“Stall him fifteen minutes,” said Gary.
“Got it,” I said.
Everyone did not leave the office at once—I suppose because Vanetta had a few more things to say, and so I returned to the room to talk to Ignacio Granger a little more.
“There’s a funny story about my brother’s name, actually,” I said, stalling.
“Oh?”
“It was supposed to be Alder, like the tree, but it was typed incorrectly on his birth certificate. And my parents just went with it.”
“What his name?” asked Ignacio.
“Alden.”
“It’s hard to fact check stories like that.”
People began quietly filing out of Vanetta’s office, but slowly and gracefully, and not desperately running toward their cubicles.
“Do you have any questions for me about how Cahaba works?” I asked, which was stupid, really, because I didn’t fully understand how Cahaba worked.
“I really want to speak mostly to Vanetta,” said Ignacio. “This is mostly about her, actually. There are so few female designers, much less black designers, she’s sort of like a unicorn.”
This question made me a little wary of Ignacio, because I was guessing that this was not how Vanetta wanted to brand herself. But, of course, I couldn’t speak for her. Maybe she knew about this angle all along and was delighted by it.
“I don’t know that I’d call her a unicorn,” I said. “She’s more of a dragon, or perhaps a sphinx.”
“What’s it like having a lady as a boss?” asked Ignacio, blithely, as if this were the sort of question a human could ask in 2017.
“You know,” I said, “let me check on Lawrence, very quickly, because he’s going to be the first person to meet with you.”
Ignacio smiled at me and reached over my desk and took an éclair. I didn’t offer him the éclair, and this irritated me. As I left, I told Ignacio:
“It’ll be just a second—and trust me, you’ll love Lawrence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I came into Lawrence’s office, closing the door carefully behind me, and found that he was slumped over at his desk. My instant assumption was that he was dead, because this is the sort of thing that happens around me. He looked dead. He was leaning forward and sprawled out in a very unnatural-looking way, the way one might if you were to die suddenly. There was a pool of drool on the desk around his mouth, which was open.
Being, at this point, a Corpse Pro, I took this in stride. I’m honestly just a few dead bodies away from giving a TED Talk on the topic. I did not want to touch Lawrence, so as not to contaminate anything, so I gently struck him in the head with a pencil. This caused two reactions:
1. The eraser nub broke off and landed in his hair, and
2. Lawrence said, “Mmmmmrrrggggh.”
Did I say Corpse Pro? Maybe I was not yet up to Corpse Pro. Maybe this was the 30-day trial version, Corpse Lite. Because “mmmmmrrrggggh” is not usually the sort of thing that corpses say outside of The Walking Dead, and even then, rarely following a pencil striking.
“Hey, buddy,” I said.
“Mmmmmrrrgggh,” said Lawrence.
I hit Lawrence in the head again, and I admit that this time it was not strictly necessary. Was Lawrence drunk? I assumed yes, following the same flawed logic that had initially led me to think that he was dead. I deal with a lot of drunk people. Even more than corpses. Occasionally, I am a drunk person myself.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Drrrrink,” said Lawrence.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
I pushed Lawrence backward into his chair, which was one of those fancy leather swivel chairs that an important business executive would dramatically turn around in and say something like: “Mr. Peterson, I expected you were coming.” It did that now, in fact, when I pushed Lawrence back into it, except that it turned backward toward the window, and instead of saying, “Mr. Peterson, I expected you were coming,” Lawrence said: “Mmmmmrrrrgggh,” again. Which was dramatic, too, even if it did not inspire confidence.
An aside: Is it wrong to admit that I like “mmmrrrgggh” Lawrence better than any Lawrence to date? He was a good drunk, or was at least a good drunk when he was not able to speak full sentences.
And another aside: One that you are probably having now. Was Lawrence _really_ drunk? Here are observations and questions I would pose later:
He was awfully sober earlier this morning.
How quickly can a man reliably get this drunk, especially after stealing doughnuts?
He did not smell like alcohol.
Why would you drink right before you were having a journalist over?
I include these postmortem observations here so that you can feel superior to me, which is fun, I am told. That’s the entire reason anyone watches Wheel of Fortune. But at the time I wasn’t really giving them a lot of thought. Mostly I was thinking about Ignacio Granger, asshole, who was sitting at my desk and stealing éclairs. Obviously, I could not bring Ignacio Granger into this room, because it seemed at the moment that Lawrence was drunk off his ass, and this was not the impression of Cahaba that our all-powerful Corporate Overlords wanted to form.
I did not move, because I did not have a plan.
“I’m going to get you some water,” I told Lawrence, for all the good that was going to do.
“Waaarrggh,” said Lawrence, which I will not interpret on your behalf.
I gingerly closed the door and immediately saw Ignacio looking at me. Not merely looking, but fixatedly gazing, the way a hawk might be watching a field mouse.
“Everything okay in there?” he asked.
