“Did you explain to him that it was a break in, probably because the doors and windows in the apartment he rented to you did not have proper locks?”
“He didn’t want to listen. I think he’s afraid he’ll get stuck for part of the bill if he admits to anything.”
“Okay Stacey. I have a meeting in a few minutes. Then I’m coming down there and get you set up with the basic necessities, at least. You make a list of your most urgent needs and I’ll see what I can do to help you out.”
“Mr. Stafford, you don’t have to do that.”
“Carl would have and he wouldn’t have taken three days to get to you. I apologize for that. I should have come right down after Sara told me. You make the list. I’ll be there by one o’clock with the van. And Stacey?”
“Yes?”
“I want you to dry your eyes, take a deep breath, and don’t worry about the money. Consider it a donation from Carl.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stafford.”
“Make the list. I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Ron hung up the phone and thought, Jesus, that poor kid! He leaned over the arm of the chair in his office and looked into the display room. “Hey, Allen?”
“Yo!”
“Do we have any customers we have to deal with this afternoon?”
“You just have an interview with the latest victim from Account Temps.”
“I know, in about fifteen minutes. Want to play Good Samaritan this afternoon?”
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to rescue a damsel in distress down in Newburyport.”
“Okay. I’m game for anything.”
They both turned toward the front door when a stout middle-aged woman walked into the front office carrying a quilted tote in her right hand, hitching up the strap of a large black leather purse over her left shoulder.
She looked up at the two of them through a set of bifocals and introduced herself. “I’m Margaret Alvarez here for an interview with Mr. Stafford. Am I in the right place, gentlemen?”
Allen beamed a smile at the lady. “Yep, you’re in the right place. I’m Allen.” He directed with his hand toward the doorway behind him. “And this is Mr. Stafford.” He turned back to Ron with a wag of his eyebrows and a jerk of his pupils toward the ceiling.
“Mrs. Alvarez, welcome. Please have a seat.” Ron turned back toward the mess in his office and immediately spun back to redirect her toward the bookkeeper’s desk in the front room. “I’m glad you’re punctual. We have a busy afternoon and need to make this interview short.”
She tucked her oversized bag and tote beside the chair, “I’m not just punctual Mr. Stafford; I make it a practice to always be a few minutes early. No telling what kind of traffic tie up can get in the way of promptness.”
In the raging megalopolis of Greenland, New Hampshire? “Please call me Ron, Mrs. Alvarez; we’re quite informal in this office. Did you drive a great distance to get here?”
“Portsmouth, but you never know about traffic.”
“Mrs. Alvarez, may I call you Margaret?”
“If you so desire.”
“Well Margaret, we’ve not had much luck in finding a replacement for our bookkeeper. The agency has previously sent people I found to be too young and inexperienced for the position. I need a bookkeeper who does not get rattled when the office gets busy. I need someone I can count on to take care of the books and to act as receptionist, answer the phones, and make potential clients feel comfortable. Have I got that person before me?”
“You do, Mr. Ron. I’m sorry Mr. Stafford. I’ve been taught by the old school that the boss is always called by his surname. I’ll work on the adjustment.”
“Thank you, Margaret. To continue, the job is full time at forty hours a week. We process payroll every other Monday. I take it you have experience with payroll as well?”
“Yes sir, thirty-two years.”
“Where was your last employment?”
“I last worked for MCI in Boston. I got tired of the commute and went into retirement.”
“Retirement? Why are you seeking another job if you’re retired?”
“They raised my taxes, Mr. Stafford. I’ve got to be able to keep my home and eat. Medicines aren’t getting any cheaper either.”
“Please, call me Ron. Yes, it is getting tougher to get by every day, isn’t it, Margaret. Well, how long were you, ah, retired?”
“Six months, sir. I’m looking for a full time position in a quiet office close to home.” She looked around the front office and said, “I think this place will do; seems quiet enough for my liking.”
Allen was leaning against the far wall, tapping his watch. Ron would like to wipe that silly smirk off his freckled face. This was what he got for complaining to the employment agency that he needed someone with maturity and years of experience.
“Good...good,” Ron said as he reached over to the middle drawer of the desk in front of his new geriatric bookkeeper and realized there was no easy way of opening the drawer without touching the lady. “Ah, Margaret, please open the center drawer in front of you. You’ll find an envelope with a set of keys. Inside is also a list of cell phone numbers, mine, Allen’s, and Sara’s. I really don’t mean to rush this interview, but we have an important meeting in Newburyport. Welcome aboard. Lock up when you leave at five.”
He reached for his jacket slung over one of the visitor’s chairs and extended his other hand for her handshake.
“Mr. Stafford, Ron? That’s it? I have the job?”
“Yes, Margaret, the job is yours. As you can see we need you immediately.” He headed toward the front door where Allen was dangling the keys to the van. “Nose around in the filing cabinets and the desk drawers. But stay out of the back room and my office. I haven’t had a chance to clean up in there. Any questions, call one of us.”
