not having much information about Ginger, I was still puzzled that he considered my information significant. I'd barely known Ginger. Our conversation had been girl talk in the car driving to see a house, or casual stuff as we walked through one. This was when he should be spending time talking to her co-workers and friends, to her family. He should have tracked down that sketchy boyfriend she'd been complaining about. Pressing them, not me, even if they claimed not to have known her well. He should be searching her place, going through her things, reading her mail. What I knew ought to be way down the list.
I didn't help matters by pointing all that out, though. He already knew it. He must be drawing blanks if he thought I was important. Besides, it's not easy to blow off a guy who's intimidatingly large, a very talented interrogator, and a friend.
"Sorry, Roland. I've got my own crisis here. Suzanne's on bed rest and I've got a school that's in deep trouble with students selling drugs on campus."
"What do they expect you to do?" He sounded puzzled. Another one of the people who think because I'm a consultant I must do something utterly boring and there is no urgency about my work.
"Handle the press. Handle the parents. Help them deal with their upset students. Get someone in who can scare them—the students—silly about drugs. Protect the school's reputation and keep this from causing major attrition in next year's entering class. All the usual. So what's the emergency?"
"When are you going to be home?" he said. "I really need to talk to you. And I don't mean phone chat. I mean a lengthy face-to-face interview about Ginger Stevens."
"I've just started home. It's going to take me about twenty minutes, depending on traffic. But I don't know much I can help. I barely knew her, Roland."
"That's my problem, Thea. Everyone barely knew her. Neighbors. Co-workers. Except maybe for her boyfriend, and he's vanished. Co-workers and neighbors say he was living there as recently as last week, but there's no sign of him at her apartment. And I mean no sign. No clothes, no stuff, no hairs or fibers. I've never seen anyone move out and leave no traces behind, especially a guy. It's almost as though he doesn't want to be found."
That was strange, even if it was an unpleasant breakup. "Maybe Ginger was so glad to see him go she literally wiped him out of her life," I suggested. "I know she was feeling pretty negative about him. What about her car? Her clothes? The laundry bin? The mattress pad? There must be some traces of him. Some fingerprints. What about the underside of the toilet seat?"
I couldn't believe I'd just said that. I blame Andre. Living with him has made me far more cop-like than most people. I've even occasionally been accused of being a cop myself. Usually by people who don't like cops.
He sighed. "We're checking the car. We struck out everywhere else. Look, let's meet up somewhere."
"Roland, I honestly don't know. I'm tired. I've got a lot of work to do tonight, and it's time sensitive, just like yours. And I have to leave for Connecticut at five a.m. Maybe tomorrow night?"
"Tonight," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I'll buy you dinner."
"Only if there are no roasting, frying, or grilling smells, Roland. You know of any place like that?"
"Your place, then," he said. "I'll bring something."
This was the moment when being more "cop-like" became a negative instead of a positive. Except that I did want to help. He wasn't going to hear me if I said no anyway.
"I'll call you when I'm home."
"Will you call me?" There was a pause, and I thought he regretted being so negative. Confirmed when he added, in a softer tone, "How about when you're ten minutes away?" Unable, at the end, to avoid pressing the time thing.
Now he wasn't the only one who was getting cranky. "Don't treat me like a difficult witness, Roland. Okay? I've been up to my ears in stuff, too. I've been working every second since I left you. I haven't eaten all day and I'm out here on the highway surrounded by people who seem scared by a few snowflakes."
Living in Maine was spoiling me. Except for the occasional burst of fight or flight, which caused timid drivers to pull out right in front of me and then drive a tentative, aggravating twenty miles an hour, the drivers here tended to be pretty competent. Mostly, if I found someone riding my bumper, they were what Mainers called "from away." But tonight, maybe just because they were exhausted from so many winter storms, everyone seemed to be being unnecessarily cautious.
"Sorry, Thea. It's just that there are so many odd things about this case."
I was going to ask "like what?" but I needed to concentrate on driving. I could get the details when we were face-to-face, which was soon enough for me. I wasn't eager to revisit the horrors of this morning, and when I sat down with him and he started asking questions, I would be right back there.
Before I disconnected to check in with Suzanne and Bobby about the Stafford situation, I had one more suggestion for him about the missing boyfriend.
"About that boyfriend. You should check her purse and her wallet for his fingerprints, because one of the things she mentioned to me when she said they were breaking up was that he'd been helping himself to her money, going right into her wallet and taking it while she was sleeping or in the shower
. Her purse and her wallet probably have his fingerprints all over them. She said she'd started locking her money in the glove compartment of her car to protect herself."
"Great tip," he said. "And a small mystery solved."
I figured he meant a stash of cash in Ginger's car. I was well on my way to earning my junior achievement badge. We agreed I'd call when I was close and he'd find us something we could safely eat. I went back to navigating traffic. The swirl of snowflakes was getting thicker and there was the promise of a "wintery mix" overnight. By the end of March, after a long and miserable winter, the words "wintery mix" are like nails on a blackboard. Everyone cringes and wants it to stop.
I was on the phone the rest of the way home. I updated Suzanne and left her to her rest, though she'd get little of that as she figured out how to parcel out her work to our staff. Then I called Bobby to bring him into the loop on the status of the report for the data-retentive client.
Bobby's husband answered, his voice wary and querulous as soon as he knew it was me. He believed it was his job to protect Bobby from us, even though our small staff had a great relationship and no one took advantage of anyone. Quinn was a chef, and worked in a world where taking advantage seemed to be the norm. He never believed in any reality that was different from his. I'd long ago give up trying to change his mind and settled for knowing that we both loved Bobby and wanted the best for him.
"We've got an emergency and I need to speak with Bobby," I said.
I chose the word 'emergency' to cut through his usual layers of protest and it worked. A moment later, I was filling Bobby in on Suzanne's situation and briefing him about the problem at Stafford Academy. "I'm off to Connecticut in the morning. You'll have to pick up the slack on that report," I said. "I have no idea whether they'll actually come through with that data in the morning. If you don't have it by ten, call me."
"No problem," he said.
Is it any wonder I love Bobby? He's what my mother would call a 'sweet-natured boy'. Having him around makes the whole world better.