“Things are splendid,” I said. “Just a few minutes more and we’ll be right ready for you—I apologize—your getting here early has thrown us off the tracks just the teensiest bit.”
Vanetta. I should go to Vanetta.
“Please stay where you are,” I said, and strode confidently and calmly into Vanetta’s office. I closed the door behind me, gingerly again, although this time the ginger was a lot spicier, and probably served alongside some wasabi.
“Lawrence is drunk,” I said. “Completely drunk.”
Vanetta stared at me blankly, as one would, and the next question just fell out of me.
“Did he find out that he was the father of your child? Did you tell him?”
Vanetta’s blank stare quickly filled up with fire.
“No,” said Vanetta. “I did not tell him. As I don’t know for sure, as we went over yesterday. Do you not understand how medical science works?”
Broadly speaking, I do not understand how medical science works. I took Organic Chemistry once and lasted in there for about two weeks before I realized that I have no business in chemistry. I did not wade into this point with Vanetta.
“Well, he’s drunk,” I told her. “And he was sober earlier. Something persuaded him to get very drunk, very quickly.”
The sale, I realized. He must have found out about the sale.
“Fucking Lawrence Ussary,” said Vanetta. “Well, we’ll have to just go with plan B.”
What plan B was going to be never materialized because we were interrupted by the song “The Lady in Red,” which, once again, blared its way from the parking lot below.
“I do not understand why he feels that this should be my signature song,” said Vanetta, who was suddenly standing with impeccable posture, like a mannequin. “I don’t even particularly like the color red.”
“It’s Archie,” I said unnecessarily.
“Of course it’s Archie,” said Vanetta. “How many men would be down there playing Chris de Burgh hits as though they were some sort of romantic salve?”
“Ordinarily,” I said, “the answer would be zero.”
“I don’t even think I own any red clothes. I have one dress that’s sort of burgundy colored. And it has snakes on it. That’s the memorable thing about the dress. Snakes!”
“This is not going to set a good mood for this intervie
w,” I told her.
“No,” said Vanetta, bringing herself to peer out the window at Archie.
“You going to deal with Archie?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” said Vanetta, which I somehow expected was going to be her answer.
“Okay, then,” I said, and gave her my éclair. “You are obviously the Lawrence whisperer. Why don’t you deal with him, and I’ll deal with Archie. And also Ignacio.”
“How are you going to deal with both of them?” asked Vanetta, and the hell if I knew.
I left the office first, and Ignacio Granger, while still sharp-eyed, was thankfully looking a little more sated now that he had eaten a powdered doughnut.
“What’s that music?” asked Ignacio.
This, naturally, was a good question, although I don’t know that we need to credit Ignacio with any excellence in journalism for coming up with it, because the sound was coming through the walls and floor.
“The dog-washing place downstairs is doing a thing with a local radio station,” I said, stringing together what I thought was a pretty good lie. “I’m going down there to get it straightened out.”
I was watching the door because it felt very likely, and even logical, that Vanetta would come through it to deal with Lawrence, but it remained firmly shut. Possibly, Vanetta wanted Ignacio out of sight before she made her egress.
“Does this happen very often?” asked Ignacio. “The music, I mean?”
“Only once before,” I answered, honestly, even. “But don’t worry. I’m going down there now and shutting the music down,” I said.
Then I had a revelation.
Usually when a detective has a realization that is sparked by a word or sentence, it means that the case is solved. “Jessica, this soup is delicious—what’s in it, mushrooms?”
Jessica Fletcher: “Why, that’s it! Mushrooms!”
And the mystery is over in five minutes, plus commercial breaks.
If I knew Jessica Fletcher, I would go around making odd and peculiar observations all the time, on the off chance they would be useful to her. “This velvet clown painting is curiously askew.” “Those horses are getting perilously close to the promontory.” “Ever since I twisted my ankle last summer, I prefer the elevator to stairs.” And so on. I think I would make an excellent sidekick.
But I digress. I had such a realization now, but it did not solve the case. It solved the question of where to put Ignacio while I dealt with Archie, which was frankly more pressing.
“Speaking of music,” I said, “let me introduce you to Tyler Banks. Fascinating guy. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of CoffeeQuest Two and CoffeeQuest Three?”
“I’m actually mostly just here to see Vanetta,” said Ignacio.
“And see her you will,” I said, physically pulling Ignacio down past my workstation and into Tyler’s office. “But I just insist that you meet Tyler—his music does for coffee what Tchaikovsky did for sugar plums.”
We entered Tyler’s office without knocking and despite the door being fully closed. He jumped up with such a start that I was a little alarmed as to what he might be looking at on his computer. But then I saw that he was designing a Stardust Memories wallpaper on Spoonflower. Because that’s what a girl wants to be wooed with. Wallpaper.
“Dahl—” started Tyler.
“Don’t call me doll,” I said. “My name is Cynthia. Human Resources has reminded you about this.”