“Mr. Ron, I have appointments this afternoon.”
“I would appreciate it if you could rearrange your appointments for today.” He turned back toward the very confused woman.
Allen was already in the van with the engine running when Ron reached the front door.
“Mr. Ron, who is this Sara person on the phone list?”
“She’s my wife. She was doing the books for the last two years. She can answer any questions you have. See you in the morning. Leave me notes about any questions you have for me or anything you can’t find. I have to go now. Goodbye, Margaret. Thanks again.”
***
In the van, Allen’s laughter filled the space. “Be careful what you ask for, Ron. You just might get it.”
“What are you laughing about? She’ll probably quit the minute she sees my office.”
“That’s true. Where do we go next, boss?”
“The bank, we’re going to need some cash for the damsel in Newburyport.”
***
The Stafford van was stuck in traffic entering the downtown shopping district of Newburyport. “I don’t remember this kind of congestion before?” Ron rolled down the driver’s side window trying to get a better view of the bottleneck two blocks ahead.
“Do you see any action up there?”
“Flashing lights, a cop car, and a fire truck, but I don’t see any sign of fire.”
“I can get out and walk up, you want me to try?” Allen pushed his door open.
“No wait! There’s a cop waving traffic forward. We’re moving again.”
“From this side it looks as if they’re diverting traffic down a side street two blocks up.”
“How far is The Art Shop?”
Allen glanced down at the GPS locater. “It seems to be in the middle of the block just beyond the fire truck. What do you want to do, Ron?”
“I’ll ask the cop.”
They approached the intersection where traffic was detouring down a side street to the right. Leaning out the driver side window, Ron asked, “Officer, I have business with a store owner down a couple blocks on the right. Can I park my van here on the
curb and walk down?”
“No sir, you have to keep moving. Turn right here. No stopping, you’re tying up traffic.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m expected by the lady at The Art Shop in the middle of that block. I’m not sure where this detour is going to take us. If I park my van here on the curbing I could walk down and be out of your hair.”
“Pull over to the curb and get out of the van,” the policeman ordered in an intimidating tone of voice. Then he waved on the traffic line behind their van and talked into the communicator attached to his shoulder.
“Does that mean we can walk up to the shop, or are we under arrest for failing to detour?” Allen asked.
“I’m not sure what it means, but here comes a suit.” A man in dark blue walked determinately toward them from the scene of commotion up ahead. Ron and Allen got out of the van and waited.
“Oh yeah, this looks like a higher power. Definitely plain clothes, maybe the chief,” Allen confirmed as the sun glinted off the badge hanging from the breast pocket of the man strutting toward them.
“What seems to be your problem, mister? Weren’t you told to detour around this block?”
“I’m sorry, sir. My friend and I have business with the owner of The Art Shop. With this traffic tie up we are already late for our appointment. We’re just trying to find a way to reach our destination and not get in the way of the accident up ahead. Would it be all right with you if we just walked up to meet our friend? We promise not to get in the way of anything official.”
The detective sighed and shook his head.
“Show me some identification: driver’s license and registration.”
“I’m Ron Stafford, the owner of Stafford Sound Systems and this is my van.”
Ron pulled out his license and business card.
“Allen, can you reach into the glove box for the registration?”
“You are Ronald Stafford?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you, sir?”
Allen offered the van registration and nodded. “Allen Cook, sir. I’m Ron’s assistant. Here’s my ID.”
The detective inspected both sets of identification and compared the photos with their faces. Ron thought this cop was way too suspicious for just an accident. He was probably new to his position and overdoing his mantle of authority.
“What business do you have with the owner of The Art Shop?”
“She’s a friend of the family. She’s had a couple of traumatic days. Her shop and apartment were burglarized.”
“What do you know about the burglaries?”
“Not much, you probably know more about that than I do. I talked to her this morning by phone and told her we’d come down today to see what we could do to get her back in business and secure her apartment for her. You know, new locks, a sturdy door, something to sleep on.”
“Well, gentlemen it won’t do you any good to walk down to The Art Shop. The owner has been in an accident.”
“What?”
“She was hit by a truck in front of her store.”
“Where are you taking her? Is that ambulance taking her to a local hospital? We can follow her out.” The emergency vehicle in question passed them heading out of town without sirens or lights.
“I’m not at liberty to say until next of kin is notified.”
“You don’t understand, detective. Stacey doesn’t have any family left. That’s why we came down to help. Please tell us where you’re taking her?” Ron ran his hands through his hair in agitation then turned around and stared the detective directly in the eye. “Don’t you understand? She’s already overwhelmed; she’s going to need someone she knows to be with her.”
The detective looked up at the puffy clouds in the warm blue September sky, paused, and exhaled. Then he looked Ron in the eye. “Mr. Stafford, your friend didn’t make it. She died at the scene.”
The cop stood there for what seemed like hours, waiting. Finally Ron closed his eyes. He could feel Allen’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Ron. We can’t do anything here.” Allen guided him back to the van where he sat down heavily on the driver’s seat.
