Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  A heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

  I jumped and spun.

  I screamed for good measure.

  Robbie Van Zandt jumped, too. I believe he also screamed in unison with me.

  I slumped back against the Miata, gasping for breath.

  He clutched his chest with both hands and bleated something that I didn’t quite catch. Maybe I was still in scream mode.

  “Sorry,” I said finally realizing the source of the problem. “I have a tendency to overreact to sudden noises.” You’re going to have to get a grip, I told myself. Can’t go through life scaring timid men.

  He narrowed his eyes and said, “Well then, maybe you should just stay home.”

  I gawked at him. “What do you mean? What am I doing? Besides heading for my car.”

  “You know what you’re doing.” He’d dropped his hands from his chest. Of course, by now they were balled into fists.

  “I really do not.”

  “Don’t play that game with me. I heard you.”

  “Call me slow on the uptake,” I said. “But what exactly did you hear?”

  “I heard you talking about Barb’s desk with that witch, Dyan. I was standing right by the door, even if no one noticed. Everyone here likes to pretend I don’t exist.”

  He was right. I hadn’t noticed him hanging around after he’d stormed out. Dyan and Autumn must have seen him but ignored him. And now that I did notice him, even with his fists raised, Robbie Van Zandt was probably the least scary man on the planet. For starters, his glasses were crooked and his socks didn’t match. And he had tears in his pale rabbity eyes. For emphasis, he was shaking with emotion. I’m used to dealing with agitated people in my business. Even though he’d been aggressive, it was hard not to feel sorry for Robbie. The best thing to do was defuse the situation.

  I said soothingly, “I can see that you are very upset. And honestly, I didn’t say anything about the desk. From what I hear from Fredelle, Ms. Douglas is a valuable employee. I am not here to make trouble for your friend. Trust me. And please don’t worry.”

  “You can’t fool me, with your nice little ways and your fancy little shoes and everything. You’re a bitch like all the others. You came to Quovadicon to make trouble for Barb. To get her fired. Well, you won’t get away with it on my watch. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Just try to damage her and see what happens.”

  4

  Keep a computerized master list

  of simple annual and seasonal business tasks.

  Do one whenever you need to fill a bit of time.

  The message light was blinking when I opened the door, carrying a few groceries and the results of several errands. The message light is always waiting when I get home. Truffle and Sweet Marie woke up, stretched, yawned, and scampered over for a quick cuddle. I changed before getting back to routine office tasks. I hung up my pencil skirt and tossed the white shirt into the laundry. I carefully placed my shoes in the rack, where Truffle and Sweet Marie couldn’t get them. I changed into a soothing Lululemon top and yoga pants. Bare feet felt good, too. Soon my second-floor apartment in the old Victorian home would be too cool for that.

  As a rule, I’d catch the early evening news to bring myself up to speed on the world and Woodbridge. This evening, I couldn’t bear the thought of watching Todd Tyrell salivating over some poor man’s sad end in the trunk of a car. I’d had enough drama to last me for the day.

  I did up a bill for the afternoon’s visit and consultation. I drew up a contract outlining steps to sort out the wayward desk, including some time alone with Barb to help her organize her work space. I hoped she’d be willing. Most people were, if treated with respect. However, Quovadicon had already been full of surprises, and Barb had created a monster desk in a very short time. I dropped the bill and the contract into the Quovadicon file in my briefcase, ready to go.

  I tidied up the day’s business, opened my mail over the recycle can, and shredded envelopes with my name on them with my tiny, perfect shredder. I probably shouldn’t love it as much as I do. I jotted down five messages from suppliers, clients, and would-be clients, ending up with Fredelle’s.

  “Charlotte, call me when you get in. Please don’t wait until morning. Here’s my home phone number.” Fredelle’s soft voice had a little quaver in it. Poor Fredelle. No wonder Dyan thought she was a pushover.

