Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Dyan smirked from the photocopier. Had I been shouting? I sure hoped I hadn’t been. I held my head up and nodded to them. “Thank you, ladies, you’ve been very helpful.”

  Of course, that didn’t make any sense, but I couldn’t let Dyan think she’d gotten to me, even if it was clear that Fredelle had.

  “Charlotte!”

  Fredelle stood in the doorway, gripping the frame. I turned back toward her. She looked like she’d had a shock, lost a loved one or a pet. “Please, come back in. I don’t know what got into me.”

  I glanced at Dyan, who mouthed, Losing it. Autumn mouthed Awesome again and then Wow for emphasis. She didn’t have the range that Dyan did, but I guessed she was working on it.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  “I’m sorry. Very sorry. But I have no choice. You must stop nosing around Barb and Robbie’s private life.”

  “Nosing around? First you insisted that I come here to do something about the desk, which is the least of your problems. Then you begged me to go to Barb’s place. I think there might be something funny about Robbie’s behavior and you call that nosing around? Fine. You want me to leave? Now I’m out of here.”

  Fredelle caught up to me in the parking lot. I could hear her huffing. Now she was pink with exertion, I suppose, or anxiety.

  “I’m so ashamed. Please forgive me.” She leaned against the shiny red Ford Focus coupe. She was breathing heavily and her face was flushed, no doubt with embarrassment.

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Fredelle. Our deal, which was really a verbal contract, is over. I don’t work for people who yell at me. I have more business than I can handle. And if you’re firing me to protect Robbie, you can forget that idea. I have to tell my contact at the police that you were worried about Robbie. I have no choice. If something has happened to Barb Douglas, and I know damn well something has, this is no time to keep secrets.”

  “He didn’t do anything. I didn’t mean that. He’s so vulnerable, that boy. He’s always had such a hard time making friends, meeting women. I was just afraid . . .”

  “What? That things didn’t go well and he lost it? Or worse?”

  “No!”

  “And you want me to keep quiet about that so his feelings don’t get injured?”

  She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. The sweet and gentle Fredelle was displaced by a much tougher version. “Maybe he’ll hurt himself. I’m trying to tell you, he’s sweet and fragile and I think he’s in love for the first time in his life. I intend to protect him and so now I’m making it clear that you’re not welcome here anymore. You are not involved in anything to do with Quovadicon or Barb Douglas or Robbie Van Zandt. I think the police will believe me and Reg Van Zandt before they believe you. After all, neither of us has ever been hauled into the police station for questioning. And I think they’ll agree that you have no business making trouble.”

  I resisted the urge to stamp my feet. I felt furious at Fredelle for creating the situation, angry at Robbie for holding back on whatever, but most of all, royally ticked off at myself for getting overly involved in yet another bizarre and emotionally laden situation and failing to mind my own business.

  As I drove away, Fredelle was still leaning against the Ford Focus, her arms crossed over her chest. She was partly blocking the vanity plates, but I did catch a glimpse of FRED as I left. I picked up speed. Quovadicon was a toxic volcano. Everyone in it seemed ready to blow at any minute.

  There are times when nothing does the trick like the public library. I got the last parking spot and strode through the doors, hoping to catch Ramona. She waved to me across the reference desk, where she was helping out a gangly teenager. I waited and paced until she finished her job. Ramona is not one to hurry. She gives new meaning to the word thorough.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Charlotte,” she said.

  “No problem. I can see that you’re up to your—”

  “I have bad news.”

  “What?”

  “Those file materials on Quovadicon never showed up. I’ve searched everywhere, and I’ve had the rest of the staff on alert. They’re gone. Pilfered. Pinched. Purloined. Ripped off,” she added. “Because not everything in life is alliterative.”

  “Who would pilfer something like that?”

  She shrugged her indigo shoulders. Her silver earrings danced. “Who knows? Files go walkabout from time to time. Kids doing projects, practical jokers, distracted staff. I’ll let you know if they do turn up, and I’ll see if I can pull together some new info in the meantime.”

