by E. C. Bell
“Thanks. That was kind of you.”
“Yeah, well. You know.” He stared out the window absently, then with more intensity. “What colour was that truck?”
“What truck?” My mind was starting to fuzz, and I searched for a place to set down the cup.
“That one near your place. That one you pointed out.”
“It was a black Ram. Why?” I finally ended up setting the cup on the floor, and was wrestling with the blanket. I was so tired, it was positively oozing from every one of my pores.
“I think it’s parked on the street.”
“What?” The tiredness disappeared immediately, replaced by the adrenaline pop of fear. “Are you sure?”
“No. Well, maybe.” He stared harder, nose to the glass. I pushed the blanket aside and walked over to stand beside him.
“Hurry,” he said. “It’s leaving.”
By the time I got to the window, the truck had turned the corner. All I saw was the tail lights as it disappeared.
“Was it the one?” he asked.
“No idea.” I walked back to the cot and plopped down, the tiny burst of adrenaline gone, replaced by more exhaustion. “No idea at all.”
“I couldn’t see the licence plate, the light was burned out.” He stared out the window for another moment, then went back to the chair behind the desk. “Don’t worry about it. You can tell the police tomorrow.”
“The police?” I could barely keep my eyes open, and his words were flitting around me like so many butterflies, impossible to catch.
“Yeah. The police. Let them know about the truck.”
One of my eyes slid shut, and after a brief struggle, so did the other one. I settled further into the blankets on the cot, thinking I could lie there and carry on the conversation with my eyes closed. It would be fine. And then, I was asleep.
Marie:
Off to Work
“I don’t think you should go to work today.”
James had spent the night curled up in the massively uncomfortable chair behind the little secretarial desk in the front office, while I slept on the cot. He was a bit cranky because of it.
I didn’t say anything, because I was trying to rub the wrinkles out of my clothes with my hands and it was going badly.
“Wasn’t there an iron here somewhere?” I glanced around the room, but there was nothing out of place. Even the tea pot and cups we had used the night before had been cleaned and put away. “I think I remember an iron—”
“I’ll get it for you. I still don’t think—”
“I know. I need to go to work. At least for the morning. Mr. Latterson needs an explanation, and—”
“Fine. I’ll get the iron.” James sounded exasperated, but I didn’t care. I stripped off my wrinkled blouse and skirt, thankful that I’d decided to wear a slip the night before. And full bum underwear. No sneaking a peek for James.
He hauled out the iron and an ironing board, which I hadn’t remembered seeing, from the inner office, and set it up for me, carefully averting his eyes when he realized I was as close to naked as he was probably ever going to see.
“Thanks.” I set to work on the blouse, horrified when the smell of smoke wafted up from the warmed cotton.
“I don’t understand why you won’t give yourself one day. It’s only one day. Latterson will understand.”
I kept my head down, unwilling to catch his eye. It wasn’t Mr. Latterson I was worried about, of course. It was Farley. He was going to come back soon, and I had to be there for him.
James flapped around as I smoothed the wrinkles from my clothes and got dressed, then tried to do something with my hair. I finally settled on a pony tail, pretending it was my version of an up do, until I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth with baking soda, which was the only thing in the tiny fridge in the office, and my finger. My updo looked exactly like a pony tail trying to hide unwashed hair. I sighed and rinsed the gloppy, horrible tasting mess out of my mouth, hoping it would at least make my breath better.
“Promise me you’ll talk to the police today.” He was standing right by the door with a cup of coffee in his hands, which he handed to me as I walked by. I sipped it. It was exactly the way I liked it.
“I promise.”
I meant it. I was starting to think hard about some of the things I’d found out about the Palais. I wanted to run some ideas past the police—after I’d talked about the fire, of course. Plus my homeless status. Thinking about that gave me a bit of headache. I took another sip of my perfect coffee, and sighed. It was going to be another long day. I could tell.
The police came to me before I could go to them. Sergeant Sylvia Worth and her side-kick Constable Williams were waiting at the front door of the building when James and I walked in, and I had a brief conversation with them. I couldn’t talk about much really, not about Farley and the Palais, anyhow, because James was hovering around. After a few rather fruitless minutes of me saying things like “I don’t know,” and “I have no recollection,” Sergeant Worth gave up.
“Thanks for your cooperation,” she said, and waved at Constable Williams. “He’ll finish the interview.”
Constable Williams, a weak chinned individual who wouldn’t make eye contact and treated me like I had somehow caused the fire myself, handed me a business card, telling me to call if I remembered anything else, and scurried out the door after the sergeant. I was free.
I dashed for the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator, waving good-bye to James, and trying not to think about the fact that it was in my best interests to keep on his good side, because he had a free place for me to sleep, at least for a while. I wanted to see if Farley had come back yet.
He wasn’t in the office, but Mr. Latterson was. He was destroying a perfectly good pot of coffee, and jumped a foot when I charged through the door.
