Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  The last person in my mother's cluster of desks was Lyle Sylvane. Lyle was besotted with my mother, and he wouldn't dream of touching anything of hers unless she asked him to do so. He was much shorter than Pamela, and much less impressive. He insisted on hitting on Pamela every day and was never put off by her rejection. At some point, Lyle had apparently decided that the only way to flatter women was to imply that they were sexually attractive. It was almost an office joke. My mother had told me that Lyle had even asked her, my mother, out for dinner in his first week, before he learned that she was married. Lyle wasn't put off by age; in his defense, I will say that my mother is a beautiful woman, still in her fifties, and practically wrinkle-free. She was amused by Lyle's advances but made the mistake of telling my father, who now wanders into the office every month or so just to frown in Lyle's direction.

  Lyle was considered Mayor Paul's right-hand man. While Blanche handled the daily business of running the office, along with my mother, Lyle and Pamela concentrated more on the mayor's public relations. Lyle, my mother told me, was often the mayor's direct liaison to various community groups. I always thought Pamela would be a better choice, since Lyle, while not physically offensive in any way that I could pinpoint, somehow always seemed to have a dirty aura. Slimy, one might say. My mother considered Lyle handsome. Perhaps many voters did as well.

  I wondered now at the mayor's choice of Lyle as a right-hand person. Might Lyle be willing to do unsavory tasks that Pamela would find inappropriate? Might Lyle kill for the mayor? And why was Logan fired? Why was he pursued by someone in a city car after his firing?

  I thought about this, drumming my nails on my mother's blotter. My mother riffled through some papers and raised her eyebrows at me. “Where is Jack this morning? Is there school today?” she asked.

  “No. Columbus Day. He's grading papers, I think.” I took out my little notebook and made sure not to look at her. She had a way of squeezing out information with one hypnotic glance.

  “Madeline!” Her voice said imperatively.

  Another voice saying my name at the same time distracted me. I looked behind me to see Lyle Sylvane, viewing me with open admiration in an unflattering way, like the icky kid at the dance who feels you owe him an obligatory waltz just because you're both there and he deserves the right to place his sweaty hands on your back for a full three minutes.

  “Oh, hi, Lyle,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “How are you today?”

  “Just great. I love the blonde hair.” He made it sound like I'd dyed it at his request. I hid my squirming response by bending to scratch my ankle. I heard a snort of disgust or amusement from the direction of my mother.

  I straightened up and went on the offensive. “So is your boss in yet? I'd like to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “Oh, so this isn't a social visit?” he asked, again with an insinuating tone, as if I'd made up an excuse to come to the office and flirt with him. Lyle was seriously handicapped in his ability to deal with women.

  “No, no, not a social visit. I'm working, just like you, so I'm hoping to catch him, if he's in.”

  “I just saw him parking his car.” Lyle sounded a bit put off. Perhaps he was tired of being the underling. I didn't see him winning any elections in the future, though.

  “Great!” I said. “I think I'll go meet him at the door.” I stood up just as Blanche Henry walked in. The aroma of cigarette floated in her wake. I couldn't resist a comment. “Where are you sneaking those cigarettes, Blanche?” I asked with a wink.

  Blanche was a tough nut to crack. “Wouldn't you like to know,” she said hoarsely, picking a file folder off her desk and then tossing it back down. “So you're a blondie now. Are you having more fun?” That was a pretty risqué comment for someone of Blanche's generation, and I saw my mother's eyebrows rise again.

  “Not really, Blanche. But I guess I'll give it a couple of weeks and chart the results,” I quipped.

  She laughed her smoky laugh and patted me on the back with a clawlike hand. “I always say, if it's clothes that make a man, it's hair that makes a woman.”

  Blanche had never said this, I was pretty sure, but at least it was a complete and logical thought, which was an improvement on some of the things Blanche turned out.

  “Yeah, right,” I agreed, heading back toward the stairs I had just ascended. “Hey, how come Mayor Paul didn't spring for an elevator with all those renovations?” I asked over my shoulder.

