Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Bruce here.”

  The voice was middle-aged but casual. A nice voice, but with the kind of confidence that befits an entrepreneurial CEO. I believe in starting at the top. More efficient.

  I liked the fact that Bruce was answering his own phone at seven a.m. California time.

  I said, “Hey, Bruce. This is Joanie Roadhouse. I’m trying to track down my old friend Barb Douglas. I want to reconnect and I don’t have any way to get in touch with her. She called me not long ago, but I lost the message and I’ve hit a wall. I know she doesn’t work with you anymore, but I thought you guys might be able to help. Any idea where she is now? If you have an e-mail address, that would be great. Or even a city.”

  “Is this a sick joke?” The casual good humor dropped out of Bruce’s booming voice.

  “What?” One more thing to catch me by surprise.

  He shouted into the phone. “That is disgusting.”

  “What do you mean, disgusting? I’m just asking where she is.”

  “She’s dead, that’s where she is. And I don’t know what kind of scam this is, but you have sunk about as low as you can go. Rot in hell.”

  “What do you mean she’s dead? How do you know?”

  What was going on? I was in New York State searching for Barb while people across the country were a jump ahead of me. Of course, I really really didn’t want her to be dead.

  There was a significant pause. “I know she’s dead because I went to her goddamn funeral five years ago, and not one day goes by that I don’t think about her and miss her because she was a wonderful human being. And you are a freak. Did I already say, rot in hell?”

  “You did, but—”

  I heard a click and then the dial tone. So much for explaining myself.

  “So,” I said in a whisper. I didn’t want to attract the attention of Ramona’s more formidable reference room regulars, who were just hitting their stride for a day of shushing the other patrons and the library staff, too. “If Barb Douglas is dead, who is the person we thought she was?”

  Ramona shook her silver earrings. “Who knows? Some identity thief. Happens all the time.”

  “Seems like a very dangerous game for identity theft. Barb is missing, Dyan is dead, and I was attacked in Quovadicon and chased by a pair of homicidal truckers. Not to mention the dead guy in the trunk of the Impala.”

  “A good point, Charlotte. Maybe you should just leave it to the cops.”

  “They’re not doing anything. I need to find out for my own protection. Maybe I should be afraid of Barb instead of fearing for her safety. Maybe she’s behind the truck attack. Maybe she thinks I’m in the way. I must have misinterpreted the fact that the truckers seemed to be chasing her. Maybe they were leaving together. Part of a gang.”

  “Spectacularly conspiratorial. But even so, you should be careful.”

  I kept my voice down. “I’ll do my best. But this fake Barb really fooled a lot of people.”

  “Not hard to do. You usually assume that the person you are talking to is really who they say they are, especially in the workplace.”

  “So if she’s not Barb, we don’t have any way to find out who she is. It’s a dead end.”

  “Maybe not so dead an end. I wonder if this person, whoever she was, knew Barb back in San Raphael or through work in some way. Barb Douglas must have died young. Her colleagues would all know and talk about it.”

  I nodded. “That’s genius, Ramona. I don’t think I can call Vector Vici again, but do you think you can get me an obit?”

  “Please, I’m a reference librarian. We live for such tasks.”

  Item 4 on the To Do list was work on the dog training. I could have done a bit of work on the disastrous-bedroom project, but everything in its own time.

  “Listen, you turkeys. Get off that bed and get practicing. You won’t be any kind of therapy dogs if you can’t even pass the evaluation.”

  I had slipped out of my business clothes and into a soft old black T-shirt and a pair of baggy yoga pants for our training session. One nice thing about dogs: They don’t judge you by how you look. Of course, they don’t do what they’re told either, but you can’t have everything.

  I ignored their yawns and placed them on the floor. We were working on the DOWN command. I had the door open so that I would hear Jack in case he came home. He had more of a gift for dog training than I did. Truffle and Sweet Marie had been working on the DOWN command for a long time, even before the evaluation criteria sheet showed up in our lives. Let’s just say it wasn’t going all that well. We got SIT. We got WAIT. We even got LEAVE IT. But we were not down with DOWN.

  I knelt on the floor. “SIT,” I said, seductively.

  They sat.

  Easy as pie.

  They gazed at me expectantly.

  “Now, DOWN,” I said in what I hoped was a compelling tone.

  They continued to gaze.

  “DOWN.”

  No reaction.

  Of course, you are supposed to use their names when issuing commands. “Truffle, DOWN.”

  Truffle cocked his head. I could tell he was wondering if I had lost my marbles. Sweet Marie looked on, perplexed.

  “Like this,” I instructed, lying on the carpet so they could see how it was done.

  Truffle leaned over and licked my nose.

  Sweet Marie barked.

  “Look. How hard can it be? You want the treat, you have to DOWN. This is how you do it.”

  Four beady eyes regarded me. I think if they could have picked up the phone to call for assistance, they might have done it.

  “You like to play games and you’re very good at it. So this is like a game. Just try it. It’s easy.”

  Stare.

  “DOWN.”

  Truffle turned away, more in sorrow than anger.

