“But,” I said quickly, “if you slip quietly out the front door, I can claim complete ditzy ignorance, make a few copies, stick a label on them, and viola! By tomorrow, you’ll be able to talk to Bill about his client.”
“You make it sound like magic.”
“That’s what it is. Secretary magic.” I made an honest attempt not to beam at him, yet I couldn’t really help myself. My God, what a cutie.
“Well I’m glad I got to meet you first, Carol.” Detective Haglund got to his feet, picking up the few things that he wasn’t going to leave with me. He shrugged into his jacket. “Sounds like I started with the right person.”
“I’m always the right person to start with.”
He held my worshipful gaze with his own. His was not worshipful, I suppose, but it was a healthy shade of appreciative. I exercised self-restraint and did not leap on him.
“Do you have a business card or anything I can give Mr. Nestor?” I asked.
Gus produced a stack of cards from that same bottomless pit of a pocket where he kept everything he owned. I took three of them. “For the QA people,” I lied. I gave him a card of my own, because I’d been careful to grab a few when I passed my desk on the way back from getting his soda, my intentions fully formed.
“This is my direct line,” I explained, indicating the obvious, as an excuse to get right up next to him and bow my head next to his, “and this is my cell phone. Feel free to call me on the cell, if you need to.”
I smiled up at him without much pretense.
“It’s best to call me instead of Mr. Nestor, anyway,” I continued, “because I always know how to get in touch with him, and I don’t mind. The clients call me frequently. I don’t have a husband or a roommate or anything, so it doesn’t bother anybody.”
Detective Gus Haglund peered at me.
“I’m saying that I’m single,” I assured him.
Oh friends and neighbors, that was so unlike me. I swear it was that screw deposition that made me into a tramp. But no, you say. You say, Carol, you can’t blame everything you did that afternoon on being bored at work. People are bored at work every day without resorting to harlotry. So I’ll make this admission. I’d been divorced for three years and had been on very few dates. I hadn’t been asked much, hadn’t wanted to go out much anyway, and hadn’t sent out any signals. An entire life upheaval had happened to me back then, and as a result I’d retreated into a protective, quiet little shell that was, if not utterly rewarding, comfortable and easy for me. Emerging on the other side from this extended mental vacation, I found myself feeling more confident than ever and also a little reckless. I was doing harmless eccentric things in every corner of my life—painting my furniture, buying racy shoes, acting rather indifferent to authority. This episode was a bit more extreme than any of the others had been so far, but then again, Detective Augustus Haglund was my inspiration.
How is it that a human can feel mortified and pleased at the same time? I couldn’t believe I’d just announced my availability, but I was proud of myself for having done so. Anyway, what was the worst that could happen? I figured that at the very worst, Detective Haglund would leave the building puzzled and disgusted by the trampy secretary who had assaulted him after just ten minutes of acquaintanceship, and tomorrow when he came to meet with Bill, he would politely ignore me.
What happened instead was that he said, “Maybe you should give me another one of those cards. One has to go in the file, but I’d like to keep one for myself. In case I need to verify any information with you.”
Beaming, I handed him another business card. I hoped my hand didn’t shake when he took it from me.
He said, “Thank you for your time and all your help.”
Oh, no! He had to leave? Probably had some murders to solve, suspects to grill. That sounded a lot more exciting than what I had to do. He had to follow some leads given to him by his streetwise informants, who were doubtlessly all hookers. He was probably friends with lots of hookers. They were probably all hookers with hearts of gold, who looked upon him as their savior. I wished I were a hooker with a heart of gold.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early,” I said, guiding him back toward the office lobby.
He agreed that he would. So much in common! I kept doing silly things for him, like pushing the elevator button and waiting while the rackety old deathtrap lurched up to our floor. Lucille watched us, hawklike, from the reception desk.
“I forgot to ask you,” said Detective Gus Haglund suddenly. “Did you know Adrienne Maxwell?”
