As I flipped through clippings on Reg Van Zandt, I got a sense of a man who’d been an impulsive daredevil. Signed up at sixteen. Flew more than a hundred missions. Shot down twice, escaped from behind enemy lines. He’d been a local hero when he got back. Despite the brittle, yellowed paper, the face of a bright-eyed boy stared out triumphantly from the photos. Reg Van Zandt had been cocky and full of spirit, for sure. Full of the devil. Whatever had happened to him behind enemy lines hadn’t dimmed his mischievous spirit one bit.
I flipped pages and followed the career of a man who’d set up a small shipping business that seemed to grow and grow. From a tiny brick building in the now fashionable downtown area on the banks of the Hudson River, the business had bloomed. The most recent clippings had shots of the ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new building in the Patterson Business Park. Twelve acres in a wooded setting near rail, water, and highway. A forty-thousand-square-foot building with nearly one hundred employees. Impressive. Of course, in the sixty-plus years that had passed since Reg Van Zandt had returned from the war, a lot had changed. Including the bright-eyed boy. Now he gazed up at the mayor as he shook his hand in the photo. Reg Van Zandt was in a wheelchair and well into his eighties. But unless I was wrong, he was still very much in charge.
And speaking of in charge, Ramona rumbled through the door, looking mad as hell, or as mad as Ramona ever gets.
“Bizarre,” she said, “our file on Quovadicon is not where it should be in the business section. I hate it when people move things or reshelve them in the wrong place. I’ll have to get in touch with you when I figure out where it’s gone. And we’re up to our patooties in people who all seem to have information emergencies. So many drama queens, so little time. Is your request urgent, Charlotte?”
“No,” I said, not wishing to make the week’s list of drama queens in the Woodbridge Library.
“Good.”
“In fact, this file gave me quite a background. Thanks.” I smiled gratefully. “I might see you on Friday. There’s an orientation meeting for Therapy Dogs here in the library.”
“No dogs in the library, Charlotte. You know that. Try to stay out of trouble. Although it does give my colleagues quite a thrill when you make the evening news.”
“It’s just the owners at the session. It’s to fill us in on what’s expected. We’ll try not to bark or pee on the floor.”
“The mind boggles.” Ramona vanished with a click of the heels on her blue cowboy boots. I was hoping that she really was up to her patootie in information drama queens and not avoiding my question about her opinion of Reg Van Zandt, local hero.
My closet consultation gave me great pleasure. At a glance during my reconnaissance, I estimated that the client had more clothing than Macy’s, much of it with the tags still on. It was straightforward, easy, and she was eager to do whatever she needed to transform her jammed clothing storage areas into results that would be magazine quality.
“Anything you say,” she squealed.
You could practically spread the gratitude on a slice of bread. She had a check ready, too, and pressed it into my hand the second the contract was signed.
Afterward, I had my work plan agreed on and an appointment for the next week to set the stage for “the purge.” It’s important for the client to buy into this process, so I always block off enough time to make sure it gets off to a good start. It’s hard to believe I get paid to do this, but I do, and I get paid well, too. In fact, well enough to buy lunch for my friends.
I dashed by Ciao! Ciao! picked up three focaccia sandwiches, and had my thermos filled with coffee. I headed over to see Jack at his bike shop, CYCotics. For some reason, Jack had picked a tedious strip mall on Long March Road to set up his dream operation. I would have suggested something a bit more upscale or at least trendy, but I wasn’t asked when he took out a three-year lease.
He called it a destination business.
I called it empty.
Jack looked up and blinked at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. As usual, he was wearing baggy shorts with a million pockets. The Hawaiin shirt du jour featured perky pineapples, which had apparently made him extra hungry.
“Wow,” he said, peering at the sandwiches. “Four cheeses.”
I cleared my throat.
He said, “And prosciutto. I love that. This is great. You didn’t have to do this, Charlotte.”
“Two sandwiches for you, and tiramisu for after.”