  “Come back here. I know you’re short and you don’t want to get any closer to the floor, but . . .”

  I’m not sure when I became conscious of the pair of glossy black loafers, but when I looked up, they were attached to a pair of long legs in casual pants. The pants were topped with a nice-looking charcoal shirt, a silk blend if my instincts were still good, open at the neck. The whole outfit was very stylish on Detective Connor Tierney. If you’d asked me to guess, I would have said he looked like a man on his way to a serious date.

  He just smiled and jingled that silver key chain. I wondered if that would get annoying after a while.

  There are times where there’s just nothing you can say, really, so it’s best to keep your mouth closed. I stood up with what infinitesimal amount of dignity remained to me.

  “Good dogs,” I said. “That went well. We’ll polish the rough spots tomorrow. So, Officer Tierney, I’m glad you turned up.”

  Luckily for me, he was still looking just past my left ear. Maybe he wouldn’t see that blush spreading up my neck.

  He said languidly, “Maybe I should lie down.”

  “No need. Training session’s over.”

  “Too bad. I’m really good at sitting.”

  I gestured toward the sofa.

  “Impressive,” I said as he sat.

  “Years of practice.”

  The dogs ignored the banter and headed for his lap. They were getting altogether too cozy with the fuzz.

  “Would you like something? Coffee?” I stopped myself from saying Doughnuts? For one thing, Connor Tierney didn’t look like the kind of person who would eat doughnuts. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would be a police officer, either, but what do I know.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  “Regular? Decaf? Espresso? Shade grown? Fair trade?” I had no idea why I was prepared to ramble on with choices.

  Luckily, he said “Espresso” before I could continue on to tea, herbal tea, sparkling water, or red wine.

  I headed to the kitchen and reached for the espresso maker. That gave me a chance to pull myself together. I ran a hand over my hair, which probably had dog drool in it. I brushed the
rug lint off the front of my black T-shirt and yoga pants. There wasn’t much I could do about my bare feet. At least my pedicure was still in good condition.

  I arrived back with two tiny espresso cups that my mother had sent from Italy on her fourth or possibly her fifth honeymoon. For my part, I buy the best espresso I can find.

  “Nice,” he said.

  I perched on the chair across from the sofa and waited. The dogs stayed with him.

  “So,” I said, after a while. “I want to tell you about what happened to me last night and what I think it might mean.”

  He said, “First, I have big news. That’s why I came over.”

  Big news. Since when did the Woodbridge police send detectives wearing silk shirts over to update occasional suspects on the latest scoop?

  “Really. What’s happening?”

  “This is great coffee.”

  “Espresso blend. And the news? Because if you don’t have any, I want to talk about a pair of truck drivers.”

  “Let me finish. Well, you know the truck that terrorized you?”

  “Of course I know it.” This dragging it out was getting old fast.

  He grinned. “Sorry. I guess I’m . . .”

  I managed not to say being a jerk.

  He said, “We found it.”

  “You did? That’s amazing. You didn’t have a license number or anything but the make and color.”

  He stared at his hands for a minute. “An alert citizen on a hike phoned in that he’d sighted a truck in a ravine and a couple of officers checked it out. Red Volvo rig. New one, too.”

  “And who owned it? Why were they chasing me? Did you find out what that was about? Did they say anything about Barb Douglas? Which reminds me—”

  He lifted his espresso cup again, took a sip. “That’s the thing. The rig itself was stolen from the Troy area a couple of days back.”

  “Stolen.”

  He nodded, assessing me.

  I said, “Were you able to arrest the—”

  He shook his head, made a face.

  I blurted, “So that means you don’t know anything about the guys who tried to kill me. They sure made it look like they were serious about that little game.”

  He took another slow sip, swallowed, and said, “We know something about them. They were serious, all right.”

  His attitude was beginning to get under my skin. “And there were two of them? Because that’s—”

  “It looks that way.”

  “I believe they worked for Quovadicon. You can get more information about them from Fredelle Newhouse, the office manager at the company, or from Missy Manderly, who used to work there. Both of them are being very secretive about these two men, if you ask me. But I can give you a good description of them. It’s weird that I was pursued the same day I saw them at a gas station. They must have found out where I lived after I gave them the slip. I’m easy to find. I think they’d been following me, waiting for their chance to finish me off. Wait a minute. How do you know they were serious if they didn’t get arrested? What’s to stop them from stealing another truck and running me down with that, for whatever bizarre reason?”

  He paused as if making a major career decision, flicked an invisible bit of lint from his silk shirt, and then said, “Mainly because they’re dead.”

  20

  If there’s only one clutter-free zone in your home,

  it should be your bedroom. Work materials, bills, and clutter

  in this space can prevent you from getting a good night’s sleep

  and being happy and productive during the day.

  Naturally, books are not clutter.

  Ramona handed me a copy of the obituary for the real Barb Douglas. Before I could glance at it, she said, “Two more people dead? I heard that on the news. We’re up to our patooties in cadavers. But if they’re looking for more candidates, I can offer up some names.”

  I didn’t want to ask what the reference prima donnas had been up to that day. I guess she was glad I was there to cheer her up.