  Lyle fielded that one. “We're having an elevator put in. But a pretty girl like you stays in shape by taking the stairs.” I wondered if any sexual harassment lawsuits had landed on the mayor's desk because of Lyle's constant lack of tact.

  “Is that how you stay in shape too?” I shot back before I trotted down the stairs. Lyle was short and tended to look paunchy. I didn't want to get insulting, but he invited it just about all the time. We all have temptations we can't resist.

  I spied Don Paul walking in the door and shrugging out of a Chicago Bears jacket. Casual jacket for a high-profile job, I thought cattily.

  “Mr. Paul!” I called in my professional voice, keeping my notebook visible.

  “Hello, Madeline!” he boomed, showing me all his white teeth. “Here visiting your mom?”

  “No, sir, I'm actually here to ask you a few questions. I assume you've heard about the death of Logan Lanford.”

  Don Paul's smile immediately disappeared, and he went a shade paler. Either he was a great actor or he was surprised. “Logan Lanford?” he asked.

  “Yes. Your former employee. I wanted to ask you for a comment, since you're Logan's most recent employer, and maybe even for a bit of information on the reason for Logan's firing from city hall.”

  Mayor Paul hoisted his jacket over one arm, looked at the shine on his shoes for a moment, and then forced another smile. “That second request is for confidential information. The first one I can grant you after I give it some thought. What the hell happened to him? He was maybe thirty years old at most.”

  “He was murdered, Mayor Paul.” I made sure to stare at his eyes when I said this, and they did flicker ever so slightly with something just before they widened in shock. Some indefinable emotion had appeared and scurried away before I could identify it.

  “Murdered? My God!” he said. With that, he abruptly headed toward the staircase.

  I had expected more, which is why he made it past me. I turned and ran after him. “How about that comment, Mayor Paul?” I said, following him back up the spiral stairs. “You must be—”

  He turned suddenly, halfway up. I was forced to stop, and the two of us stood at crazy angles to each other. “Give me some time here, Maddy. I just got to work.” He apparently chose to deflect my questions with condescension. To soften the blow, he added, “I like the Marilyn Monroe look, by the way.”

  I had to take a deep breath to avoid yelling “yuck” at the top of my lungs. If Mayor Paul and Lyle Sylvane found my hair attractive, I really did need to rethink the dye.

  Don Paul made it to the top of the steps and quickly hightailed it into his office. The door closed with an audible click.

  I returned, empty notebook in hand, to my mom's group, which had been joined by Pamela Fey. She looked brisk and efficient, as usual, in a plum-colored suit with a matching bow that pulled her chestnut hair back in a shapely tail. Her eyes were alert in a face that bore no signs of tiredness. I felt lumpish and exhausted by comparison, especially because I'd skipped my morning coffee. My face felt almost swollen with sleep, and I probably still bore pillow lines on my left cheek. I felt the usual surge of admiration/envy that I always felt in Pamela's presence.

  “Hey, Madeline!” she called. I waited for the editorial about my blonde hair. It didn't come, and I realized Pamela might consider it inappropriate to comment on a change in someone's personal appearance. How interesting that no one else in the room had taken that into consideration.

  “Hi, Pamela.” She didn't like “Pam.” No surprises ther
e. “What's on the agenda today?” I asked. “Any time for lunch?” I heard my mother make a huffing noise. “With my mother and me?” I added with a smile.

  Before Pamela could respond, my mother said, “I may not even have time.” She was obviously angry at the backward invitation. I had assumed we would dine together, since we often did after I paid a visit to her office.

  “You can spare me half an hour, Mom,” I said, allowing my frustrated-daughter tone to conquer my professional-reporter demeanor. I turned back to Pamela. “Are you too busy?”

  Pamela laughed at our mother-daughter exchange in a carefree way that suggested, “I don't suffer from these little domestic squabbles.” I didn't know too much about Pamela's own family, except that she hailed from California. “I have a lot of festival business, but not so much I can't spare time for lunch. We all have to keep up our strength for maximum efficiency, right?”