  It was time to call it quits. I left the rest of the messages by the phone to be returned first thing in the morning during “office hours.” If you work for yourself, you have to ensure that you have a life as well as make a living. I decided I’d make an exception for Fredelle. That quaver in her voice had found my soft spot.

  But first things first: Truffle and Sweet Marie nudged my ankles to remind me that, as family, they had priority, and it was well past walk time, and anyway, where was their dinner? And what about treats, for that matter? They had a point. You can’t bring two rescued dogs into your life and not spoil them.

  I slipped on my flip-flops, picked up the pooches, and hurried down the stairs for a walk. As usual, Jack’s apartment door stood not only unlocked, but open. The living room, furnished mostly in bicycle parts, philosophy books, and ancient Mad magazines, was unlit and empty. Was it just my imagination or did it look more forlorn than usual?

  I’d been looking forward to sharing dinner with Jack. This charity race was eating his life. Never mind, the pooches were hungry and I was stuck making a stir-fry for one. Stir-fries are my signature dish. Actually, they’re my only dish, which is a signature in itself. I’d picked up another tub of New York Super Fudge Chunk and tucked it in the freezer to serve when Jack drifted in. Not that it mattered. I could manage on my own. I may be a small person, but I’m a big girl.

  Fredelle answered on the first ring when I returned her call.

  She said, “Did Barb Douglas try to kill you today?”

  “What?”

  Her voice rose. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what they’re saying.”

  I said, “Who’s saying?”

  “Please, Charlotte. I have to know. Is it true she tried to run you off the road?”

  I gawked at the receiver. “I don’t even know what Barb Douglas looks like. But someone was definitely driving erratically when I was on my way to your office, and she would have hit me if I hadn’t . . .”

  I heard the gasp. “Then it is true. She tried to kill you.” “I didn’t get the impression this woman was trying to kill me. So I didn’t take it personally. It was a bit shocking, though.”

  “I can’t really believe it. But did you see her?”

  “I saw a woman in an SUV. I saw her face quite clearly. I’ve never seen Barb Douglas before, Fredelle, so it might have been her. She seemed panicky. I don’t believe she even saw me. And it does seem highly unlikely that she’d try to run me off the road just because I’m being consulted on some office procedures.”

  “But our project is really a ploy to do something about her desk.”

  “Did she know that?”

  “No. But she’s very smart. She might have figured it out. Others in the office were making bitchy remarks.”

  “Even if she knew I was the person coming to look at her desk, what would she accomplish by running me off the road? The desk would still be there. Someone else would do something about it.”

  Fredelle’s voice brightened. “Yes. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Not even a bit. And anyway, some of my colleagues might disagree with me, but people with messy desks can be valuable employees. I’m not sure yet what’s going on with Barb’s desk, and I’ll have to have another look at it to analyze what’s going on, but I do know it’s not your biggest problem in that office.”

  Fredelle couldn’t let go of the previous topic. “But this woman did come straight at you in a vehicle?”

  “I’d just turned off Valley Drive and was heading toward your building. She shot down the wrong side of the driveway like the devil was
on her tail, and I had to swerve to avoid her.”

  “You mean, you could have been . . . ?”

  “She was just in a hurry and she wasn’t expecting anyone. That’s all. It was stupid and dangerous and whoever she was, she owes me an apology.”

  Fredelle said, “You are so right. I’ll be speaking to her about it. In the meantime, you have my apology, Charlotte.”

  “Thank you, but not really necessary.”

  “So, you still will take this job? You won’t just leave us in the lurch? Abandon us to . . .”

  I said, “I plan to continue with this job. I’ll have to have a word with Barb Douglas, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Since you’re on the phone, I have something to ask you. Are you sure that Barb Douglas has no trouble getting her work done?”

  “No. She’s very prompt. And thorough.”

  “And except for Dyan, does anyone have any problems?”

