“For you there might be another star, but the light of you is all I can see,” Mary shrieked.
Appalled though I was, I couldn’t keep from laughing. Slowly, slowly Mary rolled to the end of my driveway and stopped. I had no choice but to open the door and get out.
Roger Peterson, the dignified retiree who was my next door neighbor on the near side, opened his front door to locate the source of the din. He stared at Mary and me, perplexed, until he spotted Philpott scurrying toward her garage. Then he shook his head and closed the door.
As soon as Philpott’s garage door closed, Mary killed the music and grinned at me. “Music lovers, one, Philpott, zero,” she crowed. Despite my troubles I couldn’t help returning her grin as I waved goodbye and let myself in through my garage.
As I wearily stuffed groceries into freezer and cupboards, I was surprised to hear the garage door going up again. Only Joey, Emma and Armando had openers. It was Armando coming to say a proper goodbye, I thought, my heart lifting; but when I opened the connecting door from the kitchen, I saw not Armando but Joey coming through the garage. He was a day early for his weekly stopover. What could be up?
The tall twenty-seven-year-old wore my face under a buzz cut, a tentative grin, and a short-sleeved shirt tucked into his jeans. There was a largish lump under the shirt. The lump was meowing.
“Oh, you got a kitten! I exclaimed. “Let me see.” I held out my hands, and Joey deposited a tiny, ink-black pile of fur into them. I hustled into the kitchen and sat down on the mat I kept in front of the sink. As soon as its paws hit the nap, the kitten peed copiously. I looked up at Joey.
“Sorry, Ma, it’s been a while since he’s seen a litter box. I guess the drive from Taunton was too much for him. He’s usually very good about that.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said wryly, throwing the mat into the sink until I could launder it. And hang it over my back railing, I added to myself mutinously. A choppy purr emanated from the relieved mite. “Do you mean to say that you have been driving this little creature around in that noisy rig?”
“I was in the queue at a truck stop in Charlotte, waiting my turn to be fueled up, when I saw a guy walking up and down the line, asking if any of the drivers would take this kitten. He’d found him all wet and shivering in the tall grass and figured that somehow, he had survived some creep’s tossing an unwanted litter into the brook that runs behind the place. I couldn’t just leave him there, so I rolled down my window, and the guy handed him up.”
It was my own fault for raising tender-hearted children, I supposed. To tell the truth, I was proud that Joey had stepped up. “Just like Moses in the bulrushes, eh?” I murmured to the kitten, now droopy eyed in my hand. He purred more loudly. Joey stroked the kitten’s head with the tip of one large, calloused finger. “I was wondering if I could leave him here with you while I run out and get some chow for him from the pet store. And a litter box,” he added hastily.
“Leave him here?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“It won’t be for long, Ma. I know Jasmine and Oliver are old and set in their ways. It’s only temporary,” Joey pleaded.
There was that word again. “It’s more than Jasmine and Oliver, Joey. I can’t have more than two cats in this unit. It’s against the regulations.”
“Who’s going to know unless they creep around shining flashlights into your windows, and since when do you give a flying fig about stupid regulations?”
“Since I got a nastygram from the condo police about my bath mats,” I growled.
“Bath mats? What are you talking about, Ma?”
“Oh, never mind,” I waved him off. “Just get over to the pet store and get some of the canned kitten formula. He’s too little for dry food.”
Deciding to leave well enough alone, Joey prudently backed out the door. “Back in a flash,” he said, thundering down the garage stairs at his customary breakneck pace, now that he was sans kitten.
“Don’t forget the litter box!” I yelled after him, startling my visitor awake. “Hello, there, Moses,” I named him on the spot. “How would you like to bunk here for a while? I could use the company,” I added, suddenly bereft.
I checked my watch. Instead of heading to my place for dinner, Armando would be en route to the airport with the rest of the TeleCom Plus installation team. Shortly thereafter, he would fly south to a reunion with the family, friends and country he had left more than twenty years earlier. It would be wonderful for him, I knew, but surely the United States was now his home. It was where I was. I had helped him pass his American citizenship test just a year ago. We might not choose to marry or even live together, but after all these years, weren’t we home to each other? All I could do now was wait and hope.