“Here, let me do that for you,” I said, trying to act all fresh as morning dew, but he stared at me as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“I saw you on the news this morning.” He finished sprinkling coffee grounds near the vicinity of the filter and rammed the pot under the spout to catch the water that was already flowing freely over everything. “That was your place?”
“Yes. It was.” I tried to move him out of the way so I could clean up the mess, because I really needed to do something with my hands at that moment, and cleaning up coffee seemed like the best bet. I hadn’t seen the news crew. My mom watched the news, every morning, without fail.
“Well, that was a bit of bad luck.” He finally moved aside, and I set to work cleaning up the mess he’d made. “Any idea what happened?”
“No. I don’t think the police have a clue, either.”
“The police?” I turned and watched his face turn absolutely green. “You’ve been talking to the police?”
“Just now, down in the lobby. They were waiting for me.” I tried to laugh, and set out two cups. “I didn’t have much to tell them. I got there after it was burning.”
“Oh.” He flapped around, getting in my way as I tried to make his coffee the way he liked it, which, I assumed, did not involve a large number of grounds. “I’m surprised you’re here. I thought you would’ve taken the day off.”
“Oh well, there isn’t really anything I can do,” I laughed, hoping it sounded real, and handing him his coffee. “It’s not like I need to deal with insurance people or anything. No, I could use the day’s pay. So, here I am!”
“No insurance.” He stared down into the cup for a minute. “Well, that’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” It took me a minute to get myself back under control, because the no insurance thing made the whole homeless thing more real, and I wished, for a second, that I still had James’ handkerchief. By the time I pulled myself together, Mr. Latterson had retreated into his office, muttering about an afternoon meeting he had to prepare for.
I took one sip of Mr. Latterson’s terrible coffee and pushed th
e cup as far from me as I could. Then I pulled out the flash drive on which I’d been compiling information about the Palais. I had so little real information, I felt embarrassed. Then, I thought of the computer, down in Mr. Carruthers’ old office. What if there was information there that would help?
Without thinking too much, I hammered on Mr. Latterson’s door, bellowing, “Going out for a donut, Boss. Want one?”
I didn’t wait for him to answer, hoping that the post-fire sympathy was still running through his veins. I grabbed the key Farley had given me, and headed down to the main floor, to Mr. Carruthers’ old office. I hoped that the computer had something—anything—on it, because going through old files was a lot better than trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my week—or the rest of my life. This was something I could actually do something about. If there were any files.
James phoned me on my cell at quarter to twelve, giving me quite a start.
“Want to do lunch?” he asked.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I said, staring at the files I had left to copy from the abandoned computer in Carruthers’ old office to the flash drive. Fifteen more. That computer had a ton of files that someone had tried to delete. They hadn’t done a good enough job though, and I’d recovered almost all of them. I’d started reading one, called “Biography” but the writing was so pathetic, I didn’t check any more. I decided to simply copy the rest and check them out later.
“I’ll pick up some sandwiches from the deli,” he said.
“Sounds great,” I said, because it did. First, because I love the sandwiches from that deli, and second because then James would be out of the building, and I wouldn’t have to watch for him while I snuck out of Carruthers’ office.
“We can eat on the bench at the front of the Palais again,” he said. “You know, like a picnic.”
The idea sounded almost heavenly, but I wasn’t calling what we were about to do a picnic. I was calling it having a small talk about Helen Latterson and the conversation James had with her the night before.
Getting information for Farley was important, but it had become imperative that I get my hands on some of the money that Helen Latterson owed us, and quickly. I was pretty sure she and James had talked about it, before our non-date, and before the fire. So, I was going to make him tell me what was going on.
This was probably going to bring up the question about whether I would work with him at his dead uncle’s detective agency, but I wasn’t ready to answer that question anymore. I had been sure the day before, but one day can make a real difference.
I finished downloading the files and was safely sitting on the bench outside the Palais, enjoying the scent of the nearby pines when James walked up, loaded with bags and styrofoam coffee cups.
Soon we were munching on excellent sandwiches and drinking equally excellent coffee, made the way I like it. It was so nice, I almost didn’t want to wreck the mood by bringing up Helen Latterson. Before I could bring her up, James did.
“I hate to have to talk to you about this right now, but Mrs. Latterson was concerned. I think that’s probably the best way to describe her mood.” James stared over his sandwich at me. “I knew you wanted to know. Because the money would come in handy now, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, yes, it would.” I blurted out that rather obvious confession as though I was being dragged over broken glass. “What did she say?”
“She felt, given my lack of expertise, we were asking for far too much money. And that she needed the originals of the bank statements, not copies.”
“What?” I put down my sandwich, my appetite suddenly gone. “Too much money? Originals?”
“Yeah. To both.” He took another bite of his sandwich, and stared past me to one of the huge old pines glowering over us. “I think I talked her into one percent, which is all right. However, the original bank statements are a real problem.”
