Mourning Dove

by Donna Simmons

  In the women’s locker room, Sara started to remove her wet suit then hesitated.

  Louise, in a state of undress, looked up at her pause, “What?” she asked.

  “They can’t see in this room, can they?”

  “I hope not! That’d be reason to sic my linebacker husband on them. On another subject,” she began to dress, “I was reviewing the phone traffic for the corporate office this morning. I found some unidentified long-distance phone numbers that came from your office and from Jonathon’s about two months ago. That would put Ross, and/or Jonathon, in the middle of something.”

  “Can you trace them?”

  “All were unlisted. A few are currently out of service. But, they weren’t out of service from one fifteen to two in the morning in the middle of July and August. One number really peaked my interest. I called it to see who would answer.”

  “And?”

  “The female voice on the other end answered with ‘Central Intelligence Agency.’ I hung up, but I’m sure they have some kind of caller ID on their end.”

  In the same low tone of voice, Sara asked, “When did you make these calls?”

  “This morning, I thought you should know, just in case I need validation. I don’t know what’s going on with Ross; but I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

  “Keep it under your hat for now, and leave the printout in my office. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Sara thought, I should ask Carl tonight – or maybe Matthew. Somebody’s got to know what’s going on. Ross, what the hell did you get us into?

  ***

  The day slipped into evening again. A light knock on Sara’s door broke her concentration. Matthew stood there smiling with a large brown paper bag in his hands.

  “Whatever you’ve got there smells delicious.”

  “Chinese, I know you didn’t eat lunch. Your desk is still piled high, although it looks like a new stack.” He walked into the office and set his offering onto the only available space on the side table.

  “How do you know I didn’t eat lunch?”

  “I saw you in the pool upstairs.”

  “You were with those drooling juvenile males from the sales department?”

  “I did not have my sweaty nose pressed to the glass; I was putting a few miles on a treadmill. They seem to live vicariously through your lunch activity. They also have some colorful thoughts about you and your assistant.”

  “I was horrified when Louise told me they were there just to watch us swim. I hope they all got leg cramps. By the way, what makes you think I don’t already have plans for dinner?”

  “Do you?”

  “Just with Leonardo, I called a neighbor to come over and feed him. He was decidedly unhappy last night with the lateness of his vittles.”

  “Maybe you should just leave some dry food out,” he suggested as he picked a spiral bound folder off the top of her desk and began to read. “It appears you finished this task.”

  “I believe it was the absence of my company that caused Leonardo to unravel and shred a whole roll of toilet tissue throughout my house. And the board report would have been complete, but Jonathon sent last minute changes to be added.”

  He laughed, “I’m sorry, it was probably not funny for you, but the image of a cat wrapped like a mummy in white tissue is quite humorous. I suggest we get down to the business of eating my offering before it gets cold. Then you can get home at a more reasonable hour to entertain your feline friend.”

  He looked down at the stack of reports and asked, “Have you got the changes inserted, yet?”

  “No, they’re printing now. Then I’ve got to punch holes, strip the binding, add the edited pages, and rebind the reports. The board meeting is at nine tomorrow morning. They moved it up to accommodate somebody’s root canal.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. Help me devour all this food before I perish from hunger, and I’ll help you add the changes to the report. I used to work a binding machine in a past life,” he nodded toward the portable equipment temporarily filling the other half of the side table.

  “You have a deal. Did you bring plates and something to eat with?”

  He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I knew I forgot something. I’ll just whip up to the cafeteria and procure the essential equipment. Be right back.”

  He was gone before Sara could warn him. She wondered what the rumor mill was going to think of his gathering two place settings and disappearing back down the elevator to the financial floor. With any luck at all they were all gone for the day. Who was she kidding?

  ***

  “Bloody hell.” Matthew glanced down at the sticky spot on his silver tie. “Every time I eat with you I end up wearing part of my meal. At this rate, I’m going to run out of ties.”

  “Here, use some of my water and this paper napkin. I think you have duck sauce on your chin, too.” Sara smiled at his charming ineptness. “And for the record, you didn’t ruin your bow tie at the Starr’s dinner.”

  “No, there I tried to knock you out with a forehead collision and sprinkled my shirt front with rice pilaf.” He removed the cap from Sara’s water bottle and tipped it over with the paper napkin as a stopper.

  “Matthew, do you know anyone in the CIA?” She asked, watching him shred his soggy paper napkin across the front of his ruined tie.

  He looked up from the white flakes of paper now stuck to his shirtfront with a blank stare. “What did you say?”

  “I thought since you work for the government you might have some contacts in the Agency.”

  “Why do you need someone from the CIA?”

  “I have some minor inconsistencies that keep nagging at me. It may be government related. If I can talk them over with a federal agent, there might be a logical explanation and I won’t lose any sleep over it.” She reached over, took the shredded napkin from his hands, and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  “Do you think these inconsistencies are CIA related? Or would this lowly government worker do?”

  “You’re making a mess of things. Take your tie off and I’ll try to salvage it.”

