Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “He turned up,” he said. “Not sure whether that’s bad or good.”

  “Who?”

  “Diablo. Barb’s cat, remember?”

  I’d been worried it might have been Robbie.

  Jim said, “Someone turned him in to the shelter. Said they found him a few blocks away from here. Now I’m worried.”

  I felt that sinking sensation. “Because she hasn’t been calling looking for him?”

  “You got it. So did you decide on the piano? I’ll have to help you out with it after I get back with the cat.”

  “Sorry. Not the piano. Something else.” I figured Paula hadn’t filled him in on my duplicity. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks. I think the man Barb was seeing might have been a friend of mine. I don’t want to stick my foot in it because I’m not sure and he’s very private. Paula thought you might have seen his car.”

  “I did see Barb with a guy a couple of times. They were just chatting. No harm in saying that. You think he had something to do with her taking off?”

  “Most likely not. Was it a silver-gray Toyota?”

  He scratched his head. “Toyota? Nah, it was a big sedan. Didn’t see the make, but I remember it was blue, not silver.”

  “Oh!”

  “Hey, I guess I got the wrong answer. You all right? You look awful pale.”

  I said, “Could it have been a metallic blue Impala?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Big American sedan. Not too old. Wasn’t a Toyota, for sure.”

  I wasn’t sure whether that was good news or bad. On the one hand, it meant Robbie might not have been lying about knowing where Barb lived. On the other, it might have meant that he’d spotted Barb with the still-unknown man in the Impala. This was yet another connection between Barb and the murder victim.

  “Did you hear about the man who was shot in the woods at the edge of town?”

  Jim shook his head.

  I said, “It’s been all over the news.”

  He chuckled. “Can’t be bothered with the news. Hardly ever get that TV turned on for it. Got my hobbies and the wife has hers, and one of hers is keeping me busy. Anyway, we don’t like the news much. Gets depressing.”

  “No argument,” I said. “This victim was found in a blue car. You can see why that would be important.”

  “Sure can. Heck, how ’bout you tell the wife this story? She’ll never believe me. She’s upstairs washing the cat dish and putting out fresh food for Diablo. Just head on up.”

  Paula Poplawski had just finished setting out Diablo’s dinner when I knocked. I followed her into the apartment. Her round moon face paled when I explained about the man in the Impala and the car that Barb had been in. She sank onto the blue sofa.

  “I can’t believe Barb would be involved in something like that. It’s so . . .”

  “Not involved. But afraid, maybe. It might explain why she would make herself scarce.”

  “I’ll watch the news, and Jim will, too, whether he likes it or not. We can’t stand that Todd Tyrell. So full of himself.”

  “I hear you.” I slid my card over to Paula and said, “Please call me and let me know what Jim says. Or he can, if he wants.”

  “Whatever we can do. But aren’t the police . . . ?”

  I shrugged. “You’d think.”

  As I got into the Miata, I felt that someone was watching me. Was I getting more paranoid by the minute? I looked up the stairs and saw Paula’s kindly face staring down at me. She waved as I pulled away.

  I was home by lunchtime and did a quick sprint around the block with the pooches before panting up the stairs. It was a good time to practice for the Therapy Dog evaluation. We worked on STAY. It needed work. Apparently to floppy-eared creatures, it sounded just like CHASE EACH OTHER AROUND THE ROOM. Never mind; through the magic of liver strips, we made a bit of progress. Follow your dreams, as the motivational poster in Fredelle’s office said.

  The dogs lost interest before I did and called it quits. No problem. I hit my desk and looked through my contracts schedule to see which projects I might be able to reallocate to Thursday and Friday, so the week wouldn’t be a total loss.

  I decided on the couple who wanted to clear up their crowded finished basement to make room for a combined exercise room, TV room, and spare bedroom. Easy and fun for me. I called and left a message to book time the next day.

  I headed out to the exercise gear shop to see what kind of equipment people were using and what storage solutions might be required. I checked out rowing machines and Nautilus machines and elliptical trainers. Stationary bikes had quite a big footprint, I noticed. There seemed to be compact versions of most of the equipment.

  Next stop was the linen shop, where I looked over the latest in coordinated bedding and checked out the sales. I could make suggestions to make the guest room space look larger and brighter. Naturally, I made a couple of quick stops at my favorite storage and container shops to see what fun new possibilities existed. My clients would thank me.

  By midafternoon, I had to admit to myself that I was killing time with pleasant tasks that could be done at another time, rather than face up to whatever I should be doing about the situation with Barb Douglas.

  But what was I supposed to be doing?

  Pepper had warned me against going to the police. Fredelle wouldn’t give me the time of day. But the fact remained that Barb Douglas was missing. She’d left her door open and let her beloved cat escape in her hurry to get away. She must have been running from something or someone.

  I didn’t know why she’d fled, but it was down to me to make sure the right person knew about it.

  I’m never comfortable in the police station, but I stiffened my spine and marched up to the desk. It didn’t matter that there was something about the red-haired detective that I found disturbing. He was a police officer and he was involved with the case, which was more than I should have been. All I wanted to do was fill in the appropriate person on the odd connections of Barb Douglas and this strange and horrible case.