  That was a typical Pamela remark. Coming from someone else, it might sound like an attempt at humor, or an over-the-top effort to impress the boss. In Pamela's case, it just sounded like Pamela.

  “Great. I have to run to the office after I gather some information here, but I'll meet you two at about noon, okay?” I asked. My mother nodded curtly; Pamela gave me a thumbs-up and glided into the accounts payable department with a pile of papers I assumed were invoices. The heels of her plum-colored shoes were at least two inches high.

  I shook my head and turned back to my mother. “Mom, how do I find out who signed out the company cars this weekend?”

  She pointed at a book on a side table. “Look in there. The date is on the right, then the name and nature of the trip. What is it that you're looking for?” she asked, her curiosity overriding her huff.

  “Oh, just in general,” I murmured, letting my voice taper off as I walked across the floor. The book looked like a guest book at a wedding. Its cover was white satin, and the pages were heavy card stock. I wondered if Pamela had picked this up at some sort of bridal outlet store.

  I flipped it open and noted some of the entries. Most of the trips seemed to have been made by Lyle, but occasionally I saw my mother's, Blanche's, and Pamela's names for various short trips around town. I saw the names, too, of some other employees who I didn't know. The nature of business varied from “Shopping for party favors” to “Business lunch.” The last page bore only two entries; neither was from the previous weekend.

  Although I was disappointed, I wasn't surprised. A murderer wasn't likely to write his name in the ledger with the addendum “To kill Logan Lanford.”

  On a whim, I flipped back to August and saw that Logan's name was listed several times as a driver. So Logan would obviously have recognized the car if he saw it in the parking lot at White Hen.

  I turned back to the room in time to see Mayor Paul, who until now had been speaking with Lyle Sylvane in a corner of the loft, entering his office. “Mayor Paul,” I called. “I'd like to get that comment from you now.”

  “We'll be more than glad to help you with anything you wish, Madeline,” said Mayor Paul with a toothy grin. “In fact, I'll just refer you to Lyle here, and he can give you a comment on behalf of city hall and answer any questions you might have.” I narrowed my eyes, and he added, “I'd love to help you myself, hon, but I have a telephone conference at eight o'clock.” He looked importantly at his watch and shrugged at me with apologetic helplessness, whereupon he disappeared into his plush oasis of an office.

  It was the word “hon” that put the final nail in Mayor Paul's coffin. I hated condescension from anyone, especially a man. Most especially a man who was Mayor Don Paul.

  Lyle was watching me expectantly, smug as a spider with prey in its web. I forced a smile and strolled toward him. “Well, that's great that you have time for me, Lyle. I just remembered, though, that I need to make a phone call.”

  Lyle made an expansive gesture toward his desk. He wore three rings on his right hand. Again, yuck. “Use my phone, Maddy.”

  “I prefer Madeline,” I said coldly. I stole a look at my mother and was surprised to find a rare look of approval on her face. I turned back to Lyle. “And it's a long-distance call. To Saugatuck, Michigan. Ever been there, Lyle?” I asked.

  Lyle looked a bit nervous, but that in itself wasn't evidence, since what my mother referred to as the “healthy sheen” of Lyle always looked—to me—like the slightly sweaty appearance of a guilty person. His hands fell back to his sides. “I probably been there a coupla times,” he said. His language seemed to be deteriorating. I pictured Don Paul as a Webley version of Henry Higgins, who had pulled Lyle out of a slum and polished him into a suit-wearing, ring-flashing PR man. “Not lately, though,” added Lyle. “I guess the mayor probably doesn't want you using this phone for that, although…” His eyes darted nervously to the mayor's door.

  I could have asked for someone's cell phone, but I wanted to talk to Wick in the privacy of my office back at the Wire. “That's okay. I'll go make my call, do a little work, and I'll be back with a fresh batch of questions for you, Lyle.” I gave him a steely glance with my professional smile and tried to look hard. It was difficult to try to intimidate Lyle while he was most likely assuming that I was flattered by his heavy-handed flirting; then again, if he was a murderer, he might feel extremely fidgety as the recipient of my “knowledgeable reporter” act. Time would tell for Lyle.

