Death of the Office Witch

by Marlys Millhiser

  “Going to ream you out at both ends and X-ray what’s left, right?” There was a certain lack of sympathy in Larry’s ghoulish smile. What were her medical problems stacked against what he could be facing? But Charlie’s blood would be tested for HIV, too. Dr. Williams claimed it was standard now.

  For the first time in her career, Charlie would use up her and Libby’s health deductible on herself and before the year was half over. The agency insurance plan carried a “healthy” deductible. She sure hoped Keegan’s fix on the script would go over at Goliath. Keegan wouldn’t murder anyone—Ed just didn’t know him. Charlie was beginning to wish she really was psychic so she could simply stare at the murderer and identify him and get this all over with.

  Keegan was one of her callbacks this morning, but before she started on the phone slips, Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee and had it halfway back to her office before she remembered she wasn’t allowed it. Swearing, she poured it down the sink in the little utility niche. How was she supposed to work without coffee? She wasn’t even allowed Diet Coke. She stalked back to her office, picked up the pink slips, put them down and called Bev Schantz instead, offering to take Lori in for a few days until she cooled off.

  “I don’t consider you an especially good influence for my daughter,” Beverly said hesitantly, Lori’s little brother screaming happy mayhem in the background, the family dog barking itself apart at the seams. “I can’t imagine what’s gotten into that girl. I never acted that way as a teenager.”

  I did. “The offer’s open. Give it some thought.”

  “But there’s no supervision at your house.”

  “I have no plans to be gone tonight. I do have plans for tomorrow evening.”

  “Well, we did, too. Her father and I had planned to have Lori sit with her brother—but now.…” The old conundrum—who’s to supervise the baby-sitter? “But we would have been home well before midnight.”

  “The decision’s up to you. Maybe someday you could return the favor.”

  “We would be happy to take in poor Libby any—”

  Charlie hung up on Beverly Schantz for the second time that day and raised the back of a second finger to the nodding palm fronds outside her window. She returned the New York calls of importance, ignored the rest of her messages for now—including one from Keegan—and informed Larry she was out of the office. Her priority now was reading the Shadowscapes script.

  She was still immersed in it when Larry brought her a paper carton of Mom and Pop’s homemade chicken noodle soup with the tiny aromatic green things, newly reheated in the office microwave.

  Charlie had been unable to face breakfast that morning, having had to confront two teenage girls and force one to clean up the pizza barf the cat had left at two-foot intervals all over the tiny house.

  “But UM, Tuxedo loves pepperoni and cheese.”

  “Does he love All Hallows’ Eve? Scrape it up and flush it. Your cat, your puke.”

  “You puked the other night all over somebody’s rocks and cactus and didn’t stick around to clean it up.”

  Charlie had once scanned the novel Shadowscapes. The writing was powerful, but the story was so silly she couldn’t get into it. She needed to know only enough to speak coherently about it in Hollywood-ese. Truth be known, reading or even thinking in depth was more alien in L.A. than in D.C., and the project was already sold. Charlie had only to connect one of her writers with the folks at Goliath when it was determined that, but for one small problem, everything was wonderful. The problem was simply the adaptation was totally unworkable. No big deal, just call in another writer.

  So reading Keegan’s take on the script—knowing him, he’d completely rewritten it his way—was the first time Charlie had concentrated on the story line. Fortified by the marvelous soup and licking real butter off her fingers from the fresh bread that accompanied it, she finally called him.

  “Okay, my friend, how much is you and how much Mary Ann, and who did the nude dancing scene? It’s a great job, by the way, but that won’t get you off the hook around here. I mean, there’s black witches and there’s white witches—you can’t tell me Elaine and Dorian allowed their children to dance nude.”

  “But the script works by itself even if you never heard of the book, Mary Ann, or me—doesn’t it?”