The detective followed. “Are you sure she has no next of kin?”
“Yes, she was friends with my son, Carl, and another friend of theirs here in Newburyport.”
“What is your son’s full name and address? We might have to ask him some questions, and we’ll need the name of the friend here in town if you have it.”
“Why do you need more information from people not at the scene for an accident?” Allen asked.
“We like to be thorough, son.” He turned backed to Ron. “Mr. Stafford, how can we contact your son and this other friend here in town?”
Ron felt the knot in his chest intensify. “My son is dead. He passed away last March.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. That answers a lot about your reaction. What about the other friend you mentioned?”
“Jordan O’Brien. He’s an artist and life long friend of my son’s. Stacey told me this morning she’s been sleeping on his couch since her apartment was trashed on Sunday. He lives in a loft apartment here in town. I’m not sure of the exact address. My wife would know. Would you like me to call her?”
“That’s not necessary. We have Mr. O’Brien at the scene.”
“He must be beside himself. Maybe we should be with him.”
“Not at this time.” The detective walked back toward the flashing lights.
“You know what I’m thinking, Ron?”
“Yeah, I need to talk to Jordie.”
“Do you have his cell number? If he has it on him, we might still be able to reach him.”
“No, but I know who can get it for me.” Ron punched in the number ‘one’ speed dial on his phone and waited.
“Ron, what is it now?”
“Sara, do you have Jordie’s cell phone number?”
“I don’t but I can get it from Cass. What’s wrong? Did you speak to Stacey?”
“Honey, Stacey’s been in an accident and I need to reach Jordie. It’s urgent that I speak to him right away. Can you get the number from Cass? I’m sitting in the van in Newburyport.”
“Oh God, how serious is it? Is she all right?”
“I’ll fill you in later. I need that number now. Please.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
A few minutes later, “Sara, have you got it?”
“Yes, Cass just got in from school.”
He wrote the number down on the palm of his hand.
“Call me back, Ron. Don’t leave us hanging.”
“I will, I promise.” He clicked off the connection and punched in the new number. It rang once, then again. “Come on Jordie, pick up.” On the fourth ring the connection was made.
In a soft whisper, Jordie responded.
“Jordie, it’s Ron Stafford. I’m a block away, but the police won’t let me come down to you. If you want me to get you an attorney, just say yes.”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, but Stacey isn’t.” Jordie choked out.
“I know, son. I spoke to the detective. We’re going to get you help. They have no reason to hold you.”
“It wasn’t me, Mr. Stafford. It wasn’t me.”
“I know that Jordie.”
“I was still a block away when the accident happened. I heard it; I heard the thump. Damn it! What’s happening to us?”
“Listen Jordie, we’re going to get you help. We will get you out of this.”
“Oh God! Stacey!”
“Jordan, take a deep breath...That’s it...Take another one. After I get you legal counsel, I’m going to take care of the arrangements for Stacey. We’ll get through this together as a family. You’re like a son to me; I won’t abandon you. You understand?”
“Yes sir. The cops are coming back now. I have to hang up. Thank you, Mr. Stafford.”
Ron pulled a business card from his walle
t and punched in the number, “Hey Bernie, Ron Stafford. How’s the legal business?”
“Ron, you old sea dog, long time no hear, what’s up?”
“We seem to be in a legal fix at the moment, Bernie. A very close friend of our son’s has just been taken into custody in Newburyport. We need good legal counsel quickly.”
A few minutes later, Allen came back to the van from a café across the street holding a couple of cold drinks. “Any luck, Ron?” He reached out with a cold drink.
“My friend’s contacting someone local here. He’ll call back.”
“So, I guess we wait?” Allen walked to the other side of the van and climbed in.
“Ugh! This is Mountain Dew!” Ron handed it back to him.
“Sorry about that, chief. I’m glad you noticed before I sipped your sugar free ice tea. It could stunt my growth,” he traded drinks just as Ron’s phone rang again.
“Ron. The attorney is Ray Bradley. I gave him the particulars. He’s on his way to the police station now. He should be there inside of ten minutes. You’re all set.”
“Thanks, Bernie. I owe you.”
“You owe me a round of golf my friend. I won the last time we met. It’s your turn to pay.”
***
“Damn it! What took you so long?” Ron held his phone away from his ear as Sara continued to yell her concern. “I’ve been on pins and needles for hours and Cass has called me every fifteen minutes worried about her son.”
“I know, Sara, I’ve been taking care of things in Newburyport and just got back to the office. I’ll call Cass if you want. It might be easier coming from me since I was down there,” then after a long breath he gave her the rest.
“Sweetheart, Stacey was hit by a truck out in front of her shop. She didn’t make it.”
“Oh my God! Where, where was Jordie?”
“He was coming to pick her up for lunch. He said he was a block away when he heard the accident.”
“Cass says he won’t answer his phone. She’s been trying the apartment number and his cell. He needs to call her, Ron.”
“He will when he gets the opportunity. He was still at the police station when I left a little while ago.”
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