  “Thanks. And I have something else I want to know.”

  “Go for it, Charlotte. We aim to please. Even when we are up to our patooties in whatever.”

  “Reg Van Zandt’s son Robbie. Do you have any information about him?”

  “Like what? Business information? That would probably be in the missing files, but I’ll check anyway.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of personal information. I’m asking you as a friend. Controversies, that kind of thing. Any problems with women?”

  Oops. I should have known better than to ask Ramona for gossip when she was in her full professional mode.

  She snorted. “You must be kidding. I can’t imagine what kind of controversy Robbie would get into.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Robbie, for heaven’s sake. Maybe jaywalking. Feeding the pigeons against city regulations. On a really bad day, wearing mismatched socks.”

  Aha. Mismatched socks. “You know him?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “But you didn’t mention anything about him when I asked about Quovadicon and Reg Van Zandt.”

  “I said I knew the family. Robbie’s Robbie. He’s nothing like his father. And to tell the truth, I didn’t even think about him when you mentioned Quovadicon. I suppose he must work there, but he sure wouldn’t be running the place.”

  “But how do you know him?”

  “Charlotte, this is Woodbridge, population less than twenty-five thousand. Not New York City.”

  I bit my tongue so as not to say that Robbie must have been nearly ten years younger than Ramona. She must have read the expression on my face. “I remember him as a kid. He used to come to the pool when I was lifeguarding. Worked my way through school doing that.”

  “And you remember him after all these years?”

  “Absolutely. He was one of my favorite kids.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. He was so nervous. Scared of everything. Shy. Awkward. It was painful to watch. And he was terrified of the water. His father insisted he learn how to swim. No choice in the matter. Poor little guy.”

  “And what happened?”

  “It took until the end of August to get him used to the water and then another summer until he really caught on, but in the end, he was one of my successes. Got his medals and even swam a bit in college, I think. I learned a lot from working with him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how not to raise your kid. I still can’t stand the sight of that father. Everyone thinks he’s such a hero, but with Robbie, I thought it was all about control.”

  “Where was the mother?”

  “Died young. One of the father’s staff used to bring him, take him home. Busybody mother hen type. Sad, really. Oops, got a line forming back at the desk. I’ll let you know when I get anything worthwhile on Quovadicon, but I’m not going to dig around for Robbie. Not personally and not professionally. It’s not my business to do that, and it’s not yours, either.”

  After a quick trip to Hannaford’s for replacement vegetables and ice cream, I headed to Old Pine Street, where I caught Pepper getting out of the car. No sign of Nick the Stick’s big honking truck, I noted quite happily.

  Pepper waved. That was good.

  “Hey,” she said. “Want to see my latest ultrasound printout?”

  My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Pepper interpreted that as an enthusiastic y
es. “Come on in,” she called over her shoulder as she lumbered up the walkway to the front door.

  I followed.

  Pepper pointed to the sofa and I plunked myself down. She sat beside me, rested her hand on the bump, and said, “I’ll get you a coffee or something in a second, but I want to show you this first.”

  I stared at a black-and-white wavy image on grayish paper. Words failed me, which doesn’t happen that often. “That is so interesting,” I finally managed. “And so you can tell—”

  “Yup. It’s a boy,” she said. “But we already knew that from the previous one. His name’s going to be Garrett.”

  “Nice.”

  “He’s really developing.”

  She stood up and reached for another sheet of paper, much like the first, and passed that to me, too. Again, I groped for the right thing to say. He’s pretty wavy didn’t seem right. How bloblike also struck out. I could have said either to Sally at any time during her four pregnancies. She would have just laughed. But I knew there’d be no joking with Pepper about this baby.

  “Gonna be a big boy,” I said, hoping that would do the trick.

  “I think so. Like his daddy.”

  Crap. I reminded myself not to blunder onto the daddy topic. That was a minefield for Pepper and me.

  “And your brothers,” I said. “Big guys.”