Jack said, “Tiramisu? You’re a bud.” He frowned, concentrating. “But then I’m not sure, I might have to eat that first.”
Jack has always been a beanpole. He never puts on an ounce. Since I hit thirty, I have to work a bit to keep the waistbands of my pencil skirts fitting. I like him anyway. But sometimes at lunch, that’s a challenge.
“I have some news for you. You’ve been gone so early in the morning lately and you’re getting home so late, we have to catch up.”
I looked at him in the expectation that he might tell me why he hadn’t been home after one a.m. that morning. But that turned out to be a waste of a raised eyebrow.
Jack picked up his two sandwiches. “Yeah, I know. It’s crazy lately. I wish I could stop and socialize, Charlotte, but with business picking up so much, I’m so far behind on stuff for the bike race that I can’t slack off at all. In fact, I have to go. Can you lock up behind yourself? Gotta run.”
I glanced around. I had yet to see a customer in CYCotics, although Jack swears he has plenty. “I can see that you’re run off your feet.”
“If my mouth weren’t full,” Jack said, “I’d have a snappy comeback to that nasty crack.”
“Hey, just calling ’em as I don’t see ’em.”
I wasn’t worried about my digs. We’ve been ribbing each other since grade school. It was better to tease him than to whine about how much I missed his company lately. I didn’t want to seem needy and clinging, even in my need ier and clingier moments.
As a rule, Jack pays no attention to any remarks. But this time, he narrowed his eyes at me. I’d never seen that before.
“Very funny. I’m busy with planning the bike race. You know that. We have lots to do. Race weekend’s creeping up on us. The future of WAG’D depends on it. They need support.”
As long as Jack Reilly was breathing, WAG’D would never lack support.
I said, “I know what a great cause this is, and I’d really like to help you with the race.”
“Um, right. I do have to go. Thanks for the lunch. And, Charlotte? Please don’t touch anything on the desk. Drop the spare key off at my place.” A playful punch on the arm and he was halfway out the door.
“Wait a minute. I’m volunteering to help you with the race, Jack. And not for the first time.”
“Um.”
“What do you mean, um?”
Jack swallowed and paused, his hand on the front door. “You know.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
It’s possible that I stamped my pink-and-red wedge heels at this point. “I do not. But one thing I do know is that people who are almost finished with their Ph.D. in philosophy should be able to express themselves better and not take refuge behind an um. That’s what I think.”
“Okay, fine. Bossy.”
“What?”
“Are you aware that when you get your teeth into other people’s business, you can be just the tiniest bit . . . ?”
“Helpful. I am a helpful person. I am not bossy. I make an effort not to be bossy. My job depends on it.”
“Well, under some circumstances, you can be a bit too intensely helpful. It gets on some people’s nerves. As your friend, I’m just saying.”
“That’s not true.” I sniffed.
He shrugged.
“Whose nerves?”
“Don’t push it, Charlotte. Just take the hint.”
“That’s not a hint. It’s a kick in the backside.”
“Sorry. Honest. But right now at this s
tage, there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’ve suggested that you help, and some people told me why that wouldn’t work. I’m used to you and I like you just the way you are, but maybe you should give some thought to how you are with other people.”
“What people?”
“No people in particular, just people in general.”
“People in general like me just fine.”
“Okay,” he said. “Later.”
Jack was not just my friend; he’d been my best friend since we were kids. We shared banter and ice cream and even separate floors in his house. We shared dogs and jokes and political opinions. We shared so much of our lives. Something was happening to change that. This past month, I’d hardly seen him.
He fastened his helmet and wheeled his custom racing bike out the door. With one fluid movement he was on the road. As I watched, another long lean cyclist pulled up beside him, waved, and pulled out ahead of him, laughing.
Female, unless I was mistaken.
Alpha, apparently.
“Well, I never got on your nerves before,” I protested to the empty shop. I made a superhuman effort not to reach out and straighten up the random stacks of receipts, chewing gum wrappers, empty coffee cups, orders, and catalogs piled in front of Jack’s empty cash box.