Carefully, I got to my feet and headed upstairs with Moses in one hand. I had learned how to introduce strange cats to each other during my volunteer days at the local adoption shelter. It’s important to let them get used to each other’s scents before they actually meet, so one simply shuts the new arrival into a separate room with food and litter box, then lets all concerned sniff curiously at both sides of the door.
Closing the guestroom door firmly behind me, I pulled a pillow from the bed and tucked Moses into a cozy corner of the room. Joey would be back any minute with healthy food and a litter pan. I tiptoed to the door and pulled it open quietly.
Jasmine lunged into the room. I caught her around the middle and dragged her, protesting, back through the door. Oliver sat stonily on the other side, tail bushy. I reclosed the door and dumped Jasmine to the floor, where she flattened herself, nose jammed against the crack at the bottom of the door, sniffing madly.
“Sit there until hell freezes over,” I told them both, “but you are not going to get that kitten.” I beat a hasty retreat.
Back in the kitchen, I resumed sifting through the mail. Bills, bills, and what was this? Greetings from the Town of Wethersfield. Oh, Lord, I had forgotten about the property tax on the Chrysler due the first of the month. Then there was the new battery that was even now being installed in the beast. I sighed. As dismal as my new role at BGB was, it was a paycheck. A quick review of my savings account balance confirmed that even temporary unemployment was to be avoided at all costs. I would have to tough it out for at least a month, I decided reluctantly. Anyway, now that Hell Week was over, how bad could things be? With Strutter’s help, I had finally mastered the intricacies of the telephone console, and it was a treat to watch her handle Bolasevich. Bellanfonte was on the road most of the time, so I didn’t have to deal with him directly very often. Surely, the worst is over, I thought.
Of course, that was before I discovered the body.
Three
Always an early riser, I preferred to avoid the bulk of Hartford’s commuter traffic by getting to the office around 7:00. I knew that I could accomplish more before the phones started ringing than I would be able to get done for the rest of the day. It was a secret shared by savvy associates, overwhelmed secretaries and other hard-pressed staff throughout the firm. On thirty-seven, however, most people started their day somewhat later, since evening work was often required. I learned that Strutter had after-school day care arrangements for her nine-year-old son, but she preferred to drive him to school herself each morning. She usually arrived, a little breathless, just minutes before 9:00.
On Monday morning I donned the summer uniform of the city worker—long cotton dress, short-sleeved sweater, sneakers, and black shoulder bag holding lunch and dressy sandals—and trudged mutinously into the Metro Building lobby at a few minutes before 7:00. Traffic had been heavy, so I was later than usual. I found myself behind a covey of bright-eyed youngsters headed for the floors occupied by Metro Insurance, from which the building derived its name. One of the oldest and biggest insurance companies in the country, Metro occupied most of the six floors below BGB and employed one of the youngest and most enthusiastic workforces I had ever encountered. I headed straight to the back corner of the first
available “Hellavator,” my name for the six elevators that were express to the twentieth floor, and braced myself for the stomach-lurching ride up while listening to their animated chatter.
As usual, it was heavily punctuated with “Duh!,” “Helloooo!,” and “Whatever!” Was it possible that people under the age of twenty-five had lost the knack of speaking in complete sentences, or was this just another sign of my current crankiness? Whatever—oh, lord, it was catching—it was a relief when the doors opened on twenty-four, and the flock twittered out.
When the doors slid open on thirty-seven, my nostrils were assaulted immediately by the odor of fresh paint. It seemed that the ubiquitous painters had once again worked the night shift. Making my way to the hated pod, I snapped on half a dozen overhead lights en route, then paused to hang my sweater on the plastic hanger suspended from the paralegals’ partition that passed for closet space. July it might be, but the building’s cooling system was capricious and tended toward extremes. Before noon, when it was at its most lethargic, the temperature could hover in the high 70s, only to dip into the 60s by late afternoon, so sweaters were an office necessity.