  “It’s in the genes, I guess. I just love looking at him. But never mind, you want a coffee? Or a glass of wine or something? I can’t have one, but it’s no trouble.”

  I shook my head. “Just one thing, and please don’t get mad at me. I’m really worried about this. I know you said you didn’t know anything about Barb Douglas, but I’ve also been your friend for a thousand years, give or take a few. I’m familiar with your reactions.”

  Pepper scowled. “I don’t know anything about her.”

  I said, “Save it. I can tell when you’re lying. We used to practice telling whoppers together to get out of school. Remember?”

  She glared at me, our lovely if weird little ultrasound moment ruined. “Leave it, Charlotte.”

  “I’d be happy to leave it, but there are a couple of bits of information to share. Remember I told you I saw a brief clip of Barb Douglas at the crime scene? You know, the one with the guy in the trunk, in case you get coy. I now know that she got a call on her cell just before she tore out of Quovadicon. Robbie Van Zandt described her reaction as anguished. He doesn’t know who she was talking to and claims he doesn’t have her number. But most likely, she was in a panic over some personal disaster when she ran me off the road. Nothing to do with me at all, which would make sense.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Pepper said. “Sometimes I feel like running you off the road. Like now, for instance.”

  “Very funny.”

  “The truth hurts.”

  “Hey, I’m almost finished. So, the other thing is that she was seeing Robbie Van Zandt. By the way, do you know him?”

  “I am aware of who he is. Everybody knows the Van Zandts. They’re big Kahunas around here.”

  “The father may be, but Robbie is very socially awkward and he is way over the top over Barb Douglas—the missing woman, in case you’ve forgotten her name. I think Fredelle Newhouse, the office manager at Quovadicon, is afraid he may have flipped out and done her some harm. Maybe Barb had another boyfriend and he found out and he . . . couldn’t deal with it. I don’t know if I’m right about this, and I realize I’m not in a position to find out, but the police should be aware. Did I mention her apartment was left unlocked and her car’s in the driveway, but her cat’s gone?”

  “Her cat’s gone? That is a disaster! More a matter for the National Guard than the Woodbridge police, though.”

  “Who do you think I should talk to? Or will you let the right person know?”

  “Charlotte?”

  “Yes?”

  “Drop it.”

  10

  Sometimes the best antidote for a tough day at the office is a

  long soak in the tub. Keep a supply of soothing bath products

  handy, grab a big fluffy towel, select some relaxing music,

  and let the toxic experiences just float away.

  Do not attempt this at work.

  I was annoyed that Pepper showed me the door without giving me any information about Barb, but at least Truffle and Sweet Marie were glad to see me. As we hoofed it down the stairs for their constitutional, Jack popped out of his apartment and waved both hands in greeting. He hopped on his bike and skidded out onto the street.

  “Jack! I need to talk to you.”

  He called over his shoulder, “Can’t talk, Charlotte, late for an organizational meeting. Catch you later.”

  Not so fast, mister.

  “At least you could introduce me to your friend,” I called back, pointing to the woman hurtling down our street at warp speed.

  “Oh,” Jack said, stopping. “Sure.”

  As the cyclist whipped up beside us and stopped by some miracle, she flashed Jack a grin that could rival Todd Tyrell’s for whiteness, brightness, and bigness. That cycling outfit had been designed with her long, graceful frame in mind. Comfortable yet clingy. How lucky is that?

  “Hello,” I said, politely.

  Jack shot me a look.

  “Charlotte, I’d like you to meet Blair. Blair’s the chair of our organizing committee for the fund-raising race.”

  Blair took off her helmet and shook out an amazing mane of blond hair. Even damp from her helmet, it managed to look very sexy. Without a break in the grin, she shook my hand. Bone-crushing grip, I noted.

  “Hi, Charlotte. I’ve heard all about you,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, Blair,” I said. I did not say that I’d heard nothing whatsoever about her, even if that was true. “I hope the planning for the race is going well.”

