“Stay on the ground,” I told him. “And be quiet.”
“You never did bring me water,” said Lawrence. “I was promised water.”
I closed the door to the bathroom and headed hastily back to my receptionist’s desk. I had had virtually no visitors in the previous days I had been here, and of course, naturally today there was a small army of people passing through. Point in case: Detective Tedin was here. Waving at me with his inexplicable three rings.
I tried to smile, although I don’t know how well it turned out. Probably not well.
“Detective,” I said. “Good to see you. So very good. Indescribably good. My God, I’m just on fire with how completely and totally good it is that you’re here. Now, please sit down and wait and don’t move or touch anything, especially doors.”
“I haven’t said why I’m here.”
“Whatever it is, we’re not ready for it. It’s a very big day here, and we’re all a bit stressed.”
“Why?” said Detective Tedin.
“There’s a journalist here doing a story on the company. It’s going superbly well.”
Tedin’s face, however, gave up all of its skepticism at the mention of the word “journalist.” I was guessing he had done his share of pole dances for reporters as well.
“I won’t bother your journalist. I’m here to see Vanetta Jones,” he said.
“You’re not here to arrest her, are you?”
This was my attempt at a joke, and I certainly said it in a cheerful and lighthearted way. Sure, it was absolutely the wrong thing to say, but the delivery was fine.
“No,” said Tedin, humorlessly. “What, do you think we just go around arresting everyone who’s black?”
I was not prepared for the rather sudden injection of race into the conversation, although now that he said it, it was a bit what I thought, yes. I didn’t say that, however, because I am a receptionist/detective, not an interrogator of police. Although I did say:
“Why did you arrest Quintrell, anyway? Something about confusing stool softener with methadone?”
“We’re not sharing that information,” said Tedin. “May I see Ms. Jones now?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t aware that you would be coming by—did you have an appointment?”
I felt a weird surge of power when I said “did you have an appointment?” I almost wanted to fly off into a little receptionism fantasia and say: “Let’s check the book, shall we? Hmm … I don’t see your name in the book.” But I figured that Tedin was not particularly in the mood for my brand of nonsense in this moment.
“No,” said Tedin. “One of the great things about being with the police is that you can just show up,” he said. He sounded, well, I wanted to type “menacing,” but that’s entirely too strong. “Grouchy” is closer.
“I see,” I said. “Well, the problem with just showing up is that the person you’re looking for won’t necessarily be around.”
“She’s not here?”
“I haven’t been able to find her, although she was around, like, ten minutes ago. I think she might have stepped out for coffee.”
This was a pure lie, as there was an abundance of coffee here, there were entire oceans of coffee, and I hadn’t the slightest idea where she was.
“You think that,” said Tedin, putting emphasis on “think.”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I told him.
“Does Ms. Jones frequently disappear during the day?” asked Tedin, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why he was going to litigate this point.
“Usually when she goes out, she tells me,” I said, practically marinating myself in the lie, “but I was very preoccupied with playing hostess to our journalist friend here, and so I haven’t been available all morning. However,” I said, “I’m sure that wherever she is, she’s going to be back very soon.”
This was quite possibly true given that I wasn’t completely sure that she had left. However, I certainly didn’t want Tedin poking around here with Lawrence drugged on the floor.
“I suppose I’ll just wait here, then,” said Tedin.
This was not my favorite option either.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you waiting in her office.”
And this seemed to please Tedin. “All right, then,” he said. “You mind getting me a coffee while I wait?”
“We don’t have any coffee, but just because I’m so incredibly nice, I can give you a doughnut instead.”
This worked just fine, and Tedin shuffled away into Vanetta’s office, where I’m sure she would be delighted to find him, assuming she ever showed up again.
Right, the next thing to do was to check in with Quintrell and Gary, who were throwing things now. Obviously, it would be great to find Vanetta and also, one hoped, Charice, and maybe even Archie, but monitors were being thrown, and that shit had to get dealt with, stat.
“The police are here,” I told them.
“Oh no,” said Quintrell. “They’re not here to arrest me again, are they?”
“They’re here to see Vanetta,” I said. “But this is not the moment to throw monitors. Or to punch anyone in the face. This is the moment to appear calm and rational, and to look like you know what you’re doing.”
“We do know what we’re doing,” said Gary.
“We’ve decided to create a virus,” said Quintrell. “We are going to destroy DE from within.”
“Okay,” I said, “but if you do that, do it quietly and don’t contaminate me.”
“Well, it would be a computer virus,” said Gary. “It’s not like we’d be back here doing germ warfare.”
“Can we borrow your monitor?” asked Quintrell. “Ours got smashed.”
Before I had a chance to grapple with this question, Daniel Simone showed up, approaching our workstations in a very Lawrencian manner, with a little kick in his step.
“Hello there, Cynthia,” said Daniel. “It is I, Lawrence. Might you have a moment to meet with me?”
“You can drop the act. These people know who Lawrence is,” I said.