Exactly which people was Jack listening to?
Woodbridge has a lot to recommend it, including being nestled in the Hudson Valley. The roads are good and swoop through lushly wooded areas. Despite the threat of rain, it was a lovely early fall day with the subtle switch to September gold in the trees. But I wasn’t really watching as I drove out to meet Fredelle. I tried to adjust my thoughts from Jack’s weird behavior to Fredelle’s messy-desk problem.
It’s always important to concentrate on the client you’re meeting. You have to be totally present or you can miss a lot of cues and anxieties. Who knows why I was still stewing about Jack as I steered my Miata off Valley Drive and onto the long driveway leading to the Quovadicon head-quarters. The two lanes were separated by a manicured median, with low concrete planters set into the grass at intervals. The war hero had invested heavily in the driveway leading to his business, I thought. He’d sunk a ton of money into the landscaping. I could imagine that a messy desk might send a bad message to the kind of man who cared so deeply about appearances. No wonder Fredelle didn’t want her heroic boss to know about Barb Douglas’s problem.
I wanted to do the best I could for this kindly silvery woman who cared so much about the well-being of her staff. I suppose I should have been thinking less about her and paying more attention to the road.
An image filled my view. A vehicle? Wasn’t it supposed to be on the other side of the median? Had I made a mistake? I squeaked in alarm as I realized that the speeding green SUV was aiming straight for me on the wrong side of the road.
3
Avoid surprises and a soggy outfit.
Always keep a small umbrella in your briefcase
as well as a clear plastic bag to store it after use.
I froze. The vehicle was weaving wildly, leaving me no place to go. The white-faced woman driving seemed totally unaware of me. Seconds from a head-on collision, I unfroze long enough to whip the steering wheel to the right. As the Miata skidded toward the SUV, I yanked the wheel left and slid around. I managed to gun the engine and propel the car onto the grassy median. I slammed on my brakes, and my beloved Miata repaid me by jumping the low concrete planter in the middle. I heard the crunch as the undercarriage met the concrete. I scrambled out of the car and dashed across the median to the other lane to get the license plate number before the SUV was out of sight. But it had already rocketed around the corner.
As I stood openmouthed, a black-and-silver eighteen-wheeler shuddered to a stop in back of me with a loud whoosh of air brakes. That was something: first, being driven off the road and now standing in the path of a truck. Big rigs have always made me nervous. Stupid, I know, but my heart just hammers if I get too close to one. I dashed quickly to the side of the road. To add to the moment, it started to rain.
A burly middle-aged man with a baseball cap and an oversize mustache jumped down from the cab and stomped toward me, gesticulating. He was followed shortly by a younger guy with white-blond hair buzzed almost to the scalp. He was also tan. And very buff. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the Celtic tattoos decorating both his arms.
The first guy said, “Are you nuts? Do you know how long it takes to stop one of these rigs?”
The young guy pointed to the Miata. “What the hell? How did you get a freakin’ license?”
I react badly to that kind of comment. “I’m sorry, but you should ask the idiot who just shot down the wrong side of the road.” I pointed to the other side before I snapped open my cell phone to call Tony’s Towing. I’d sorted out Tony’s office and he’s always been grateful.
The older guy got the point. “How did you get stuck on that?”
“Not my fault,” I said.
“No, miss. Ah’m sure,” he said, dropping the grin, or maybe just hiding it behind that seventies mustache.
The second one still glowered.
I looked up at them from my full height of four foot eleven and said, “The wild woman I mentioned? That speeding SUV forced me off the road.”
The first man scratched his baseball cap and opened his mouth. He said, “I think that was . . .”
The second one shook his head slightly. Some secret trucker code perhaps.
“Well, hell, I’m Mel,” the mustache man said. “And he’s Del. And you must be?”
Were they yanking my chain? I narrowed my eyes at them. “Just swell.”