“Not very well, but I talked to her a few times. It was a couple of years ago.”
“I may have some questions for you tomorrow.” The elevator came, yawning open before us. He held it open with one hand, his attention on me. “Nothing intense, so don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“I’ll see what I can get from Mr. Nestor first; it may not even be relevant.”
“You’re such a tease,” I accused him.
“Bye,” said Detective Gus Haglund.
“Bye.” I watched the elevator close and leave. Screw, screw, screw. The words sang softly in my head.
“Scale of one to ten?” asked Lucille rather loudly.
Turning from the doors that had just devoured my new friend, I told her, “His name is Augustus.”
Charlene materialized at Lucille’s side. “Well? What did he ask you?”
“Nine and a half,” I said to Lucille.
The receptionist looked disappointed in me. “Why not ten?”
“Because all the data has not been compiled. Now, I need to get back to work.”
Having declared my need to get back to work, I was cleared to come and tell them everything that had just happened. Women want details, and women provide details. If there is a detail a woman can’t remember, she is perfectly qualified to make something up that is just as good.
So impressive was Detective Haglund that we barely discussed why he had come in the first place. The important thing was that he had arrived looking good, that he hadn’t shot down my advances out of hand, and that he was coming back the next day. His cuteness went a long way to crushing speculation about why he was interested in Adrienne Maxwell’s suicide or what Bill Nestor might be able to tell him about it.
Chapter Two
A legal secretary is not necessarily a secretary who abides by the law, but a secretary who works specifically for an attorney, paralegal, or judge. The qualifications are specialized: one must be capable of performing ordinary secretarial tasks while tolerating whatever brand of mental illness the attorney, paralegal, or judge is suffering. Secretaries who work in the non-legal field may argue with me that mental illness is not exclusive to the legal field. However, like eating disorders and ballet dancing, mental illness and law are a matched pair.
As a legal secretary, I learned to wrangle paper. The practice of law can generate mountains, tides, great rivers of paper like molten lava, so heavy that the fissures could crack open the Earth’s crust if brave souls like myself were not there to file it all away. There are lots of ways to waste paper, and I am proficient at all of them except origami. I can make far too many copies of one document, create a special file called “extra copies” and then stuff them in there; I can just make one copy of something really long and then never look at it again; or I can distribute copies of things to long lists of people who will never read them and then generate a memo telling those same people that I sent them a copy of the thing they don’t care to read. Litigation loves paper. Despite everything that modern courts are doing to convert to electronic data, the legal system finds ways to use email, the internet and electronic filing systems to create yet more paper.
A client of the firm always had a file full of paper regarding his or her case, and I lavished love and attention on that file, stuffing it with all the extra paper, labels, sticky notes, and tabs that I could find. When the case was finished and the client
no longer actively being billed, I kissed my gorgeously maintained baby good-bye and sent it to storage where it slept in long rows of boxes full of similar files. Months or years might pass before I needed it again, but always they could be summoned back to me, as a medium might summon a wandering spirit.
Except that I didn’t have a medium; I had Lloyd.
Lloyd must have been dropped on his head as a baby. That was the only reason I could think that he was so automatically and uselessly disagreeable. He somehow had become the manager of MBS&K’s file room despite being the most reticent worker I had ever known. I speculated about his making deals with Satan, though I doubted Satan would have had the patience.
The afternoon before, when I asked him to retrieve the Adrienne Maxwell file from storage, he’d done an admirable job of eye-rolling and sighing. Please understand, “storage” is not in Anchorage, Alaska. It is in the basement of our building. All that evil little troll had to do was take the service elevator downstairs, pick up one file, and then ride the elevator up again. I had the gall to ask if I could get it back the same afternoon.
He responded, “I have sixteen new files to open. I have a copy job rush for Bronk. I’ve got to get five cases of coffee to the break room. I’m expected to get these FedEx’s delivered to the lobby by four.”
