Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  whether it’s paper or electronic, whatever suits.

  Use it for all appointments, business and personal.

  To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to approach Barb Douglas. Whatever she imagined I was planning to do to her on my first visit to Quovadicon, she had certainly been extremely upset by it. Never mind. You don’t get anywhere in life by being a coward, I reminded myself.

  I found her building without any problem. Woodbridge is short of apartment buildings and condos, but if you’re lucky you can find, as I did, an excellent unit in an older home that has been converted to multiple units. There are many throughout the city, and you just have to know someone to get one.

  Barb Douglas had hit the jackpot with a place on Lilac Lane, a tree-lined cul-de-sac with just four houses. The white clapboard house looked well maintained, and the fresh green paint on the shutters and porch contributed to the cared-for look. A separate set of external stairs had been added on to the original building and ran up the side to the second floor. The mailbox indicated No. 4B. I recognized the dark-green RAV-4 parked in the driveway.

  Whom had Barb known in town to rate this street and pretty house? I hurried up the stairs, smoothing my skirt. I was feeling anxious. Plus I wanted to get this situation over with, apologize to Barb, and assure her of Fredelle’s innocence as well as my own. Soon after that, with any luck, I would never have to set foot in Quovadicon and see any of its employees again, especially the toxic and tarty Dyan.

  The door to 4B stood wide open.

  I braced myself for the conversation that would follow, knocked, and called out. “Ms. Douglas? Are you there?” I waited. I told myself the shiver down my spine was just because of a nasty memory of another open door and had nothing to do with this visit.

  But if she wasn’t answering, why was the door wide open? A mischievous wind lifted my flirty skirt and answered the question. The wind must have blown it open. After another two minutes, I whipped out my small notebook and wrote my name and phone number and a short message asking her to call me to discuss a misunderstanding. I was debating whether to drop it on the floor, where it might get blown away, or in the mailbox, where it might not be seen, when I heard feet thudding behind me on the stairs. As happened all too often lately, I jumped.

  “Sorry,” a cheerful male voice bellowed. “Guess I sound like a bull in a china shop.” A white-haired man somewhere in his sixties puffed up the rest of the stairs, grinned, and held out his hand. “I’m Jim Poplawski, Barb’s landlord, or as my wife calls me sometimes, the lardlord.” He patted his substantial paunch, threw back his head, and shook with laughter.

  I laughed, too, couldn’t help myself.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just jumpy lately. I was just about to leave Ms. Douglas a note. Would you be able to give it to her?”

  “Barb must be home. Her car’s here.”

  I shrugged. “But she doesn’t answer.”

  “Gee, that door’s wide open. I gotta get around to fixin’ the latch. Sure, I’ll give her the note. But why don’t I just show you the thing?”

  “What?”

  “Seems a shame for you to have to come back again. You can save yourself a trip if it doesn’t suit. Don’t worry. I won’t make you carry it down the stairs yourself.” The staircase seemed to shake with each guffaw.

  I knew the honest approach at that moment would be to say there’d been a misunderstanding. No one’s perfect. I followed Jim “the lardlord” through the open door and into a bright and airy apartment.

  “One minute. Just in case.” He boomed, “Barb, honey, you better not be in the shower ’cause I’m here with a bunch of sailors droppin’ by to say hello.”

  I blinked.

  “Well, guess she must be out on the town.” He chuckled. “Normally, that’d get a rise out of her.”

  “I’ll bet,” I muttered.

  “So what do you think?” He stood watching me and obviously waiting for a response.

  “It’s beautiful,” I answered truthfully.

  “Not so bad.” He smiled, apparently pleased with my response.

  Of course, I just had to blunder on. “I love the windows.”

  It was his turn to blink. “It doesn’t have windows.”

  Had everyone in Woodbridge lost their mind? I said, “Of course, it does. Are you kidding me . . . Jim?”

  He frowned, puzzled. “No ma’am.”

  I said, “But . . .”

  He cut me off. “Never saw a piano with windows. And I bet you never did, either.”

  “A piano?”

  “Well, what did you think we were talking about?”

  “The apartment. It’s beautiful. So bright and open and all those lovely trees you see through all those windows that are definitely here.”