Kicking off the sneakers that made my six-block hike from the Main Street parking lot more comfortable, I shoved them under my desk and donned the black leather sandals that met BGB’s dress code.
I decided to bring some check requests up to thirty-nine, where the accounting and data processing departments were housed, then stop in the kitchen off the partners’ conference room for a much-needed cup of coffee. After having supper with Joey, I had spent Sunday evening in the guest room with Moses, attempting to make sense of the weekend’s events with the help of an excellent Riesling, but I had had no success. Jas and Ollie remained the very definition of friends, i.e., two people made at the same third person, so I dared not spring Moses from solitary. Instead, I had recruited Mary to spend a half-hour morning and afternoon with him to give him some company, and Emma volunteered to check on the beasts at lunchtime.
I grabbed my check requests and headed for the internal elevator that shuttled creakily up and down among the four floors occupied by BGB. I was startled to see a statuesque blonde pushing a catering cart toward the elevator from the opposite direction. My surprise must have shown, because she smiled warmly and offered a well-manicured hand across the cart.
“You must be Kate, Donatello’s new assistant. Did you think you were the only early bird in these parts, Sugar?” she inquired in a honeyed drawl, the origin of which had to be south of the Mason-Dixon Line, if that imaginary divider still exists. “Margo Farnsworth. Of the Georgia Farnsworths, don’t you know, though wouldn’t Daddy just be rollin’ if he knew how his little gal was payin’ her bills these days.”
The elevator door clanked open, and I helped her lift the serving cart over the metal lip of the car. “And how is that?” I asked.
“By servin’ coffee to two dozen able-bodied young associates who could damned well get it for themselves,” she retorted, but her tone lacked real rancor.
“You really have to do that? I should think having secretaries serve coffee qualifies as an anachronism these days,” I said tactlessly, wondering what I would do if Donatello ever dared to ask me to perform such a task.
“Well, of course it is, but it shores up their shaky little egos, poor darlin’s, to know that there’s someone even lower on the BGB totem pole than themselves.” She grinned. “That’s my role here.” The elevator doors opened slowly on thirty-nine.
“Low man on the totem pole doesn’t strike me as your style,” I said sincerely. “That outfit you’re wearing would put any of the women lawyers in this shop to serious shame.” It was true. Margo’s understated suit and tasteful gold jewelry would have set me back a month’s pay, I was certain. I helped her maneuver the cart over the metal lip one more time, and we both exited.
“Why, thank you, Hon. I always did like nice things. And thank you for assumin’ I’d know what anachronism means, too,” she added as we entered the little kitchen that serviced the partners’ conference room and smaller, adjacent meeting rooms.
“It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t.”
“I can see that.” Margo held a coffee pot under the cold water and gazed directly into my eyes as if searching for something there. It was a little disconcerting, but I held her gaze with my own. “No wonder you’re a fish out of water.” She turned off the tap and turned to pour the water into the top of a huge brewer, then deftly snatched a filter and pre-measured bag of coffee from the cupboard underneath the machine.
“Is that the office scuttlebutt, or is that your personal assessment?” I asked, annoyed that people at BGB would be gossiping about me.
“Both,” Margo answered with that disarming directness, “but then I kind of like the ones that don’t fit the mold, being one myself.” She flipped a switch, and the big coffee maker gurgled into life. With the ease of long practice she assembled cups, napkins, sugar and creamer on the top shelf of the cart, then added a bunch of plastic stirrers.
“I’m beginning to get that,” I said dryly. “So what’s your story? Why are you here, gasping for air on the shores of BGB?”
“Oh, I like that,” she said, crossing her eyes and pushing her lips together from the sides to make fishy gulping noises. I giggled appreciatively. “Well, Sugar, if you’re really interested, I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version of the life and times of Margo Farnsworth. I’ll even give you a cup of decent coffee before I water it down.” She grabbed a mug, ostentatiously monogrammed BGB, and held it under the coffee stream. I accepted it gratefully.