Lloyd perpetually had a list of things to do that he would gladly rattle off to anyone who asked him to do something else, giving the impression that he was the lone worker in that vast and manically busy file room. He had three clerks under him, somewhere. But maybe they were hiding.
I asked, “How about tomorrow morning then? At seven?”
The hour of seven offended Lloyd, though I happened to know that he was always at work by six. Come to think of it, I didn’t recall a time when he wasn’t at work. He must have had a cave back in the file room where he slept curled in a little ball, surrounded by the skulls of his victims.
“Bill will need time to review it before an eight o’clock meeting,” I insisted.
“Well, why’d ya wait until the very last minute to ask for it?”
Honestly, I didn’t have to explain myself to this evil little troll, but here I was, doing it anyway. “The meeting was only set up a little while ago.” And then, because he kept staring me down, I found myself explaining even further. “A detective from the police department is meeting with Bill about this case file. First thing in the morning.”
“What’s a detective got to do with anything?”
“This client died last week.”
“Why’s he want to see her file?”
I was beside myself with frustration. “I’m sure I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to him tomorrow morning and find out.”
Lloyd fixed me with a watery, baleful stare.
“Can I please put in a request for the Maxwell file now?”
He grumbled, which is as close to a yes as you’ll ever hear from Lloyd.
*****
And so, on the Thursday morning that Detective Augustus Haglund was going to meet with Bill Nestor, I got to work at seven. The question of what-is-my-sexiest-but-still-work-appropriate-sweater had been answered with my eggshell white twin set, which I had been told looked good on me. I had actually put hot curlers in my dark hair, and I had used a slightly darker eye shadow than usual. But I put a limit on the vamping up, because Gussie was a detective and might notice that I’d gone out of my way to look pretty. So, no halter top, no leather mini-skirt, and I kept my heels at two inches rather than four.
For a moment I hoped my sexier appearance might have a positive effect on Lloyd and he’d just give me my file without grumbling or swearing. “Good morning?” I called into the rows of files. “Lloyd, are you in here?”
Lloyd shuffled out, rheumy-eyed and scowling.
“Good morning!” I insisted. Just try, I thought, just you try to piss me off. I was in a happy place and I was lookin’ fine.
“What is it?” asked Lloyd. He glowered up at me. Lloyd was 170 years old, and his entire face was made of a frown. His eyes always leaked behind his thick, warping glasses. His body, and frankly I don’t even like thinking about it, was both scrawny and pot-bellied. I try never to mock people just because they aren’t especially attractive, but Lloyd was a bastard.
“I’m here to pick up my file. Adrienne Maxwell.”
Let the performance begin. Lloyd executed his critically acclaimed rendition of a man who (a) doesn’t know what you’re talking about, (b) doesn’t know why you’d bother him with your burdensome presence, and (c) isn’t going to make any attempt to discover the answers to (a) or (b). But I waited him out this morning. I was in my eggshell twin set. I was a saucy brunette with smoky eyelids and wavy locks of hair. I had the nerve to smile at him sweetly. We stood that way for fifteen seconds.
He shuffled to a cart laden with files. Mine was on top, and we went through the procedure of Lloyd transferring it laboriously into my arms. Had I tried to pick it up myself, I might have lost a hand.
“Thanks, Lloyd!”
Lloyd probably kept his job because the attorneys were terrified of him. Fear was not my response, exactly. Gruesome fascination was closer to the truth. Over-the-top kindness is the best way to avenge oneself on Lloyd. He can’t stand to believe he hasn’t ruined your day. I planned to buy him a vending-machine candy bar later to thank him for his help. It would drive him nuts.