When he glanced at me, I saw that other James again, and wondered, for the first time, if I was being played. The cold little part of my heart suddenly got a whole lot bigger. Fresh handkerchief, indeed.
“There is no way I’m going to take those for you, James. Not a chance. No matter how much it’s worth.” I wrapped my sandwich and stuffed it in my purse, feeling exhausted. “Thanks for the lunch. I have to go back to work.”
“No, don’t leave, you misunderstood. I’m not asking you to get that information. Really. You’ve done more than enough.” He held up his hands entreatingly. “Please sit down and enjoy your lunch. I wasn’t trying to upset you. Not after everything you’ve been through. Really. I felt you needed to know what was happening with her, to keep you up to date. You know?”
I stared at him for a moment, trying to read his eyes, but they’d gone back to their nice, gentle, harmless blue and I wondered if maybe I was being paranoid. Having your place burned to the ground could do it.
“Yeah, I understand,” I finally said, and took another sip of the perfect coffee. “Do me a favour though, and don’t tell me how you plan on getting those documents. I really don’t want to know.”
“No problem.” He grinned, and in spite of myself, I smiled back at him. “Do you want to stay at the office a few more days? Until you get settled somewhere else? I know it’s not very comfortable, but the price is right.”
I’d been thinking about calling Jasmine and seeing if I could go to her place, but liked the idea of Jimmy the Dead’s office better. At least there were no rug rats roaming around, grinding chewed gum into your hair while you slept.
“Yeah, it sure is. Thanks, James.” And then I said, “I’ll think about it.”
I needed a place to stay, the office was free, which fit into my complete lack of money very nicely, and he had treated me decently since the fire. Why the hesitation?
Because I was afraid he’d read more into me saying yes than just yes. That’s why.
“I’ll let you know this afternoon, all right?”
“All right.” He finished the last of his sandwich and flicked the crumbs from the wax paper on the grass for the birds, a couple of which hopped right up to his feet to grab them in their greedy little beaks. “I should get back to work. You okay?”
“Yes,” I lied, keeping my eyes from his, so he couldn’t catch me. I didn’t feel okay. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel okay again, to be honest. “Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached over and touched my hand for a moment, his warmth making my skin come alive. “Talk to you this afternoon.” And then I was alone. Completely alone. Even the birds made a dash for freedom when James disappeared into the Palais.
When I went back into Mr. Latterson’s office, he still had his door shut, so I had time to organize the information I’d gathered from Andrea’s office. In the aftermath of almost getting caught and fired and things, I hadn’t had time to write down what I’d learned.
As I typed out as much as I could remember—including the two thirty-thousand dollar payoffs Andrea had received—I knew that Farley wasn’t going to be happy. He’d been so sure that Henderson was the one. But he wasn’t. He was an A-hole, for sure, but he hadn’t been involved in Farley’s death.
However, it looked like beautiful blonde Andrea just might be. Who was paying her? And for what?
No answers to that, yet. I hoped I wouldn’t have to “do lunch” with her again, in an effort to find out. I didn’t think my liver could stand it.
After I typed out everything I remembered from Henderson’s office, I went through a couple more of the files from Carruthers’ old computer, in an attempt to get as much information organized for Farley that I could. If he came back.
Even as I thought the word “if,” I knew it was not true. Mom had said as much. Farley needed to know more, before he could move on. I hoped that the information I was gathering was what he needed.
Farley:
Back Hanging Around with the Living
I came back sprawled on the floor between the re
stroom and the hallway going to the Latterson’s old office. I felt old, used up. Like I had nothing left. I couldn’t even move, so I lay on the threadbare carpet, listening as people left work for the day.
I could hear them chirping good-bye to each other as they left the building. They sounded relaxed—alive. I hated them for it.
Then I wondered—had I been gone hours, or days? Didn’t have a clue.
I didn’t want to move, but I knew I had to. I had to get to Marie, to tell her what I’d remembered. It was important.
Instead, I sank a few inches into the floor and stared at the layers of materials covering the wooden joists. A thin skin of cement, enough to get someone, probably an inspector, off somebody’s back, then underlay, then the carpet. I was imbedded in underlay. How odd.
I pulled myself up to standing, barely able to keep my feet under me. I didn’t feel substantial. Okay, realistically, I hadn’t been substantial for some time, but this was definitely different. This time I felt like a ghost. Not of this world. Not even close.
I went to find Marie.
Marie:
Farley’s Back
Farley oozed through the door, looking like a ghost.
All right, so he’d been a ghost for a while, but this time, he looked like it. He still had a little of his colour and glow, but he moved uncertainly, waving like a sapling in a strong breeze, as if he didn’t belong in the land of the living.
In other words, he looked like I felt.
“I know you don’t want me in here anymore, but I have news,” he said. I barely recognized his voice. It sounded as ghostlike as he looked. And then he said, “News from beyond,” and “oohed” a couple of times.
Gooseflesh popped up on my arms. “Stop that, Farley,” I said. “It’s creeping me out.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Trying for a joke.”