  He went back to booming. “That’s pretty funny. The apartment. Yup, I think I made not too bad a job of it. Should have seen upstairs before we bought the place. Thirty-year-old wall-to-wall carpet with all the original dirt still in it.”

  I shuddered.

  Jim just kept talking. “I resanded all this hardwood myself. And the wife picked the colors for the walls. This one’s called Butter Pecan, although it looks like Taffy to me. The trim’s called Vanilla White.”

  Butter Pecan? “It’s lovely. The name makes me hungry actually, so I really should head out.”

  “Not so fast. Don’t forget your piano.”

  “Oh, I don’t . . .”

  “That is really why you came, no?”

  “Sure. Sure it is, but now that I see it . . .” I squinted at the apartment-sized piano tucked into a charming nook by the far wall. It looked as though it had been lovingly cared for.

  “We can negotiate on the price. It’s not like we’re using it now that the family’s gone. No shortage of hobbies to keep us busy. And we’ve got to keep it tuned and everything. Darn thing’s nothing but trouble. The wife had to ride herd on those kids to keep ’em practicing. They don’t want it and we don’t have room for it now that we’ve downsized. Anyway, Barb needs the space for a desk. She’s stuck working on the table.”

  I strolled toward the small dining table. It had two matching heart-shaped bright blue placemats placed across the table from each other, and two blue-and-white gingham napkins in white rings. A small vase with white garden lilies stood in between. Sweet.

  “She keeps her computer here?”

  “Just a laptop. She’s getting desperate for a better work space. She’s a real good tenant and I wouldn’t want to lose her. So make me an offer.”

  Oh, what a tangled web we weave. “How about if I measure it and check to see if it will actually fit in my apartment?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You need to measure the piano?”

  “My place is much smaller than this. I’ll need to know if it will go into my tiny corner. In fact, this is such a beautiful big space.” I turned to examine the living room. It was furnished simply in IKEA style: big comfy sofa in a bright blue denim slipcover, matching oversize chair, glossy white coffee table, cute little dining set for two, gingham cushions, and a couple of cheap and cheerful prints on the Butter Pecan walls. Pale yellow curtain panels fluttered at the open windows.

  He glanced around. “Suppose so.”

  “Barb did a nice job of decorating.” My eye was drawn to the open bedroom door. An inviting double bed was nicely done up in soft shades of taupe with crisp white touches. Lots of comfy cushions, soft puffy comforter, tailored bed skirt. Truffle and Sweet Marie would have loved that bed.

  Jim said, “Barb rents it furnished. The wife did all this. She’s got the knack for it. These days she’d have made a career in interior decorating.” He beamed with obvious pride.

  “Very nice. But I still need to measure. I’ll let you know.” I was twitching to get out of the place before Barb showed up and revealed that I was not a potential piano purchaser, but a nosy interloper with an inclination toward false pretenses and trespassing. That would be a
n awkward moment. Because. . . . I froze.

  “Something wrong, ma’am?”

  “Oh yes. I feel a bit faint. Could I have a glass of water, please?” Okay, I realize that the feeling-faint thing went out long before I was born, but, hey, something was very wrong in this place.

  “Sure thing.” He rumbled toward the kitchen and whipped open a cupboard to get a glass.

  I followed him, just to get a better look.

  He glanced back at me nervously, perhaps imagining litigation of some sort. “Maybe you should sit down, ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  The small kitchen was also cheerful and neat. No dishes in the sink. Clean appliances and floor. A cookbook open on the counter, an imported coffeemaker, and a matching grinder were the only objects on the spotless countertop.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Wouldn’t want you to fall down.”

  “You’re right. I’d better sit down.” I made my way to the comfy blue sofa and plunked myself down. On the lower tier of the white coffee table, current issues of Computer-world , InformationWeek, and Wired were stacked neatly. On the top, a copy of Wedding Bells sat next to Brides.

  Strange companions for Wired.

  The white rug was clean and lint free. I turned my eye to the cat-scratching post in the corner, next to a kitty litter tray with fresh litter. I sniffed. No cat scent in this apartment. In fact, everything was clean, fresh, and orderly. There was no sign of whatever cat used that equipment.