  She hesitated. “Not really. Everyone is quite pleased with her. She really knows her technology. Very up to date. And of course . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Robbie is quite smitten.”

  “I figured that out. So if no one is bothered, why is this a problem for you?”

  “Dyan is doing her best to stir up some of the others. Even the guys on the other side and the salespeople. Now she says she’s going to call the health department.”

  “And these other people are complaining to you?”

  “That’s not the problem. Someone is making sure that Mr. Van Zandt hears about it. That Dyan is so vile.”

  “And she wants your job.”

  “And she imagines she can use poor Barb to oust me. But she’s not going to harm Barb, and she’s not going to get her claws on my position. This office is everything to me. Everything. And she’s not going to get to me. I have been with Quovadicon since Mr. Van Zandt came home and set it up. I would die before I let her rip this company apart. And Charlotte?”

  “Yes?”

  “We need you to help us. You can’t leave us.”

  “I don’t plan to. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Fredelle. How’s ten o’clock?”

  When you’re single, you can find yourself alone when you don’t want to be. This hadn’t been such a problem for me recently, because Jack was always there, someone to talk to, someone to lean on, someone to eat New York Super Fudge Chunk with. Sometimes Jack was better than a girl-friend because you knew he would never borrow your clothes and forget to bring them back. And he was better than a boyfriend because he would never break your heart and cheat and lie and generally leave you no choice but to toss your engagement ring into the Hudson. Too bad Jack wasn’t there this night. Pressures of organizing a bike race and fund-raiser and no need of my help whatsoever. Thank you very much, Miss Bossy.

  Never mind, I have lots of good friends. I didn’t need to be sniffling into my tub of ice cream just because he was hardly ever around anymore. I didn’t have to wither on the vine. I picked up the phone and called my friend Margaret Tang.

  “How about a movie?”

  “I can’t. Ow.”

  “Margaret?”

  “Ow.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ow. Ow.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I cut myself, if you must know.”

  “You cut yourself? Is it serious? Should I call 911?”

  “Better not. I’m just shaving my legs. I have a date in twenty minutes.”

  “A date? You have a date? What date? Since when do you have a date?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Charlotte. I am a reasonably presentable professional woman, not yet thirty-one. The kind of person who might even be able to get a date, in fact.”

  Oops. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’m not suggesting that you couldn’t get a date, it’s just that . . .”

  A chilly silence drifted over the line.

  “Just what?” Margaret said.

  “It’s hard to know what to respond to first. The fact that you’re shaving your legs while you are on the phone, a form of multitasking that can lead to permanent disfigurement, or the idea that you have your first date since moving back here and yet you didn’t mention it to me, your friend for what? Nearly twenty years?”

  “I didn’t mention it to anyone because I didn’t want to have this exact conversation. What exactly is wrong with me having a date, Charlotte? What am I, some kind of pariah?”

  “Of course not, but didn’t you tell me that date was a four-letter word?”

  “That would be then. This would be now. Oh crap, it is bleeding. I don’t have anything to stop it. I suppose I’ll have to go on my date with scraps of tissue on my legs. Maybe I’ll wear jeans. Maybe I will call 911. Mona Pringle probably knows what to do. Thanks a lot, Charlotte.”

  “But—” Click.

  I didn’t call her back merely because I wanted to know who the date was. I had advice. Good advice. That’s my job. To help people.

  “Try cornstarch,” I said when she picked up the phone. I listened in disbelief as she swore. “I didn’t know you had words like that in your vocabulary, Margaret. You’ve always been so . . . restrained.”

  “Shaving injuries change a person. Get used to it,” she snapped.

  I decided it wasn’t the best time to ask who the date was with.

  Margaret sniffed. “Did you say cornstarch? I have a box somewhere in my kitchen.”

  “Just pat it on and before you hang up again, I’m curious, who’s the date with? Anyone I—” Click.