  I waved to my mom, telling her I'd see her around noon, and trotted back toward the stairs. Blanche stared at me with open curiosity, still clutching the same closed file folder that she'd been holding when I arrived. The smell of smoke hung around her like an aura. I began to wonder if Pamela had to work so efficiently just in order to make up for Blanche's devotion to gossip and cigarette breaks. “See ya, Blanche,” I said as I passed her.

  I began to hum “The Rain in Spain.” By the time I reached my car, I had moved on to “Just you wait, ’Enry ’Iggins, just you wait!”

  eleven

  The Webley Wire’s office used to be the private residence of a family called Peterson; at some point, an ambitious newspaperman named Angus Stepp bought it and started a one-man operation there, and it was eventually expanded to house the entire newspaper staff we had today: a whopping thirteen people.

  The Wire is a weekly. It came out, at the time, on Wednesdays, which meant we had approximately one full day left to file our story on Logan Lanford. A girl named Vicki Jenkins was working on Logan's obituary. I had persuaded Bill Thorpe, our editor-in-chief, to let me pursue an investigative angle, and I'd given him enough information about the Webley link to arouse his curiosity. He had agreed to let me look into it, as long as I finished my other stories as well.

  I navigated through the cramped headquarters that I called my place of employment. The first floor was made up of a lobby, which had once been a front hall; a series of offices, which had once been a living room, dining room, and rec room; and an employee lounge, which had once been the kitchen of the Peterson family.

  Upstairs were a few more offices and our morgue, as well as a little tiny room from which Adelaide, our high school senior, did telephone solicitations. The Wire office, in Mayor Paul's cheery town literature, was referred to as “a charming example of what sets Webley apart.”

  I did like the uniqueness of the place, although like everyone else who worked there, I enjoyed complaining about the drafty nature of the house and the thinness of the walls. My office was nothing to complain about. It was a large, sunny room filled with shelves of books and computer paraphernalia. It housed two desks: my own and Sally Watson's.

  Sally covered the school beat and wrote the horoscopes and whatever else needed to be written on a weekly basis. She was fortyish, with dyed brown hair and an attractively plump body. She favored sequined sweaters and tight black pants, and they looked nice on her. Sally had a strong handshake and a no-nonsense manner. She and I had loved one another from the start.

  The start, as I put it, was a quite accidental meeting with Bill Thorpe
at a party. I'd entered college with the vague idea of being a writer and had majored in English at St. Fred's, along with about a hundred other aspiring writers. When I graduated, I was faced with the great humbler: I had to start paying my own bills, not to mention a hefty student loan. I hadn't been interested in teaching, fearing that I'd get a roomful of students like Fritz. I began reading books with titles like Jobs for English Majors and Even English Majors Can Earn Big Bucks, but the employment outlook seemed bleak. One night my friend Kathy Prescott took me to a party of a friend of hers I “had to meet,” hoping that she'd inspire a romance. The party-giver had bored me unutterably, but I'd met Bill and his wife, Rose, and Bill had been looking for a few good reporters.

  Thanks to Bill's tutelage over the last five years, I felt I'd become a good newspaperwoman. I'd made friends too, in Bill, Rose, Sally, and several other coworkers.

  Now Sally contemplated me from behind an oak desk that had belonged to Mr. Peterson himself, and noted, “Ya look like a cat who smells a mouse, babe. A blonde cat, at that. See what I miss when I take Friday off?”

  “I dyed it Friday night, and it's more like I smell a rat.” I sat down at my own modest desk, not oak but metal (Sally had been with the paper longer), and reached for the phone. My hand hesitated as I noticed the amount of assignments I had spiked for the day. “I guess I better do the mundane stuff first,” I said aloud, reaching not for the phone but for my keyboard.

  “On to somethin’ good, are ya?” Sally's lazy speech fooled no one in our office; we knew she was the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “I think so. I'll be needing your expertise before long, but first I need a little more information.”