  “You know it does. It’s brilliant.” Which didn’t mean the hundreds of people that would turn it into celluloid could bring it off. But Keegan, using Mary Ann’s incredible if warped imagination, had certainly done his share. “I’ll messenger it over to Carla and start hounding Goliath for your money.”

  Charlie had no more than sent the screenplay off to Goliath when Sheldon Maypo called from downstairs wanting to know if he’d be allowed up. “Let’s take a walk in the alley instead, Shelly. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  “No kidding? Your office was bugged? That explains some of what I overheard last night, then.” He pulled the bill of a baseball hat low over his sunglasses in the harsh light raging off white buildings and concrete as they strolled out from under the bank’s overhang and into the sun. Shelly was a night person. He tossed a wadded up candy wrapper into the dumpster on the other side of the concrete end wall as they passed it. “Dalrymple was talking to his buddy with the tight crew cut and explaining he didn’t think you were in any danger at the office, although the search would have tipped off the murderer you and the police knew what was afoot.”

  “So it’s one of us, or someone connected with us, for sure.”

  “I wasn’t clear from what I heard that they actually found a receiver or whatever, though.”

  “Why won’t Dalrymple tell me anything? How can he expect me to help if I don’t have any information?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Charlie. He was telling this guy—”

  “Gordon. Detective Gordon.”

  “This Gordon wondered the same thing, see? Why ask you to help and then keep you in the dark? And Dippy Dalrymple says because he wants you to come to a psychic solution on your own to see if it matches the solution they build by laborious investigation. And that you are still on the list of suspects yourself, which says they aren’t much closer than we are. And let’s see, there was a third thing—oh yeah—if you come up with the same answer psychically that they get their way, it’ll prove people like you can be helpful in police investigations. He thinks Gloria had some psychic talent herself, and this is the first time he’s ever investigated the murder of one person like that with another one involved. Said it was the chance of a lifetime.”

  “What did Detective Gordon say to that?”

  “Not a thing. Stunned silence, I expect. It’s frightening there’s someone like that in such a position of authority.”

  “Well the lieutenant did break down and tell me last night that Gloria died from a blow by a blunt instrument.” She told Shelly about the witches’ party in the orange grove. “Apparently, most of the suspects attended. You may be wrong about witchcraft having nothing to do with this. But I ran it all past that guy I was with last night, and he thinks it’s irrelevant, too. Ed thinks Keegan Monroe and Mary Ann Leffler killed Gloria and then Keegan killed Mary Ann so she couldn’t rat on him.”

  “I sure hope he’s wrong about Monroe. Kid’s one hell of a screenwriter. I did overhear a few other things.”

  “I want to know everything, Shelly.”

  “Your boss got stewed last night and wanted to know where the hell someone named Luella was.”

  “Luella Ridgeway, represents actors. Richard had ordered all the staff to be there and to bring dates to make it look like a bigger, more important party. You know, I don’t remember seeing her last night. What else?”

  “I talked to the little Vietnamese maid. She thinks Irma Vance did in Gloria and that Mary Ann Leffler is still alive, hiding out somewhere.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Part gut feeling, part observing people who come to the house, and part overhearing her bo
ss’s side of phone conversations. She heard him talking on the phone to Irma the night before Gloria’s murder. Morse turned white as a sheet and hung up. He told the maid something like ‘Damn that Gloria and her screwy friends. I could lose the agency.’ Morse thinks this Luella who didn’t come to his party and someone named Tweety did in Gloria because they had both asked him to fire Gloria.”

  “Who did Richard tell this to?”

  “Me. I’m used to staying up all night. So when the caterers and clean-up crew and security people leave the grounds yawning their way into their vans and cars, good old Shelly’s still on duty and spry beyond his years.”

  “In the house?”

  “In the hedge. And your boss comes out carrying a small bottle and a big headache and parks himself next to the pool under the lemon tree. I think I’m invisible, but he sees me. Motions me over. We pass the bottle. The guy’s practically in tears by now.”