  Oh well. Obviously, it was a tense moment and I had to give her space. But who was she dating? Why wasn’t I in on this? What was the good of being friends for all these years if we didn’t share every little detail when we were lucky enough to have little details? What had Margaret done to get little details? That’s all I wanted to know.

  Next I tried Sally, just in case she was up to a second girls’ night in a row. Sally’s husband, Benjamin, informed me that Sally had had a rough day with the four children and was flaked out on the rug in the family room, snoring. I considered calling Margaret back to warn her that dating can lead to falling asleep on the rug after a rough day with the kids, but I didn’t want to get another earful of new vocabulary.

  So much for the misfits sticking together forever.

  To top it off, my friends Lilith Carisse and Rose Skip owski were in L.A. on a belated visit to Rose’s daughter.

  It always pays to have a Plan B when you feel like company and find yourself alone. My Plan B usually involves decluttering. There’s always something that needs to be done. I keep a list of tasks handy, especially the type of ten-minute chore that a person tends to forget about until it becomes a problem. I headed for my medicine cabinet and checked the expiration dates on my medications. Then I hit the fridge and checked the vitamins. I put the ones that had outlived their dates in a small basket and parked it in my cupboard out of reach of the dogs until I could take it to the local drugstore for disposal. I jotted that onto my master To Do list.

  There’s a great feeling that comes from getting rid of silly stuff that clogs up your life. Especially items you couldn’t use because they were past their best-before date and still you couldn’t quite bring yourself to throw them out because you paid good money for whatever it was.

  Naturally you will feel so virtuous that you will reward yourself. Enough work and worry. I knew exactly how to do that. I picked up my iPod and selected my James Blunt favorites. I curled up on the sofa with a cuddly throw and my pooches and a few purely medicinal chocolates. Luxury.

  “You’re beautifulllll,” James warbled.

  What a great way to make sure none of the toxicity of Fredelle’s office and her office mates got under my skin. Wouldn’t want that to contaminate my life.

  My subconscious inquired exactly how Fredelle had learned that Barb Douglas had tried to run me off the road. My eyes popped open.

  I hadn�
�t told her.

  I hadn’t told anyone.

  The truck drivers? Mel and Del? There had been no one else around. But could they be part of the great “get rid of Barb Douglas” conspiracy?

  At five minutes to ten the next morning, I arrived at Quovadicon. There was a slight September nip in the air, and I wore a crisp fitted jacket to give myself that extra bit of authority I thought might be necessary, a flowered skirt, and my purple leather stiletto boots.

  Fredelle was already hovering around the door spreading anxiety when I got there. Her cotton sweater today was a deep and beautiful periwinkle. The pin appeared to be a squirrel or possibly a chipmunk. I spotted a glimmer of lavender in her nail polish. Maybe it was the periwinkle that made Fredelle look pale as a breeze.

  Autumn sat at the reception desk biting her lip and staring. The phone rang, but Autumn didn’t appear to hear it. She watched, transfixed, as Robbie Van Zandt paced back and forth in front of the desk, clenching and unclenching his fists. Maybe that was why Autumn seemed on the verge of tears. Although possibly she was trying not to laugh. Robbie was definitely not the type to inspire fear.

  I said, “Good morn—”

  “She’s not here,” Fredelle whispered.

  “Who?” I said, hoping the answer was Dyan.

  “Barb. She didn’t come in.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you blame her?” Robbie blurted. “She’s practically being persecuted by all of you she-witches, and you expect her to come in and take it day after day? What is the matter with you people?”

  She-witches? Puh-lease.

  At that moment Dyan slunk into the reception area and shot Robbie a look of pure tanned malice. Today she was even more dramatic in black with stud decorations than she had been in leopard pattern.

  Robbie pointed at Dyan. “It’s you. You’re the one behind it. Don’t worry, it will catch up with you. What goes around comes around. You will be sorry and I mean it.”

  Dyan upped the ante by laughing. Autumn emitted a tiny gasp.