  Jim lumbered out of the kitchen, glass of water in hand, ice cubes clinking. I said, “Does Barb usually take her cat with her when she goes out?”

  As Jim handed me the glass of water, I could only nod in thanks. He stared at me with worry written across his weathered red face. “No, Diablo’s an inside cat. She never lets him out. And he never gets into the car without a fight. She has the scratches to prove it.”

  “Sounds like a real handful.”

  “For sure. Oh well, they probably just went off to the vet. Perhaps a friend gave them a lift.”

  “Right. And if she had to wrestle him into the car, that would explain the open door.”

  “You mean you didn’t open it?”

  That took me by surprise. “Of course not. That would be . . .” Good point, my good angel said, how about ‘nosy, intrusive, rude?’

  “Oh. I thought you had knocked and then just . . .”

  “Tried the handle and opened it? I wouldn’t do that. It’s not even legal. At any rate, if she rushed the cat to the vet she might have forgotten to lock the door behind her; it probably just blew open. Pet owners can get pretty emotional when something is wrong. I once ended up at the vet’s wearing mismatched shoes.”

  He chuckled.

  “A small mystery solved,” I said, before taking a sip.

  “Sure, she would have had to wrestle Diablo into the cage, and her hands would have been full and that would be it. Got to admit, you had me worried for a minute, little lady. It’s sure not like Barb to forget to lock her door, but like you said, a pet can make a person emotional. Hope Diablo’s all right. Can’t stand the critter, but our Barb sure loves him to bits.”

  I hesitated. “Um, did you say cage?”

  “Well, sure. Not a cage, but you know those little carriers people use.”

  “She always took him out in the carrier?” I pointed across the room. “Is that it? Or did she have an extra?”

  “Just the one. She’s a restrained kind of person. Anyway, why would she need two? She’s only got one cat, even if he is mean enough for two.”

  I got off the sofa and walked over to the carrier and peered in, hoping to see a mean cat.

  “No luck. So not the vet, I guess.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Darned if I know what’s going on. She’s crazy about that cat.”

  I took a gamble. “Maybe we can ask her husband?”

  “She doesn’t have a husband. Single gal. Works a lot.”

  “Boyfriend then? Maybe he picked her up?”

  He shrugged. “The wife’s convinced she might have a fella, but I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  “I just asked because the dining table is set nicely for two.”

  “I didn’t even notice that. For all I know it was set for that darn cat.”

  “Right. Well, I hope nothing happened to it.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. So you’re going to measure and let me know about the piano? If you want it, we can talk about the price, maybe do a deal.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Paula, that’s the wife, will be really happy to know if it’s going to a good home. She’s sentimental about stuff as well as people.”

  “Artistic temperament,” I said. “I can tell by the nice job she did here.”

  “I’ll tell her. And here, let me give you our telephone number so you can get back to us. Do you mind letting us know one way or the other? I’m going to have to put it in storage otherwise.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  Even as I walked down the outside stairs, my head was clambering with questions. The biggest one was obviously, how could this serene and well-organized spot possibly belong to the owner of the desk from hell?

  “And the bedroom! You should have seen it. That bedroom was absolutely pristine,” I said to Sally as we sat on her leather sofa watching the toddlers play and baby Shenandoah sleep. Truffle and Sweet Marie were snuggled in, as far as they could get from the rest of the children. One of the nice things about having a stay-at-home mom friend is that she will give you a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch with no prior notice required.

  “Hard to believe how some people live. Do you think perhaps because there were no children?”

  I nodded. “That could do it.”

  Sally shook her blond curls and stroked Shenandoah’s tiny tummy. “Discarded socks, then. Must have been a few. Yesterday’s underwear? Everyone drops those on the floor.”

  “Speak for yourself, Miss Messy. This bedroom was a regular oasis. It made me think it was time for me to redecorate mine. I like the taupe-and-white look.”

  “Listen, Charlotte. Don’t make me smack you. You just decorated your bedroom when you moved back last year. Don’t put me through another endless discussion of paint samples and fabric swatches. I couldn’t bear it. Life’s too short. Don’t pull the doggie’s tail, Savannah. Mommy told you that’s a no-no.”