  Charlie hadn’t seen Richard today, but then she’d come in late and holed up with Keegan’s screenplay. The only people she had seen were Larry and Irma. “He’s drinking it straight?”

  “Oh yeah. And talking. Tweety and Luella have explained to him how dangerous this Gloria is because she casts spells over people. She’s going to ruin Congdon and Morse because she hates being an underling receptionist, having to answer to people like Luella and Tweety. He thinks Gloria might have some information that would embarrass the agency if it gets out, and if he fires her she’d see that it gets out. Poor Richard tells me being the boss sucks. Me, unemployed, and we’re sitting under his lemon tree next to his pool.”

  Shelly stood looking up at the broken bushes so apparent from this side of the second block wall, the crushed red petals and leaves on the cement earth beneath had turned black, like old blood.

  “What if Gloria climbed up into those bushes by herself?” Charlie asked.

  “Maybe you are psychic. I was just wondering the same thing. I was also wondering if you’re as safe at Congdon and Morse as Dalrymple seems to think.”

  23

  Back on the fifth floor, Charlie confronted Larry at the front desk. “Are we the only ones here today? And Irma?”

  “Maurice came in. But not until after lunch. Looks like everybody else had too much party.”

  “Luella’s not in? I don’t think she was even at the party last night.”

  “I didn’t see her, but Stew and I didn’t stay very late. Listen, Charlie, when Irma comes back, we need to talk.”

  “Not here,” she half whispered, half mouthed.

  “We can go in your office.” He had a long yellow pencil stuck behind one ear, and when he shook his head in unison with hers, while making an exaggeratedly quizzical face, it fell to his shoulder and then to the floor.

  Charlie used it to write across a memo pad that Dalrymple had found a bug in her office yesterday and that she was afraid to talk about anything important inside the agency suite in case there were more. She showed the note to Larry and handed him his pencil.

  “That’s why the police search yesterday,” she whispered as an afterthought while tearing the note into ever tinier pieces.

  Larry had grown so still he didn’t look like he was breathing, didn’t even blink. “When?” he said finally, still staring straight ahead at nothing. “Before or after our little talk?”

  “After, but don’t jump to conclusions. I don’t think they found anything.” Charlie was still whispering even if he wasn’t.

  Larry Mann finally took a giant breath and noticed the pencil in his hand. He snapped it in two like a pretzel stick, flung it on Gloria’s desk, and walked out of the office.

  Charlie went after him and had almost let the door to the public hall close behind her when she realized she couldn’t get in again with no one on the desk, because her plastic card key was in her purse in her office. She called after him, but Larry stepped into the elevator without glancing back.

  “Damn.…” Irma must be out to a late lunch or on an office errand. Larry had referred to when she would come back. Charlie didn’t know if Maurice was still in. He wouldn’t answer the door buzzer even if he was. Charlie wouldn’t have, either. The soft, but vastly annoying jingle chime announced a caller.

  By the time Charlie made it around the U-shaped island of the front desk, two lines were blinking. She put one on hold and answered the other. It was Hal Licktman from ZIA—for her.

  “What, they got the agents answering the phones there now?”

  “Everybody’s stepped out. I’m pinch hitting until Irma gets back. How did you know it was me?”

  “That sexy, throaty voice is hard to miss, babe,” Hal said. “But hey, I got news. We got a go for Tina Horton to write the pilot for ‘Southwestern Exposure.’ Shapiro himself called this morning.”

  “Already? And they’re going to let Tina write it? At least the pilot? I don’t believe this.”

  “I know what you mean. You think you finally got this business figured out and something like this happens. Enjoy the good stuff, I always say. Gives you something to remember when you’re drowning in feces. Mary’s already called Tina. Would you tell Maurice we are definitely interested in Ellen Maxwell for Thora Kay? I tried to get him earlier. And Charlie, don’t get murdered over there, huh?”

