by Lora Roberts
“Wet suit.” That dampened Amy’s enthusiasm.
In response to some signal—perhaps that the bagels were gone—they all got up. In a few minutes the clutter of breakfast was swept into the trash—including the orange peels that I meant to compost—and they were crowding out the door.
Barker thought that he, too, was invited. Eric picked him up. “Great puppy,” he crooned, letting Barker wash his face. “Wanna go to the beach, puppy?”
“I’ve got my dog in the van,” Randy said, looking at me. “And water bowls and stuff.”
“Can he come?” Amy took Barker from Eric, nestling him into her cleavage. Once more that awed expression appeared on Eric’s face.
“Sure, take him if you want. Here’s his leash.” I handed it to Amy, who tucked it under one arm and Barker under the other.
I stood on the front step to watch them leave. Eric’s van was a nondescript Ford. He ran a reverent hand over my old bus.
“Free wheels,” he shouted, before remembering that he was trying to be quiet.
Amy looked proud. “My aunt fixes it herself,” I heard her say before the door slammed.
The van backed slowly out of the driveway and took off. I hoped that Eric was as careful a driver as he seemed. I hoped they didn’t drink a lot of beer and lose it on one of the curves along Highway 84 or Highway 9 or Highway 17, all of which are notorious.
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. The cool morning air was laden with intoxicating scents—roses, moist earth, the pleasing sharpness of redwood foliage. I left the front door open to enjoy it while I settled to my work. I had barely gotten into rewriting the lead of my Organic Gardening story when Drake ran up the steps.
“You’re so popular these days.” He tossed a yellow envelope at me. “If you’re going to get more of these things, do you think they could be delivered to your front door at the crack of dawn, instead of mine?”
“Touchy, touchy.” I opened the telegram—I didn’t know they even existed anymore. It was from Renee and Andy, of course. I should have expected it. AMY STILL MINOR YOU ARE DETAINING HER AGAINST OUR WISHES STOP CALL IMMEDIATELY STOP. I handed it to Drake.
He shook his head as he read it. “You just get into more trouble.” He handed it back to me. “I’m not a lawyer, but I’d call them if I were you. Maybe they’ll send money to get her to leave.”
“She won’t go back, probably.” I was filled with foreboding and frustration. “She’ll run away somewhere we don’t know about, and they’ll blame me for it.”
“That’s about the size of it,” he agreed. “If you call before eight, it’s still night rates. And then you can pick up the message that came in this morning while I was showering. Your temp agency wants you.”
I made a face. Mrs. Rainey must have some horrible job that no one else would do, like the place I’d been to last time, where the boss had pinched me not ten minutes after I got there. My response to that had not been too harsh, in my opinion, but it had earned me a scolding from Mrs. Rainey, who felt that no matter what the provocation, a knee to the groin was overreaction.
I saved the few feeble sentences I’d managed to write and followed him across the yard to his back door. Luckily Information in Denver had my brother’s number, because I didn’t. Even luckier, I got their answering machine.
“Listen, Andy,” I told the machine. “I didn’t ask your daughter to land herself on me. If you want her back, I suggest you come and get her. Or send a nonrefundable plane ticket.” I hesitated a moment. “It might be better, though, if you let her try her wings a little. Have you and Renee gotten any counseling? Do you have any guarantee this won’t happen again? I’m not your problem, whatever it is. Fix it before you look for a scapegoat. I don’t play that role anymore.”
I was getting angry just thinking about it, so I hung up. I didn’t leave Drake’s number for them to get in touch with me. Something told me he wouldn’t like that.
He came back into the kitchen, knotting a tie, an indication of hassles to come in his office that day. Usually he gets away with pretty slobby apparel on the job.
“You should get your message.” He nodded at the answering machine. “Maybe she’s got a client asking for a jeans-wearing, groin-kneeing, tea-drinking, stray-adopting technophobe.”
“Those jobs are a dime a dozen.” I rewound the tape and listened without enthusiasm to Mrs. Rainey’s perky voice. Drake held up the teakettle, his eyebrows raised in a question, and I nodded. I would call Mrs. Rainey after my cup of tea.