Quintrell and Gary, once again, continued to be surprisingly sanguine about a stranger showing up at their workstation and claiming to be their boss. It honestly didn’t bother them at this point, although Quintrell asked:
“Is there some kind of wedding going on? I saw someone dressed as a bride earlier.”
“It’s like there’s a production of Rocky Horror that’s happening around the edge of our lives,” said Gary.
This was a very poetic analogy, I thought, and on some level, Gary was right. And not just now. There is always a production of Rocky Horror occurring, somewhere, at the edges of your life.
“I’m getting married later,” said Daniel. “You’re all invited!”
“I’m in,” said Gary, despite not having a clue who this person was.
“Dahlia,” said Daniel. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that you might want to step into Lawrence’s office.”
It suddenly occurred to me that no one was watching Ignacio, which was surely a very bad thing, and also that there was decidedly an undercurrent of concern in Daniel’s voice. Daniel was a professional actor, or at least a semiprofessional one, and if an emotion had cracked through his patina of calmness, this was not a good sign.
“Sure,” I said. “Destroy the world quietly, you two.”
We headed back to Lawrence’s office and found that Ignacio was now passed out on Lawrence’s desk, just like Lawrence had been earlier, only Ignacio was on the other side of the desk.
“What happened?” I asked.
“We were just talking and then he started to get sleepy. At first I thought maybe I was boring him, but then it started to seem weird.”
“What … have … you done to me?” said Ignacio.
“We didn’t do anything to you, Ignacio,” I said. “We love you, don’t we, Daniel?”
“My name is Lawrence,” said Daniel.
“Yes, of course.” Although,
I didn’t think that this was really the sticking point now that the reporter we were trying to fool was roofied and sprawled out across the CEO’s desk.
“You’re both liars,” said Ignacio. “You’re all liars. Death to the infidels! Death to the enemies of France!”
I have no idea what that last bit was about, and frankly I didn’t think that Ignacio much did either. I did observe, however, that there was some sort of creamy-coffee-colored drink on Lawrence’s side of the table.
“Why did you give him a drink?” I said. “I told you that the real Lawrence was drugged!”
“You didn’t say with a drink!” said Daniel. “I just assumed that someone had hit him with a blowgun or a hypodermic needle or something.”
I very nearly yelled at Daniel for saying something so basically crazy, but I didn’t because I quickly realized that:
1. none of this was any of his fault
2. he was, at the moment, the sanest, most sober ally I had, and I shouldn’t take him for granted
3. assuming, very optimistically, that there was going to be a wedding, this sort of infighting would put a damper on it, and
4. “Who the hell gets hit by a blow dart?” while rarely spoken aloud, is precisely the sort of question that is asked by someone right before they get hit by a blow dart. Why tempt fate?
So I didn’t say any of these things, but apparently my silence was indictment enough to Daniel, who continued to defend himself, even though I had already given up the ghost.
“I just like props!” he said. “I didn’t think the interview was going very well, and I thought a good prop would be helpful.”
I looked at the drink, which looked disgusting, whatever it was.
“What did you give him?” I asked.
“Kefir,” said Daniel. “It’s kind of this milk drink that’s made from … well, I don’t really know what it’s made from.”
“I know what kefir is,” I said. Although, my knowledge of it apparently extended about as far as Daniel’s did. I knew that it didn’t generally contain roofies, at least.
Daniel could tell that I wasn’t mad at him anymore, though, because my next question was:
“You didn’t take any of it, did you?”
“No,” said Daniel. “Is he going to die?”
“Die?!” said Ignacio, who was apparently listening to us in spurts.
“No, he’s not going to die,” I said. “Where did you get that from?” I asked.
“Lawrence has a little minibar under his desk. There’s four bottles of kefir and some champagne.”
God, Lawrence was such an ass. “You never know when you want impromptu champagne.”
“I know when I want impromptu champagne,” said Daniel. “After I get married.”
This was Daniel’s way of asking if he could possibly steal this bottle of champagne, and so I said, “I see,” which was apparently my way of saying “yes, go ahead and take it.” Because he picked it up.
“So are you still going to make the wedding or not?” asked Daniel, in an admirable, if mad, showing of single-mindedness.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Although, I wouldn’t be so sure about drinking that champagne. Someone’s already put Lawrence’s private stash of roofies into his private stash of kefir.”
Daniel shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “You can always tell if a champagne bottle has been opened.”
Ignacio tried to stand and fell on the floor, hitting his chin on the chair, which was thankfully padded.
Daniel said, very reasonably: “Maybe we should call the police.”
This could certainly be done easily, at this point by simply yelling: “Hey, police!” but now that Tedin was skulking among us, it felt like the wrong time to bring him in, because he would want to know why I had waited this long.
“Take Ignacio into the bathroom,” I said. “See if you can’t get him to throw up.”
“Where’s the bathroom?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, come on,” I said, although I did take the time to walk Daniel and Ignacio there, feeling quite certain that Tedin was going to open the door, because that was how these things worked.