I took a few minutes to review Adrienne’s file before taking it to my boss. Bill had a thriving legal practice setting up estate documents for people, and as his secretary I attended at least one and often several meetings a week with clients to go over their estate plans. A client from over two years before, namely Adrienne, didn’t stand out in my mind in any good relief. I might have recognized her had she walked through the door, and I’d heard her voice on the telephone a few times, but the meetings themselves? No, they weren’t anything to which I could attest, to use the legal term for it. After enough of these, it all starts to meld together. The same questions, the same forms, the same procedure for getting it all signed. The will, the power of attorney, the advanced healthcare directives, and sometimes a trust.
Lucky for us, Bill took meticulous notes about the people he met. So I could see that Adrienne had been planning to take a cruise with her cousin, and that she taught a community class on low-sodium cooking. This helped flesh her out. With a pang I realized that she was dead.
We had met with plenty of widows like Adrienne. Women tended to outlive their husbands, so it was a common facet of the business. Bill was very good with older women because he was so polite and unthreatening. With any one of them, Bill ran through all the minutia of her property and funds and where she would like it all to go, but to divert the poor thing from dwelling on her own death, he would always ask about travel plans, family, friends and who would be looking out for her. He made himself seem like the ultimate guardian angel, affirming that she locked her doors at night and didn’t talk to strangers. The client usually responded well to this; a woman who has lost her husband doesn’t mind a capable man expressing concern about her well-being. And Bill never did it in a way that seemed lecherous. He wasn’t after their money or out to take advantage of them, and they could sense it in his dark and compassionate gaze.
But he was like that with them all, though in a less intense way with his male customers or with the married couples, but knowing that he had done these things for Adrienne Maxwell still didn’t call up specific memories of her. I looked through her forms, which were the standard set-up with nothing out of the ordinary to help me recall her.
I think Bill learned of her suicide the week before, on the Monday after it happened, when her daughter called to tell him. He mentioned it to me in our morning “powwow,” as he liked to call it.
“You remember Adrienne Maxwell?”
I admitted to knowing the name but not recalling her specifically.
“She died over the weekend,” he said.
“Oh, that�
�s too bad. She wasn’t very old, was she?” I puzzled through my faint memories.
“Why no, she wasn’t even sixty yet. Listen, Carol,” and here Bill rose from his desk and came closer to speak to me more confidentially. “According to her daughter Clarissa, it looks like Adrienne committed suicide.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I know it’s hard to believe. Sometimes those who have lost a spouse find it hard to be alone. It’s really a shame.”
Sounded like a cliché to me but I had to keep in mind that I was so happy to get rid of my stupid ex-husband that I’d invented a little song and dance about it: He’s gone, he’s gone, do the happy dance, gone to be an ass to someone else, la la la la. Or something like that. I hadn’t really been trying for art. But I had to grant that some people might miss their spouses.
I expressed the same thought to Bill. “I guess I don’t know what that’s like, to lose a spouse and have it be painful.”
“Oh, Carol, you’re too funny.” He pretended to be scowling at me for a moment, waving his finger. “Do me a favor, though. Don’t mention this around the office. Ms. Maxwell’s family has a certain amount of pull around town. They’re rather particular about this rumor spreading.”
“Okay, mum’s the word.” I locked my lips closed. I never gossiped about our clients. It wasn’t good business, and most of the time they weren’t interesting enough anyway.
He backpedaled suddenly, as if concerned that he might have offended me. Bill was always thoughtful about my feelings. “Oh, I know you’re very discreet. And it’s not a state secret. But I know how Lucille can be.”
I smothered a laugh.
Bill did an impression of a Southern belle, saying, “Ah do declare, how shockin’ that our client has voluntarily shaken her mortal coil!”
He did a pretty good Lucille, who was, indeed, the goddess of gossip and who tried to hide her blatant nosiness under a patina of innocent Southern charm. Still, he was right. I understood what he meant, and I didn’t say anything. Thus no one at the firm took much notice that we’d had a client die—hell, Bill was an estate attorney. Death was part of his business. His clients died often enough. If Gus Haglund hadn’t shown up asking questions, I guess no one would have said much of anything.
My Boss is a Serial Killer Page 2