“How is your investigation going?” I perched on a kitchen chair while he manipulated his espresso machine.
He yawned. “I went back to the office after I talked to you—we were up late with the paperwork and trying to get in touch with the brother. Parents are dead, evidently. Poor kid seems to have been pretty alone in the world.”
He showed me a tea bag, and I nodded acceptance—Melrose’s Queen’s Tea. I would suspect him of sarcasm for keeping that around for me, if I wasn’t grateful to be spared Lipton.
“So the brother wasn’t home last night?”
“Not in his apartment, anyway.” Drake looked stem. “Remember what I said, Liz. You keep out of it.”
“I don’t exactly find it flattering for you to treat me as if I’m butting into your case like Miss Marple,” I pointed out. “I’m younger and more beautiful, for one thing.”
He had to smile, but fought it back. “I just don’t want to see a pattern developing here.” The phone rang, and he gulped his espresso, glancing at his watch. “There’s Bruno, wondering why I’m not at the office.”
It wasn’t Bruno Morales, Drake’s partner in homicide investigations when Palo Alto has one, which isn’t often. The phone call was for me. Drake handed me the receiver and carried his cup over to the sink, noticeably eavesdropping.
“Hello, Liz?” It was a woman’s voice, slightly accented. “This is Angel Lopez, from SoftWrite. I spoke with you yesterday.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lopez.”
“Angel. You were coming in this morning to do some data entry, right?”
“That was the plan.” I braced myself for the brush-off. Clarice must have told them that I’d been lurking around in an unsavory manner at the scene of Jenifer’s death.
“Well, we were wondering if you could give us the whole day today, to fill in for our receptionist. She’s got the flu and we’re really shorthanded here.” Mrs. Lopez did sound harried.
I thought for a moment. There hadn’t been enough people around during the previous afternoon to make census taking worthwhile. I could do that evenings, and make more money temping all day. “That’s fine, Mrs. Lopez. Angel.”
“Great.” She sounded relieved. “There’s a lot of stomach flu or something going around—our regular temp place couldn’t help us today. We can put the data entry off until next week. Sarah didn’t sound like she’d be recovered until Monday.”
‘‘I’ll be in soon.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” Mrs. Lopez hung up.
I had been a temp receptionist once before. I’d learned to work those big phones that businesses all have now instead of switchboards. Most important, I’d learned how to fake it. If you don’t blatantly read magazines or file your nails, no one minds whether you really try to fill the shoes of the absent person.
I just hoped my denim skirt would be adequate for my new position. At one place I worked, there was trouble when I turned up for the second day of work in blue jeans. A couple of the men had been wearing them, but receptionists are often held to a higher level of grooming than the rest of the staff. Not that they’re paid well enough to afford nice clothes. It’s a puzzlement.
I called Mrs. Rainey and got her answering machine, left my message of unavailability, and turned to face Drake.
“So is this the same place you were yesterday? The place Jenifer Paston worked?” Drake was drying his special little espresso cup and saucer. He likes his kitchen very tidy, unlike the rest of his house. His l
iving room looks as if hurricanes pass through it regularly.
“Yeah. Guess they don’t know yet what a dubious person I am.”
He scowled at me. “You’re just trying to survive, Liz. No one could possibly suspect you of any complicity in this suicide.” He hung the cup carefully on its special hook. “I’ll be stopping in there today to talk to people. Being under a lot of stress at work is a motive for taking your life.”
“Right.” I looked down at my sweatpants and the old Birkenstocks that Bridget had given me, which I wear in the garden. “Guess I’d better change.”
“Hey, maybe your niece has something you could borrow.” Drake grinned. “Her wardrobe looks interesting.”
“Something black and tight?” I considered the suggestion. “Perhaps I could use a tablecloth as a sarong, or turn bandannas into a business suit.”
“Just be careful at lunchtime,” he said, breaking up at this feeble joke. I left him chortling against the sink and went to change.