  “Talk to me, Sara.”

  “After you hear what I have to say, if you think it needs to go up a level or to another department, tell me who and why, first. It’s important to me.”

  “All right, tell me what you know and why it’s important to involve the CIA.”

  He loosened his sticky tie and pulled it over his head just as a night security guard stuck his head in the door. The guard cleared his throat to get their attention and winked at her with a suggestive tilt to his head. For God’s sake! News at eleven!

  “Can I help you with anything, Lewis?”

  “No ma’am; just checking. Saw your light on from the corridor and wanted to make sure everything was all right. Working late again?”

  “Yes, we are.” She pointed to the pile of reports stacked on her desk.

  The security guard paused, then gave a two-finger salute before he backed out the door. She held a finger up for Matthew to wait before talking. At the click of the outer office doors, she breathed out and Matthew handed over his sticky tie.

  “What was that all about?” He watched her smooth the tie out on her leg. “Do they usually check up on you like that?”

  She soaked some water on a cloth square she used to clean her glasses and blotted at the now paper-coated sticky spot. “Not usually. Apparently we are a hot item on the office rumor mill. Louise told me at lunch that all sorts of people have been plaguing her with tidbits of my supposed lascivious behavior. The latest is that Jonathon and I had a torrid affair in one night, then a lovers’ quarrel; he left for California in a huff; then I unleashed my sexual prowess on the B. I.”

  “Dare I ask what a B. I. is?”

  “You are the British Invasion; B. I. in this rumor mill. And, I’m sure my reputation is in shreds between what was already supposed, your late run to the cafeteria for dining utensils for two this evening, and n
ow the evidence of your strip act in my office witnessed by Lewis, the night security guard.”

  The room echoed with the sound of male laughter; Sara scowled at his humorous response to her tattered rep! “When you are done with your chuckles would you mind telling me what is so funny about this situation?”

  “I’m sorry, it sounds like a cartoon comedy where the poor schlep is repeatedly trying to get to first base only to strike out each time at bat. But, the sports channel has pegged him as the next homerun king. I’m not laughing at you, Sara; we should be laughing together over the adolescent nature of the male half of the human species. I humbly apologize for my connection by anatomy.”

  “Unfortunately, the women are just as gossipy. It’s my reputation that’s being destroyed, not yours, not Jonathon’s. It seems to be okay for men to play around, but women, even those who show a cold shoulder to inept lines, are always fair game for the rumor mongers in corporate America. I am thoroughly disgusted with it and can’t seem to find an ounce of funny bone material in the current situation.”

  “Okay, I’m not laughing.” Another snicker leaked from the back of his throat. “Ah, come on, Sara. It’s so stupid it has to be funny.”

  “Maybe. That sweaty cluster of testosterone pressed up against the glass did look silly. Especially when you consider that half of them were overflowing their gym shorts.”

  “Tell me about the little inconsistencies that are keeping you up at night.” He was back to serious in a heartbeat.

  She nodded at his request, walked to the front of her desk, unlocked the top drawer on the right side, and pulled out a listing of phone numbers. The room was silent while he read those that were highlighted and the comments Louise had scrawled beside them.

  “Don’t you find that a call to the CIA at one-thirty in the morning from this office and another at two a.m. from Jonathon’s office is a little peculiar?”

  “How did Louise happen onto this list?”

  “It’s her job to track down unaccounted for long distance calls. Actually it’s mine, but I’ve been covering for Jonathon, so Louise is covering some of my duties. The way I see it, in July and August, Ross worked out of this office and he probably made the calls and passed over the list as inconsequential. Louise saw it as incomplete and finished verifying the list. You notice that some of the calls were made from Jonathon’s office. Either Ross was snooping around the CFO’s office at two in the morning or Jonathon is also talking to the CIA after hours.”

  “Sara, what do you know about the situation in San Francisco?”

  “Only what Jonathon’s told me by phone. Ross found that his predecessor was selling company secrets to the competition. Then he made the unpardonable mistake of trying to stall our finding out while he covered it up. Ross was fired, by me, and is now missing.”

  She reached over to her printer, handed him a copy of the amended page to the financial report, and waited for his comment.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ron watched the mob at Jordie’s art show from a detached position behind the punch bowl. The Artists Association had packed their building for the showing of unusual oil techniques by a favorite local. He was told the crush was unprecedented for a Thursday evening. Some came to see the man accused of killing his girlfriend in a lovers’ quarrel, others to report on the strange and unexplained behavior of the notorious, a few to appreciate the artist’s unusually dark talent with a brush. Jordie, dressed in his traditional black, was surrounded by well-wishers and the curious in the far corner of the large showcase room.

  Ron was still gnawing on the code he couldn’t decipher. He smiled at Cass when she walked into the room. She was flitting from room to room talking up the interest in her son’s work, selling more canvasses than the efforts of the association’s rep, the board of regents, and the art critic from the Boston Globe put together.

  Allen sauntered up to the spread of refreshments and plowed a furrow through the crab dip with a rippled chip.