He snorted. “Can’t help our names, now, can we? Let’s get you off that bit of concrete, little lady,” Mel, if that was really his name, said. “Get back behind the wheel of that rice-burning toy and we’ll get you on the road. Won’t we, Del?”
“That Miss Swell or Mrs. Swell?” Del said.
“I’ll just call my towing company,” I said snootily.
“Now, now, little lady, don’t mind Del. He can’t help flirting with pretty gals. But he’s harmless. Save your money.”
With every bit of dignity I had, considering that my so-called toy car was practically impaled, I got behind the wheel and revved the engine. A bit of strained muscle from Del and Mel and the Miata shot forward onto the road, spewing grass. I waved good-bye as I headed for the building and the semi slowly rumbled off toward the highway.
I would have been suitably impressed when I pulled into the parking lot at Quovadicon if my knees hadn’t been like jelly after my two near misses. Not only was the building on the end of a scenic drive, but the grounds were gorgeous. I hadn’t really expected grounds, let alone this lovely wooded site. Whoever had done the site plan had left the woods pristine, and the building was set into the surroundings looking like it belonged there, the trees reflected on the glass cladding, a riot of fall flowers spilling out of cement planters near the front. I tucked the Miata in between a yellow Volkswagen “Bug” convertible and a shiny red Ford Focus and hustled up the front stairs to the wide glass entrance, set in tawny granite panels. I noticed that the wheelchair ramp had been nicely integrated into the building’s approach and lent it a lovely curved flow. Definitely not an afterthought.
If Fredelle Newhouse hadn’t told me the company was logistics, shipping, and storage, I wouldn’t have picked up a single clue from the surroundings.
Fredelle was waiting for me by the door as I stepped through and snapped my umbrella closed. I always carry a clear plastic bag in my briefcase to keep damp umbrellas from ruining my papers. I smiled at her.
This time her sweater was candy pink and had a tiny black Scottie dog appliquéd over her heart. I hoped that the drizzle hadn’t entirely wrecked my hairdo. If so, it was too late to do anything about it.
“I’m so glad you made it,” she gushed. Her small hands fluttered, in a blur of matching pink nail polish. “Shame about the rain.�
��
I couldn’t think of a single reason why I wouldn’t have made it under normal circumstances. No point in talking about the rain or even less about the weird events on my drive in. If you tell people you got stuck on a planter, they might be less inclined to take your advice.
She burbled on, “And right on time, too. Let’s go ahead.”
I smiled and glanced around the entrance. Elegant and classy. Silver-gray Berber carpet. Deep aubergine accent wall. For some reason I was expecting a wall-sized photo of the founder or at the very least a framed portrait, but there was only the crisp aluminum lettering of the company name mounted on the wall. Proud to be in Woodbridge was painted under it in flowing script.
Fredelle led. I followed. The espresso wood reception desk was discreetly set back and angled away from the door. As we passed it, she stopped to introduce me to a young woman who was gazing at her computer screen with an uncomprehending expression.
Fredelle cleared her throat. “Autumn?” she said.
“Mmm?” Autumn answered without actually turning. She had glowing skin and rich chestnut hair cascading in a shiny waterfall down her back.
“This is Charlotte Adams. Charlotte, this is Autumn Halliday. Autumn, Charlotte is going to be helping me find some more efficient ways to lay out our office.” Fredelle twisted her hands as she introduced me. She might as well have been wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that screamed I AM A BIG FAT LIAR in glossy black letters. Not that it mattered, as Autumn had continued staring at the screen and fiddling with a lock of her hair.
She did however manage to say, “Awesome,” but I was pretty sure she didn’t mean it.
Fredelle cleared her throat, and Autumn tore her attention from the screen.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand to Autumn, who swiveled to stare at it before reaching out to give it a boneless shake.
“Autumn Halliday,” she said, in case I had missed that before. “Nice to meet you too, Caroline.”
Death Loves a Messy Desk Page 3