“Water it down?”
“The job description says I’m supposed to serve ‘em coffee. It doesn’t say the coffee has to be good. Besides, all that caffeine isn’t healthy for the little wretches. I’m doin’ them a favor by dilutin’ it just a bit. Kinda makes it taste like dirty dishwater. Anyway, I did the whole debutante drill in Atlanta, the perfect little southern belle, and snagged myself the biggest catch in town. He was that most desirable combination, good family, good lookin’ and richer than one man has a right to be. Unfortunately, Mr. Wonderful wasn’t much good at monogamy, and it wasn’t long before I caught him bangin’ his secretary on a desk, right there in his daddy’s office one night when he was supposed to be workin’ late.”
I grimaced. “That had to be tough.”
“Oh, I got over it, Sugar. As a matter of fact, I decided to enjoy the freedom my husband’s infidelity gave me and took up with the mayor’s son. He didn’t have much money, but he had plenty of other assets, if you take my meanin’.” Margo was obviously enjoying the memory as she transferred a nearly full coffee carafe to the cart and slipped an empty one under the brewer’s spout. She went to the sink and filled a mug with hot water, then dumped it into the carafe on the cart and grinned at me.
“Where was I? Oh, yes, Tommy. Well, it was fun while it lasted, which was until the mayor’s Christmas party. Mrs. Mayor herself caught us doin’ it on the guests’ fur coats—they still wear fur in Atlanta, if you believe it—piled up on the bed in the master bedroom. It might not have been so bad if Tommy and I had been able to pretend to be sorry, but I tell you, the look on his mother’s face just sent us into a fit of the giggles. Tommy could hardly get his pants on, he was laughin’ so hard, and I fell right off a full-length ranch mink onto the carpet. We’d had just a little too much punch,” she added unnecessarily.
“I figured.”
Margo transferred the second carafe to the cart and made another trip to the sink. “So there we were en flagrante,” she said delicately, rolling her eyes, “and the mayor’s wife positively swoonin’ at the foot of the bed. Everybody came rushin’ in, and, well, the party was over, literally and figuratively.” She shoved the cart toward the kitchen door. I got up to help her, shaking my head and laughing on our way to the big conference room.
“Then what happened? You can’t just leave me hanging.”
“What h
appened was that my husband got cuckolded in front of half of Atlanta’s elite and sued me for divorce, which was pretty ironic.” She set about unloading the coffee things onto the credenza that ran the length of the room’s back wall. “Momma took to her bed with the shame of it all, and Daddy banished me from Atlanta—but not without settin’ up a nice trust fund, the income from which keeps me from shoppin’ at the thrift stores. I may be a black sheep, but I’m still his little girl.”
“So if it’s not for the cash, why are you here serving coffee to the able-bodied?” I persisted, genuinely puzzled.
Margo put her hands on her hips and smirked. “Because I can’t think of a better place to meet men, can you? This is the priciest, snobbiest old law firm in these parts. Stands to reason that sooner or later, every rich man in Hartford is goin’ to need himself a legal eagle, and I’ll be right here servin’ them refreshments and givin’ them an eyeful.” She surveyed her handiwork and removed all but three plastic stirrers from their crystal container. “There. Just enough so that the meetin’ will be called to order before they discover there’s nothin’ for most of them to stir their bad coffee with,” she said contentedly. “Now I’ve got to run out and get some more of that special creamer for Alain before he sends Ingrid up here for his mornin’ eye-opener. Nonfat amaretto. It’s all he ever puts in his coffee.”
We returned the cart to the kitchenette and opted to take the stairs down from thirty-nine, she to her post off the thirty-eighth-floor reception area and I to my pod on thirty-seven.
“Thanks for the tour and the tips, Margo. What do you say we get out of this place for lunch one of these days?”
“Absolutely. I know all the best benches in the park.” She waggled her polished fingernails at me in farewell and disappeared around the receptionist’s console, and I continued on my way thoughtfully.
Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 3