I want to be above clothes, I really do. Most of the time I am. Nothing makes you feel poorer than needing something and being totally unable to obtain it. When I first started temp work, I wore the same skirt and blouse everywhere. I noticed women who dressed as simply, but with a wave of the accessory wand, changed their adequate clothes to something special. I don’t know how to do that. I tried belting my T-shirt on the outside, over my skirt. On me it just looked like dweeb city. Another trip to the thrift store was called for.
A sweater covered the wrinkles in the red shirt I’d worn the day before and washed before going to bed. The old pair of emergency panty hose I’d found in the back of a drawer had just one little run. I could pretend I didn’t know about it. I brought the toe-torturers along in a tote bag so I wouldn’t have to walk in them. I brought the paperwork for the census, too, and a notebook for the projects I was working on. Looking busy was usually part of the job, especially if the phones weren’t heavy.
It was a brisk and pleasant walk downtown; the traffic hadn’t yet begun to thicken and the sidewalks looked clean and fresh. The coffee place on the ground floor of SoftWrite was roasting beans again when I went up the front stairs; it smelled like burned toast and was as thick as fog. I was glad to get through the plate glass door at the top, but the smell was still strong inside the foyer.
Yesterday, before Angel had whisked me off to meet Mindy and my computer, I’d noticed that the reception room was bigger than my living room. Now I had time to take in the spare but tasteful furnishings. In the middle of the room was a black desk, no clutter—just computer and phone console. A huge flower arrangement, sprouting many twisty twigs and birds-of-paradise, squatted on a tansu chest against the wall. Through an archway behind the desk I glimpsed the maze of cubicles where I’d spent the previous morning. Two doors with frosted glass panels flanked the reception room. The ceiling was high, as were the windows, so there was lots of light but no real view
Mindy was behind the desk, an example of the chicness I’d striven for. Her black shirt had silver zigzags of lightning all over it. While she talked on one phone line, another one rang. She waved at me and juggled the calls.
“Can you hold? Thanks. Can you hold? Thanks.” She banged the receiver down. “Thank God you’re here, Liz. Sorry to just throw you to the wolves, but we’ve got other people out today besides Sarah.”
“Are the phones heavy?” I put down my carryall and sat in the client chair to change out of the faded red high-tops I’d gotten at Goodwill.
“Moderately. Mostly it’s a question of taking messages and transferring to extensions.” Mindy stood up. “Don’t bother changing unless you want to—the high-tops are great. There’s a list of extensions beside the phone, and a Rolodex in the drawer in case Ed asks you to get anyone for him. Ed Garfield, the big cheese,” she added, pointing at the frosted glass door in the right-hand wall. “Remember, I told you about him. And Suzanne Hamner.” She pointed to the glass door on the opposite side of the room. “Can you work this phone?”
The console looked intimidating, but once I’d found the hold button I knew I’d be okay. She watched while I transferred the holds to the proper extensions.
“Great work.” Mindy pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled at me in approval. “I’m snowed under at my desk, but buzz me if you get lost—I’m extension 253. Everything’s upset here today,” she added under her breath.
The door on the right opened—I’d been thinking of it as Door Number One—and Ed came out, his arm around a weeping woman. Ed himself looked shaken and gray.
“Now, now,” Ed said. He saw me and nodded, before directing a helpless look toward Mindy.
“Come on, honey,” Mindy said, taking over. “I’ll get her some coffee, Ed.” The woman raised her head from Ed’s shoulder. It was Clarice.
“Yeah. Thanks. Thank you too, Liz. Appreciate your filling in like this.” Relieved of Clarice, he vanished into his office.
Clarice didn’t notice me. She was too busy trying to stop crying, and not succeeding. “I’m sorry,” she wept, clinging to Mindy. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying so much. It just—I just—”
“I know,” Mindy said soothingly, leading her away, deeper into the maze of office dividers. “It’s the shock.”
“It’s the shock.” I heard Clarice agree, her voice watery.
“We’ll all miss her.” Their voices died away.