  She gave Jack a nudge. “How could it not be? Jack here is just an amazing inspiration.”

  “Is he?” I said. Jack shot me another look. Oh well, maybe he shouldn’t have called me bossy.

  “Later, Charlotte,” he said as they took off down the road.

  “Nice seeing you, too,” I remarked as his Hawaiian shirt and her clingy sports gear vanished around the corner. Inspiration, my backside. Jack was one dropped sock short of complete chaos. Who was she kidding? Well, with all these so-called organizational meetings, I sure hoped he got everything right. Or she did. Or WAG’D might end up with its tail between its legs.

  Never mind. I still had an evening to fill.

  Switch to Plan B. As the doggies sniffed every tree and bush along our street, I tried Margaret on my cell phone. “Feel like a spontaneous dinner out? I can tell you about Pepper’s ultrasound,” I said. “And maybe—”

  “Ultrasound? Ew. I mean, love to. Really. But, um, I have to work tonight. Urgent matter. Gotta go. See you soon.”

  Right. I know when Margaret’s lying, too. She’s not as good at it as Pepper. Less practice back in the formative years, maybe. What was going on there? I had my suspicions. I tried Sally next, a bit reluctantly, because it was getting close to dinnertime, and that’s a pretty intense time of day at the Januscek residence.

  “Rescue me,” she said.

  “I’d love to. How about dinner out?”

  “Can’t. I’m stuck here, with three howling kids. And the last holdout looks like she’s on the verge of joining the choir.”

  “Is Benjamin there?”

  “Long, tedious board meeting. The lucky devil.”

  “Well, you’ve been in the house for too long. What about getting a sitter? What was that horrible noise?”

  “That was me snorting in derision, Charlotte. There’s no way I can get a sitter for four small children on short notice at mealtime. How happily unmarried of you to even suggest such a thing.”

  “No need to get personal,” I said. “I can come over and help you with dinner. Then maybe we could play with them for a bit and then put them to bed and—”r />
  “Charlotte?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember how that doesn’t always work?”

  “Are you referring to the spaghetti-on-the-ceiling incident? Because, if so, it’s time to put that behind us.”

  “It’s all coming back now. And no, it wasn’t just that.”

  “The incident with the glue in the hair?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Not my fault. How was I to know they’d use craft scissors on each other?”

  “Mmm.”

  “It grew back, didn’t it? Anyway, I’m just trying to help.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll get a sitter lined up for one night later in the week and we’ll go into the wide world as adults. But tonight, as soon as the last little head hits the crib, I am going to bed myself. With a box of chocolates and a mystery.”

  Motherhood. I like kids, and I love Sally’s in particular, but I’m not very effective with them. I certainly don’t long for my own, and I consider a night at a trendy restaurant more rejuvenating than scrubbing finger paint off the walls. What can I say? Sally loves being a mom most times, and Pepper had been miserable until she knew she was pregnant. Maybe I was missing that gene. Margaret was, too.

  My revised Plan B was to settle the pooches in, feed them, and actually for once make myself a stir-fry. I eyed the New York Super Fudge Chunk, but decided to save it for some time when Jack was available. I ate my stir-fry. It was all right, I suppose. I polished it off in front of the television. I didn’t care how many nutritionists I offended. Of course, I regretted it when Todd Tyrell loomed onto the screen again. Detective Connor Tierney scowled into the camera. Perhaps he’d already heard Todd’s words. Whatever the reason, even scowling, he looked a lot better than Todd.

  Woodbridge police continue to be tight-lipped about the man found shot to death in the trunk of a blue Impala on the outskirts of town. So far there seem to be no leads in this bizarre case. Stay tuned to WINY for hourly updates.

  Flash back to Todd’s magic teeth, flash back to blue car in wooded area. The crime scene tape was still fluttering gaily. I saw no sign of Barb Douglas’s anguished pacing in the background or of Nick trampling evidence. What kind of an update was that? A special information-free spot? Useless as always.