  “Friends are there for friends during redecoration. You can’t just bail on me when I have the next one. But no matter, let’s get back to the subject, which isn’t paint or fabric, it’s incongruity.”

  Sally said, “I suppose it is really weird for someone they called ‘Miss Piggy’ to have a spotless home.”

  “Yes it is. It’s beyond weird.”

  “Although you also have to wonder about people who would call a co-worker ‘Miss Piggy.’ ”

  “Just one co-worker, really. Dyan the schemer. And I don’t know, there was more to it than that. The whole scene just seemed wrong. And it makes me wonder what’s really going on with that desk. I can tell you, Sally, my spider senses were tingling.”

  She shrugged and reached over to pick up a fallen toddler. “People can be very different at work.”

  “Maybe. And another strange thing, I can’t believe anyone who loved her indoor cat would just leave the door open so it could run out. Awful things could happen. Her pet could have been hit by a car. Do you think she’d do that?”

  “I’m not so in love with cats, so I couldn’t say.”

  “Who are you kidding, Sally? You with four kids? You’re a patsy for anything that needs to be looked after. Even me, sometimes.”

  “That’s true enough. Even you frequently. By the way, that’s why I really don’t like to see you getting involved in something else that might be dangerous. I think we should have gotten that out of our systems by now.”

  “Dangerous? How could it be dangerous? I
t’s broad daylight with people around. Everyone’s always exaggerating.”

  “Call me nuts, but didn’t you tell me that this Barb tried to run you over with her SUV?”

  I shrugged and leaned back on the sofa. “Maybe she did. I’m not really sure. Maybe I just overreacted because I’m so jumpy. But I still wouldn’t want to spot her coming toward me on the road again.”

  “Right, the too-much-murder thing. That is exactly my point. Dallas, don’t put that in the socket.” Sally heaved herself off the sofa and confiscated a fork. “What the hell happened to my plug guards?”

  “Well, no one’s been murdered. Fredelle wants me to speak to Barb because of this misunderstanding. We want to set the record straight. That’s all. Maybe I’ll talk to those two truck drivers again, in case I just misinterpreted what happened. I got their names wrong, so maybe I did.”

  “Listen, stay out of it. You’ve had too much bad stuff happen to you. Rest your brain. Do relaxing little organizer things. Sort my Christmas decorations by color and size and shape, for instance. Or maybe my spice drawer according to the color wheel. I have tons of ideas to keep your mind busy.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You get way too wrapped up with your clients. Let it go.”

  “Good advice, I guess.”

  “You betcha. Now let’s catch the news.”

  “Noooo! Come on, Sal. Not Todd—”

  Sunlight glinted off the most celebrated chompers in town. Of course, that could have been a trick of the camera. This time Todd Tyrell was on location in front of the Woodbridge police station. It was too late to cover my eyes. And I would have still been able to hear him.

  In breaking news, Woodbridge police have confirmed that the man found in the trunk of a blue Impala had been shot to death execution style. They have still not issued any information regarding the victim’s identity. The body was found in an isolated wooded area near Vineland Estates on the outskirts of Woodbridge. Anyone with any information is asked . . .

  Todd’s giant face was replaced by footage of the wooded area and the blue Impala. The scene surrounded by fluttering yellow police tape filled the screen. A white tent had been erected, over the site where the car must have been, I suppose. The red-haired detective was still there, still juggling his silver keys, still wearing what looked like the same suit, shirt, and tie as the day before. Perhaps he’d made the announcement about the execution-style killing. This time he was accompanied by Nick the Stick, who was wandering around looking goofy and probably trampling evidence. A small crowd of curious people hovered near the tape. I gasped and leaned forward to stare at one of them. An agitated woman with short dark hair paced back and forth behind the tape. She was wearing jeans and a hoodie and didn’t seem to be aware of the rain. She held her hand over her mouth and appeared to be talking into a cell phone. She turned away from the camera, but not before I caught a glimpse of her face. Pleasant, thirtyish, and oddly familiar.