  “I’m looking for the detective in charge of the case of the man in the trunk of—”

  The desk sergeant cut me off. “You just missed him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Didn’t you see him drive away?”

  I shook my head. “Thanks. I’ll try later.”

  “Leave him a message if you want. I’ll get you his voice mail.”

  I spotted the cocky walk of Nick the Stick. “No problem. I’ll pop in again. It’s probably nothing anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I made it as far as the door but didn’t have time to get back to the car before Nick spotted me. “Hey, Charlie. What are you doing here?”

  Visions of Nick mishandling the information about Barb Douglas and Robbie Van Zandt and the dead man danced in my head: Nick tramping over the crime scene, Nick manhandling Robbie Van Zandt and tossing Barb’s apartment. Nick releasing the cat, Nick finding new ways to be inappropriate.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just came in to . . . see how Pepper was doing.”

  “Pepper’s not here. She’s on sick leave because of her pregnancy. Thought you knew that.”

  “I do. But I wanted to ask you how she was really doing.”

  He shrugged. “Fine, I guess. You know Pepper. Tough as nails.”

  “I think I’ll drop in and see her, then. I just wanted to make sure that would be okay.”

  “Sure. Don’t tell her I told you she was tough as nails, okay? She might not like that. She’s kind of touchy lately.”

  “I wonder why,” I said.

  “Oh wait, I think she’s at her doctor’s now. She has to go a lot. Something about the baby.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe I’ll pop by tomorrow.”

  “Great. But remember . . .”

  “Not a word out of me.”

  Poor Pepper. You would think her husband, useless as he was, could stir himself to attend som
e of these appointments with her. Other husbands sat in on ultrasounds. Who did Nick think he was?

  I sat in the Miata and decided to call Pepper and leave a message to ask when I could drop in. But my cell phone was not in my handbag. Truffle and Sweet Marie, as much as I love them, were the most likely suspects. Usually they liked to hide keys, which would eventually turn up behind the hamper, or buried under a sofa cushion, or in a shoe. I’ve installed a high shelf in my entranceway to put an end to that. Until they find a ladder, the keys are safe.

  For a while, my shoes and boots went AWOL at the worst possible times. Usually just one of a pair. I installed a set of shoe racks on the second tier of my closet to solve that little problem. Luckily, being an organizer means you have to know how to use a drill and install shelves. I can do that in my sleep.

  I’d left my handbag by the front door that morning while I double-checked the ice cream situation in the fridge before the trip to Quovadicon and Hannaford’s. It was out of my sight for only a minute. How had they managed that?

  I squealed out of the lot and raced home to chastise the little beasts. In my business, you need a cell phone and you really must have it with you if you want your clients to take you seriously.

  By four o’clock, searches, threats, and cajoling still hadn’t worked. I’d searched my entire apartment, under the bed, under the sofa, behind cushions, and in the dog blankets. Not a sign.

  “You’ll pay for this,” I said for the tenth time. They ignored me but tilted their heads with interest as my home phone rang.

  I said, “Hello?”

  “What kind of business are you running where you don’t even answer your cell?”

  The grating tones could only belong to Dyan. I winced, as I knew it was the same question I’d just asked myself. No need for her to know that.

  “I’ve answered now. What can I do for you, Dyan?” I said, keeping my voice even.

  Her sneer hit my ear. “Maybe you should ask what I can do for you.”

  I took a breath. “Okay, what can you do for me?”

  “Why don’t you drop into the office and I’ll show you.”

  She didn’t bother to keep the gloating out of her voice. This woman was a walking, talking manifestation of every bad emotion I could think of. I couldn’t imagine anyone I’d rather not see. Or anywhere I’d rather not be.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have a very tight schedule. I’ll just have to pass on your kind offer.”

  “Your loss, Miss Smart-Ass. This was your last chance to find out what Pigpen Douglas was really up to.”

  I hesitated. I really hated to give this woman any satisfaction at Barb’s or anyone’s expense. On the other hand, if she knew anything that would help find Barb, that would be worth a bit of irritation. Could she? Dyan was the one who hung around the office after people left. I’d seen first-hand how nosy and interfering she was. Fredelle was too innocent, Robbie too ineffective, and Autumn too vacant. If anyone could have found something about Barb, it was Dyan. No question about that.

  “Okay, bye,” she said. “Other people will want to know. It’s probably worth something to somebody.”

  “Wait. I might be interested.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Distinctive laugh. “That’s dumb. If I could tell you on the phone, I would have told you on the phone.”

  “Fredelle has asked me not to come back.”

  “Like anyone cares what Fredelle says.”

  “Okay, you said you had information about—”

  “Forget it. You know what? You really piss me off.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to,” I bleated into the now-silent phone.

  Too late.

  I glanced at the time. Quovadicon was a good drive away, and this would be the start of what we call rush hour in Woodbridge. Still, I decided I wouldn’t be able to relax without knowing what she was talking about. Maybe it would clear up the mystery of Barb.

  12

  Make sure you have at least one number

  programmed into your cell phone.