I scanned the phone list. Employees were grouped into divisions, starting with Ed Garfield and Suzanne Hamner at the top. Clarice Jensen was listed under personnel.
Under the section marked software, I found Jenifer Paston, extension 496. But she wouldn’t be needing voice mail anymore.
Chapter 9
The phones didn’t allow time to think. They rang incessantly, for marketing, for Ed Garfield. All the action was caused by the company’s new product. The whole scene was much more glossy than the seat-of-the-pants way Emery Montrose did business.
Ed came out of his office several times, hurrying off into the maze of dividers. Once he went across the room to Door Number Two, where a woman’s voice greeted him. That would be Suzanne Hamner, extension 132, vice-president of software development.
The phones tapered off about nine-thirty. Mindy came back with a cup of coffee, and raised her eyebrows at my polite refusal.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a tea drinker. Do you remember where the hot water is?”
“I can find it, I think.”
“I’ll watch the phones for you, if you want. The cups are in the cabinet beneath the coffeemaker.”
I carried my tea bag away, wondering if I should ignore Drake’s wishes and do a little snooping about Jenifer. After all, I was in a unique position for that.
The maze of cubicles was confusing. I ran into a couple of dead ends before finding the lounge area. The labels on the two coffeepots had been changed; one said “Killer,” the other “Wuss.” I filled my cup and set it in the microwave for a little extra heat, punching buttons until it started and trying to eavesdrop discreetly on the knot of people who stood in the middle of the area, heads together intently, talking in low voices.
One of them noticed me anyway. “Oh, Liz. I’m so sorry I wasn’t on hand to get you started this morning.” It was Angel Lopez, the office supervisor. She was about fifty, plump, casually elegant in khaki pants and a sweater. Her glossy black hair, just touched with silver, framed a pleasant face. “Are you doing all right up there? Do you need help?”
“Mindy showed me the ropes. It’s not too complicated. I’m just getting a cup of tea, and I’ll get back to it.”
“Did you find a cup all right?” Angel peered into the microwave. “There isn’t always a clean one, because no one seems to wash up after themselves, but we don’t have disposable cups anymore. Saving the environment, you know.”
“Ha.” A tall, beautiful woman tossed her head as she spoke. “Considering the amount of paper we go through, that’s a joke.”
Angel smiled. “That’s Tess,” she said. “Tech writer. She’s a cynic.”
“A realist,” Tess corrected, nodding at me. “Hi. I heard there was a temp shortage when I asked for someone to do some word processing for me.”
“Liz was already on board, catching us up with the data entry,” Angel explained. “She was recommended to Ed, not from the agency.”
“Ed? I see.” Tess looked blank. The third member of their group nodded knowingly. He was short and overweight, with a bland, disinterested expression belied by the sharpness of his little dark eyes. He smoothed the strand of hair that bisected his shiny scalp from ear to ear.
“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice a surprisingly deep baritone. “Sarah’s not the only one out today. Will they be getting a temp for poor little Jenifer?”
Angel made some gesture of protest, and Tess’s eyes narrowed.
“A temp programmer wouldn’t be much use in Jenifer’s work.” Tess turned her back on the man, who merely grinned annoyingly.
I cleared my throat. I’m not good at playacting, but even Drake couldn’t complain if I just stuck to the truth. Not the whole truth—the convenient parts. “I met Jenifer yesterday, I think. Lovely girl.”
“Didn’t Mindy tell you?” Tess ignored Angel’s tiny shake of the head. “Jenifer died yesterday.”
“How tragic.” I felt wooden and unconvincing, and soon it would be too late to contribute to the office gossip that I had extra insight into Jenifer’s death. I knew enough about scuttlebutt to realize that if it came out later, I’d be sunk. “Was it an accident?”
“We don’t know.” Angel shook her head and frowned at Tess.
“We don’t know for sure,” the man said, his deep voice rolling out the words. “But the word suicide has been bandied about, hasn’t it, ladies?” He looked around, complacent.
“You do all the bandying, Larry.” Tess sounded disgusted. “Whatever happened, it’s very sad. She was so young.”