Tedin didn’t open the door, however. Instead I was faced with a new problem, one that we only discovered after we made it safely inside.
Lawrence wasn’t in the bathroom.
This, in itself, was concerning. But the capper, the bit that foretold that things were certainly going to go very downhill, very soon was this:
His clothes were there, on the floor.
Oh joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Just a brief recap, in case you’ve lost track, we have the following elements running around the offices at Cahaba. They are:
A poisoner
A whistle-blower
A saboteur, possibly?
Vanetta, missing
Archie, missing
My roommate in full bridal garb, missing
A police detective
A drugged journalist
A drugged and presumably naked CEO, also missing.
At that point, I was thinking that having a hit of that kefir maybe wasn’t such a bad idea. Having put all of these things together, I tried to manage triage. Naturally my phone rang, and naturally it was Emily, which was probably the worst possible option, although I don’t think I would have relished my mother calling either. I decided, however unwisely, that I would decline this call from Emily. This was a risk, of course, as she was my employer, and I did not want to tick her off. But she should have known better than to call me while I was at work.
“I’m going to check on the detective,” I said, and left Daniel in the room with Ignacio.
“Detective Tedin,” I said. “Everything okay?”
“Haven’t found Vanetta anywhere?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I was just dealing with a different problem,” I said. “I’m going to call her cell now.”
“I don’t have all day,” said Tedin, and I tried to look appropriately apologetic and secretarial.
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “I’ll make sure she comes in here first thing. And if I can’t reach her, I’ll let you know.”
I had mostly poked my head in on Tedin to make sure that naked Lawrence was not in the room with him, although in retrospect this seems like the sort of thing that Tedin would not silently endure. But I also wanted to check in just to make sure that Vanetta hadn’t slipped in there during the chaos, because I frequently find that when I lose things, such as keys or corpses, they are usually in the most obvious place.
Unsurprisingly, Vanetta did not pick up her cell phone when I called. I then tried to make a mental list of the places she could be, but this was not helpful, because the list was predominated by things like “in a cab driving quickly away” or “aboard a plane to Mexico.” I checked Tyler’s office, which was absurdly calm, given the circumstances. Lawrence’s office was empty. And Quintrell’s workstation was as chaotic as you would expect.
The break room contained Cynthia Shaffer, of all people, who was standing precariously on a chair, pulling something out of the top shelf of the cabinet. This would look suspicious, on some level, were it not for the friendly way that she greeted my arrival.
“Oh, hello there, dear,” said Cynthia. “You didn’t reorganize the cabinets, did you? I decided I’d look for the tea myself.”
“No,” I said.
“Well,” said Cynthia. “Now that you’re here I can describe them to you. Of course, they are all Christmas teas. Sugar Plum Fairy and Gingerbread Cookie, and I think there’s one called Sleigh Ride, although I might be confusing that with a candle. I’m sure Lawrence took them. Who else would want tea that tastes like a gingerbread cookie?”
This was a reasonable question, albeit posed in unusual circumstances. Cynthia had told me that she didn’t want to be seen by anyone, and raiding the office for Christmas teas seemed to go against this idea. Also, she answered the question herself, b
ecause she apparently wanted a Gingerbread Cookie tea, as she was here. Stupidly, I pressed on the latter point.
“Says the lady standing on the chair,” I said. “Do you want me to spot you?”
The last thing we needed was a Cynthia with a snapped neck in the break room. This would have really ruined the day, which was saying something, as the day was already a Dumpster fire.
“No, no, I’m fine,” said Cynthia, and I immediately put her in the category of old people who never wanted to admit to any infirmity. I went over to hold the chair steady anyway.
“You must want the Gingerbread Cookie tea pretty badly,” I said. “I thought you said that you didn’t want to be seen by anyone.”
“Oh well,” said Cynthia. “I want the Sugar Plum Fairy. The Gingerbread I would give away. Terrible tea. Even at Christmas, where I feel that drinking ridiculous teas is a sort of time-honored tradition. Joyce would get them for me, you know. She once got me this Candy Apple tea that was so positively awful that it took us six years to get through.”
Cynthia got off the chair and suddenly looked sad.
“It’s not up there,” she said.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I said, and I was suddenly alarmed that I hadn’t said it earlier. I even tried going in for a hug with Cynthia, but she—elegantly—pushed me off.
“Is it weird to say that I think she would have liked it better this way? Going out like this? She’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and her number was up. It’s not a pretty death, pancreatic cancer. It’s a lousy cancer.”
It struck me that poisoning wasn’t a pretty death either, but maybe death is one of those things like dancing. Everyone worries so about it, but ultimately the details aren’t important. I didn’t share this thought with Cynthia.
“I thought you were in hiding.”
Cynthia was still on tea, however. I suppose she must have wanted it because it was something of her sister’s.
“Of course, I haven’t seen my holiday tea stash in nine months. Other people could have drank it, or thrown it out. Maybe I should ask Vanetta if she remembers seeing it. She’s the only other person who drinks tea.”
The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss Page 23