  “It was the same guys who tried to run me off the road.”

  “The homicidal truckers? So what happened?” she said merrily. “Did they run themselves off the road?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know exactly what happened. The driver was definitely reckless, but even so, he seemed to have amazing control. You should have seen him making those tight corners when I was trying to escape. Do you think they were on drugs or something to make them act so . . . ?”

  Ramona shook her head. “You’ll probably never know, if the cop couldn’t tell you.”

  I said, “Well, this will sound like a terrible thing to say and I really don’t wish a violent death on anyone, but I’m glad they’re not out on the roads waiting for me or anyone else again.”

  Ramona said, “I hear you. So just how hot is this guy?”

  “What guy? The cop?”

  “Of course, the cop. Who else?” She rolled her eyes.

  “Did I say he was hot?”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m a reference librarian. We read between the lines. It’s a magical trait we use to find answers to vague rambling questions that don’t indicate what the person actually wants to know.”

  “Huh. Well, that must come in real handy. I’d say this officer is prime-time-television-one-hour-police-drama-with-detective-with-mysterious-past-and-troubled-present- and-good-wardrobe hot.”

  “Yum.”

  “You’re welcome to him. He’s not my type and he never really makes eye contact. Plus he showed up at my apartment, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “This is just a guess, Charlotte, but he showed up because you left him a message. And maybe he doesn’t listen and tell you much because when there’s something to investigate, you barge in and next thing there’s trouble. Bang bang guns. Dead people.”

  I scowled at her. “Well, I didn’t kill them.”

  A few of the library regulars shot me dirty looks.

  “There you go again,” Ramona said. “Bellowing in the reference department.”

  “They have to be connected with Barb. They were on the road behind her when she almost ran me off the road. If they worked at Quovadicon, they’d have access to the building. Maybe they made the call, got in there, and killed Dyan. And knocked me out.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know why. You have to admit, it’s too coincidental to have these things happen. They must be connected. The police, or at least Pepper and Nick and now this new guy . . .”

  “Tierney,” Ramona said helpfully. “The police don’t want civilians involved in something like this, especially you, Charlotte, with your tendency to make waves.”

  “But I am involved. Not that I want to be. You’d think they’d want to talk to me when I have something to say. They always drag me in when I don’t want to go, and when I tried to tell Tierney about Barb, all of a sudden he had to leave.”

  “Makes for good TV, though, you have to admit that. Especially when you’re in your pajamas.”

  “Yoga gear. There’s something weird about the police behavior. I’m convinced Pepper Monahan recognized Barb Douglas. And knows something about what happened to her.”

  She said, “I hear the green-eyed monster is under control with impending motherhood. I suppose Nick is still fooling around.”

  “He is. Not much I can do about that. I have to take my chances and visit Pepper again.”

  “Well, good luck with that, and remember, I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces. And you have other friends, too. You might need ’em.”

  “By the way, speaking of friends, you told me that you knew Robbie. You didn’t seem too fond of his father, the great hero. In fact, you seemed quite ambivalent about Reg Van Zandt every time we talked about him.”

  “Yeah, well,” Ramona said. “I’ve known Robbie since he was a kid.”

  “And?”

  “And he was a sweet guy. Very shy, very sensitive.”

&nb
sp; “Let me guess. Bullied.”

  “For sure. It was like he was born with a KICK ME sign. I had to stand up for him more than once or he would have been beaten to a pulp outside the community pool.”

  Robbie Van Zandt would have been lucky to have the young Ramona in his corner when he was a kid. I sure liked having her fortysomething self in mine. “So weren’t these bullies afraid of his father the war hero?”

  She snorted. “No way. He would have cut his tongue out before he ever told his father he was being picked on. Imagine how hard it must have been to be the geeky smart kid with the glasses and a little stutter and arms and legs like twigs. He idolized his father, and the father overprotected him, I think. Robbie always felt he was such a disappointment. And he takes life so seriously. That’s how it seemed to me. I was just a teenager myself, but I really liked Robbie and, of course, I was a lot bigger and tougher than he was.”

  “I guess he’s still under his father’s wing, working for Quovadicon.”

  “He’d be an asset. Give him a number or a theorem or a law and he was first-rate. He might have been able to flourish somewhere else, but . . .” She shrugged. “We don’t see that much of each other any more, maybe that’s my fault, but I always felt he had a tragic story.”

  “Why would he have stayed?”

  “He tried to get off on his own. He had some great opportunities in California in the tech boom, but Mrs. Newhouse talked him out of it. She convinced him it would kill his father.”

  “What? Why would it kill Mr. Van Zandt?”

  “Well, not having Robbie there to take over the family company if something happened to the great war hero. The strain on his father’s heart worrying about him. So Robbie did his degree and tech training in the area.”

  “You mean he’s been groomed as a successor? Really? I can’t see him in the boardroom or the bank.”

  “Exactly. It was all bull hooey. Some people think they’ll live forever, and they want to keep other people under their thumb. No wonder he had a breakdown.”

  “Breakdown?”

  Ramona caught herself. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s no one’s business, and I was out of line.”