  If someone finds it, they can call someone close to you.

  As I pulled into Quovadicon, I noticed only one car left in the lot, and it wasn’t a silver Camry. That was weird. There must have been a separate lot for staff parking that I wasn’t aware of. I hopped out and checked the time. Four thirty. A few minutes dealing with Dyan and I could get home and get back to the search for the cell phone.

  The large glass doors were open. The lights in the reception area were out. I hesitated before going in, considering I was persona non grata with Fredelle.

  “Hello,” I said, walking past the empty reception desk into the office area. “Autumn? Are you here?”

  The lights were out in the boardroom and the main office area, but still on in Fredelle’s office. There was no sign of Fredelle, though, which was just as well considering the conversation we’d had the last time we spoke.

  Where was everyone? It didn’t seem like Fredelle to depart early without making sure the place was settled.

  Never mind; since Fredelle and I were both going to be involved with Therapy Dogs, we’d have to have a civilized discussion soon about what had happened and put it behind us. People say things when they are shocked and upset. Sometimes you just have to forgive and with luck forget. But anyway, I hadn’t come to deal with Fredelle or to talk to Autumn. I wanted to talk to Dyan as quickly as I could and then just get out of there.

  I looked around. No sign of Dyan. And she was so nosy that she would normally be checking to see who had come in the front door.

  “Dyan? It’s Charlotte. You win.” Keep it light, I told myself. Don’t let on she’s getting to you.

  It would be just like Dyan to sit smirking in her cubicle, like a nasty spider waiting for me to fly in. I stiffened my shoulders and stuck my head around the corner. But her work space was empty, too. The leopard-patterned trench coat was still hanging on the hanger, and her oversize orange patent leather handbag was sitting on her ergonomic chair. She couldn’t be far, that was for sure. She wouldn’t leave her money and ID for anyone to plunder. She didn’t strike me as the trusting type.

  Maybe she was just playing games with me. Or in the heat of the moment, she’d marched off to fling the so-called information about Barb Douglas in someone else’s face.

  Either action would be just like her. On the other hand, perhaps she was in the staff room having retyped a nasty note about the state of the fridge. That would be like her, too. I hurried down the hallway to get it over with, although by now I’d decided that the whole trip to Quovadicon was a waste of time and bad judgment on my part. Most likely Dyan had cooked up some nasty tidbit of gossip or indulged her talent for speculation.

  I kept going even though I concluded it had been less than wise for me to engage in whatever nasty little game she was playing. After all, she didn’t represent the management except in her fevered brain and I decided to tell her that. As I passed the IT section, I noticed that Fredelle had arranged a pair of baffles blocking it from view. I peered in and noticed that the towering pile on Barb Douglas’s desk was lower than it had been the day before, partly because half of it was now lying on the floor.

  Not your problem, I told myself. Keep going, speak to the mean lady and get the hell out. And next time, use your brain. I peered around the staff room, expecting to see Dyan preening or scheming or whatever she did after office hours. But she wasn’t there, either.

  I conceded defeat. I was about to head back toward the front door, mentally kicking myself. As I turned, I heard a strange scraping sound. I glanced around. Nothing. No one. There it was again. And a low moan.

  Help?

  Yes, I was sure I’d heard a soft gasp for help.

  The hair on my arms stood up. My heart began to pound. Was Dyan likely to play a practical joke on me? What did I know about her anyway? Did she know how many terrifying situations I’d found myself in since I�
��d come back to Woodbridge? Did she think that would be funny? Maybe she was . . .

  Stop hyperventilating, I told myself. This is just your imagination. There’s nothing to worry about. Run! Okay, that was a bit of a mixed message.

  Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a panic over things that may not ever happen? Do you want to be a victim forever? Shape up! And while you’re at it, get out now.

  Even if I did want to get out, I was in the back end of the office, with a moaning, scraping something between me and the front door.

  I told myself it must have been something scraping on the roof, a branch perhaps. Or perhaps something in the warehouse. There’d be a foreman there, and maybe a lift operator, someone to help me check and see that the moaning was just my imagination. They might be parked in a different area. I pushed open the door between the staff room and the warehouse. I stared wildly around. No one. Not a driver, not a forklift operator, certainly not a foreman. Just a vast empty space. Worse, the doors were all closed and I had no idea how to open them.

  Behind me, I heard the moaning again. Fainter. Welcome to my horror movie, I thought, with me playing the dumb one who rips off her clothes and runs into the basement at midnight.

  Imagination or whatever, I picked up the phone in the staff room, selected line one, and pressed 911.

  “I am calling from Quovadicon at 120 Valley Drive in Patterson Business Park. Something bad is going on. The building’s empty and there’s a strange moaning noise. I think someone’s injured or . . .”

  “Charlotte?”

  Why does it always have to be Mona Pringle? Didn’t anybody else ever take 911 calls?

  “Can you send someone?” I said, making sure I got my message out before Mona got me sidelined.

  “We haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said cheerfully. “Months. Must be the off-season. Ha ha.”

  “It’s not a joke, Mona. Someone could be in here injured or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just know that it feels all wrong.”