  “Where’s Annette?” Ron asked him.

  “My future bride is in the process of spending me into the poor house with all the paintings she wants to buy from Jordie. One will severely curtail the honeymoon, two will break the bank, and she’s eyeballed four. Tell me again why it was important we come tonight?”

  “Sara was afraid no one would show except the reporters. She asked, she demanded, we all show up. I even managed to convince our new bookkeeper to attend.”

  “Well, for an event with no turn out, this place sure is packed. Have you seen Sara?”

  “After all the pushing she did to get everyone here, I don’t think she’s coming.”

  “I saw her just a minute ago in the loft.”

  “Are you sure, Allen? She didn’t come by me.”

  “She probably took one look at your grumpy face through the window and came in through the exit. There she is now talking to Annette.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Association’s rep called out from a standing position on top of a chair, “I have just been informed that all of Mr. O’Brien’s canvasses on display tonight have been sold.” The roar of applause punctuated the announcement as the rep descended from her perch.

  “I wonder how many of those I’ll be paying for over the next twenty years,” Allen said from the side of his mouth.

  Ron wedged a path through to the star of the show.

  “Congratulations, Jordie. I knew all it would take is people seeing your work. Are we still meeting at the end of the evening?” Ron asked.

  “Yes sir. I have some thoughts on the other matter we discussed.”

  “Good, I was hoping you would.”

  “Sara brought some people from an art foundation,” Jordie added. “Have you met them yet?”

  “No, I...”

  A group of four people walked up to Jordie and Ron. The short woman in the group with a gentle southern voice stepped forward. “Jordan, congratulations on your smashing success; I am so glad I arrived early enough to purchase one of your treasures for our foundation. I have some friends in New York who may be interested in your painting style.”

  “Thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Starr. I’m very pleased you were able to come down from Portland and I would like to introduce you all to a man who has always been like a father to me, there when I need him, there when I didn’t think I did. “Elaina and Robert Starr, Matthew Farrell, I’m pleased to introduce you to, Ron Stafford of Stafford Sound Systems.”

  “Ron, meet Robert and Elaina Starr of Starr Shine Communications and the Starr Foundation for the Arts, and Matthew Farrell government liaison to the Starr Shine company. I understand Sara and Matthew Farrell are also part of that foundation.”

  “Are you related to our Sara in some way, Mr. Stafford? You have the same last name.” Elaina Starr was oblivious to the dangerous undertow in the group.

  “She’s a very talented lady, madam,” Ron offered as he shook her hand. He could feel the bile building in the back of his mouth when he shook the older man’s hand, a man much taller than his wife and most of the crowd at Jordie’s event. The younger man facing him had his hand splayed on Sara’s half-naked back. He remembered the anniversary she first wore that piece of turquoise silk and how little time it took to get her out of it. She was losing weight; she was losing it for someone else. He turned back to the gracious lady before him. “Mrs. Starr, Sara is my wife.”

  ***

  Cass and Sara watched as Ron and Jordie spoke near the exit. Jordie was looking through the window at the wet glistening street beyond. The joy that had creased his smile all evening was gone. Ron pulled an envelope from his breast pocket that Jordie folded in half and slid into his. After they shook hands Ron opened the door and walked out.

  “Do you know what that’s all about?” Cass asked her.

  “I thought Ron was staying for an after hours celebration.”

  “Maybe he’s put off by your friends,” Cass nodded at the small group from Starr Shine in front of Jo
rdie’s skull painting talking to the Boston Globe reporter.

  “Well, he’s going to have to get over it. The Starr Foundation has the contacts Jordie needs right now. I’m tickled pink they were available on such short notice.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you, but did you see the look on Ron’s face when Jordie introduced them? He was changing colors like a confused chameleon. First his face turned white when he saw you with the group, then red when he realized your Mr. Farrell was acting possessive toward you.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “He was. He purposely placed his hand on your bare back when Ron was being introduced. Then he grinned at something Mrs. Starr asked. I wasn’t close enough to hear her question, but Ron didn’t like it.”

  “She asked Ron if he was related to me and I think Ron had just realized what dress I’m wearing.”

  “It’s a knockout, by the way. Where did you pick that little number up?”

  “It’s old. I didn’t have time to shop. I was just hoping I had shed enough pounds to fit into it. It’s not too tight is it?”

  “Now you ask! It’s not too tight, but it must be a bit drafty in the back. So tell me about this Mr. Farrell, and what happened to the cowboy?”

  “Jonathon is in California on business. Matthew Farrell is a government liaison temporarily attached to the company for an R & D project. He was asked to work on the art foundation, too. He’s a nice man and delightfully clumsy around women.”

  “Sounds like there’s more to this story than you’re letting on.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Not ready for what? Confiding in an old friend, news at eleven, or a new relationship?”

  “We haven’t had time to talk all week. I’m sorry. It’s been crazy at the office since Jonathon left for San Francisco. News at eleven has a whole new meaning now; I’m sure you’ll be hysterical over it when I’m ready to share.”