  Charlie let out a howl of triumph the second she was off the line. It echoed around the empty offices. Maurice didn’t answer his phone. Don’t get murdered over there. Good thing “female hysterics” was not in Charlie’s resume. She jotted Maurice a note and answered the other line.

  “Thank you for holding. This is Congdon and Morse.”

  “Charlie, they got you answering the phones now?”

  “Edwina? What is this calling me at the office again? Are you still home sick?”

  “Yes, I’m still home sick,” Charlie’s mother mimicked in that high whine that passed for sarcasm and that always made her daughter want to pick up something and throw it. “I called to find out what the doctor said this morning.”

  Charlie explained about the tests next week. That Dr. Williams was fairly certain her problem was not stomach cancer but said it could be anything from an ulcer to gall bladder to a “female disorder” to low-lying intestinal virus to simple indigestion exacerbated by stress. He’d also brought up the possibility of pregnancy, which she assured him was impossible and which she did not mention to Edwina.

  “Well, I could have told you that. Not pregnant, are you?”

  “No Edwina, I am not. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.”

  Charlie’s mother signed off with, “Just take care of yourself, Charlemagne Catherine Greene. I barely survived raising you. I’m too old to raise Libby.”

  Charlie sat back in Gloria’s chair, seething, wishing she knew how to switch over to the answering service.

  She had never seen Congdon and Morse from quite this angle. It could be day or it could be night. There were no windows. Rain was in the forecast for today. It could be raining right now, but from here you’d never know. Charlie didn’t enjoy being in the agency alone. Irma would be back any minute.

  She slipped out of her pumps and stared at the pencil halves a long while before her mind prodded her into paying attention. It was in the way they lay there that reminded her of the pencil stubs with the eraser ends Gloria used to punch computer or phone keys. They might have been thrown down in haste and anger just as Larry had thrown these.

  Gloria could have been working with them and was suddenly afraid, furious, or sick. Hell, she could have had diarrhea and raced off to the ladies in the back hall.

  Gloria may have been alone here as Charlie was now. Alone except for the murderer. Sure was a good thing “easily frightened” and “paranoid” were not part of Charlie’s resume.

  This place was not a bit quiet even when empty. Somewhere a blower whirred, circulating air filtered out of the pollution and temperature changes in the real world. The little refrigerator in the utility niche wheezed and gurgled in the hall
behind her. There were creaks and rattles that seemed to come from within the walls.

  Someone could have walked through the door that Charlie now faced and scared Gloria, who threw down her pencil stubs and ran off into the back hall to escape. Only to be chased and caught just before she reached the stairs.

  Then the murderer hit her over the head with something blunt and stuffed her in the bag of the cleaning trolley in the janitor’s closet. He wheeled her through the office, onto the elevator and down to the first floor, where he pushed her through a corner of the first level of parking and on across the covered drive-in area. They passed at least one, maybe two, parking valets and a security guard, not to mention various people coming and going from a busy commercial building. Then around the concrete end wall and up the alley past the private two-car parking space to Mrs. Humphrys’ wall and flowering bushes. And then he or she threw Gloria’s body up into the bushes. Heaved her. Stuffed her? Pushed her. How do you get a dead weight in that kind of position? Or did she climb up by herself? Why?

  Did he, she, or they do it without being particularly noticed by people who are busy thinking about other things, people who are self-involved and who don’t want to get involved? City people who keep their eyes averted and their profile low because bad things happen out there that need avoiding? People like Charlie Greene. Hey, if Tina Horton could get the go-ahead to write the pilot of a series pitched to a major network four days ago, anything was possible. Anything.

  Who needed psychics and witches and paranormal stuff? Life was screwy enough the way it was.

  But Charlie sure learned a lot about the agency and its people in a very few hours that day. Women who can afford them are always saying you have no secrets from your cleaning lady. Charlie was astonished to realize how much Gloria, as phone receptionist, must have known about them all.