Tyler looked chastened and also confused, which was about right.
“Right,” said Tyler. “Why are you here, Cynthia?”
“I’m showing Ignacio around, and I thought you might like to meet him.”
Tyler brightened instantly.
“Oh, well then, sit down, Ignacio. Great to meet you! It’s nice for us creatives to have a little time together, don’t you think?”
Ignacio sat down, and although he said yes with his mouth, the rest of his face was saying no, or even hell no and possibly even don’t you leave me in here with him, Cynthia.
“Excellent,” I said. “I’ll be back for you in a few minutes,” or possibly hours, “and bring you to your next guest.”
I closed the door, firmly, and wondered if I could possibly lock it from the outside. The mechanism for this did not appear to work, and so my next thought was to push furniture in front of the door so that it could not be opened. However, I was worried that this might appear suspicious. Also I didn’t feel like pushing furniture.
I needed to let Tyler know that I didn’t want to have Ignacio wandering around unsupervised. I could call or text him, which would probably be the most effective way of letting him know. But there was a fair chance that he would ignore me. I picked up my cell phone and made another intuitive leap as I headed downstairs to deal with Archie.
“Masako?” I said.
“Yes,” said Masako. “Is this Dahlia? You never call me.”
“That’s not true,” I said. Although it was certainly mostly true. Masako was one of those people I never needed to seek out, because she always seemed to be around.
“You only call me when you want something,” said Masako.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” I said. Not laughed, but said. “That’s not true one bit. Although, now that you mention it, I don’t suppose you could do a favor for me?”
“What kind of favor?” asked Masako.
I liked Masako’s wise and slow way of entering into agreements. A less shrewd person, me probably, would have just said yes. Masako, not in the slightest.
“Well,” I said. “This doesn’t impact the favor, particularly, it’s more of an aside, but how do you feel about Tyler? He seems to have fallen for you in a serious way.”
“Against all good reason,” said Masako. “I like him.”
“He’s sort of goofy,” I observed.
“Yes,” said Masako.
There was silence, and I kind of expected Masako to offer up some counterpoint as to Tyler’s attractive qualities. She did not. That’s not necessarily to say that Tyler did not have good qualities, just that she was not a sharer.
“So,” I said. “The favor.”
“Yes,” said Masako patiently.
“Can you call Tyler and tell him to keep Ignacio Granger in his office until I come back. At all costs, Masako. AT ALL COSTS.”
Masako was silent.
“What kind of tomfoolery is this?” asked Masako.
It struck me suddenly that it would be nice to have a well-laminated graphics poster illustrating the various nomenclatures of tomfoolery that I get involved in. There would be high jinks (kooky and zany), hubbub, hullaballo, foolery, and buffoonery, maybe even mischief.
“I would describe this incident as shenanigans on the precipice of danger.”
“Why can’t you call him?” she asked. “You can call me.”
“If you call,” I said, “he’ll get excited and pick up. If I call, he’ll sigh and look at the phone while he turns off the ringer.”
“Fine,” said Masako, which here also meant good-bye.
Downstairs, Deb from the dog shop was once again outside, smoking. Also she was singing along to the words of “The Lady in Red,” which was now just apparently on loop.
“If at first you don’t succeed,” said Deb, “try, try again.”
Whoever had coined that phrase was surely not thinking of wedding proposals.
“Dear God,” I told her.
The banner was back up, although it had somehow gotten very dirty, and now Archie was just lying on the ground, making an X with his body. He looked like he planned for someone to do a chalk outline of him.
“How long has he been on the ground?” I asked.
“Since about the fifth loop,” said Deb, taking a drag of her cigarette. “First he just sat down. Then he collapsed around the second chorus. Beautiful lyrics, though,” said Deb. “Great choice for a thing like this.”
We listened to the lyrics:
“I’ve never seen you looking so gorgeous as y
ou did tonight / I’ve never seen you shine so bright / You were amazing.”
“I’m joking,” said Deb after a beat. “In case you didn’t catch that. I don’t want you to think I’m a no-class lady.”
This was beside the point, although I certainly think that Deb was a no-class lady.
“You want I should bring the dog hose out here?” asked Deb. “We could hose him down, snap him out of whatever spell he’s under.”
This is not, precisely, a high-class thing to say.
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
I walked over to Archie, and before I did anything else, I turned off the music. Honestly, I was surprised the police hadn’t shown up. Then I sat down next to Archie, who was surprisingly not drunk.
“Archie,” I said.
“She closed the window,” said Archie. “Just closed the window and walked away.”
“Archie,” I said. “Didn’t we just go over this yesterday? Didn’t we just do this? Is it Groundhog Day?”
“Well,” said Archie, “but Vanetta and I went out together last night, and things seemed to go very well. I thought I would try again.”
“Why would you think that the same fool approach was going to work?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“Should I have tried a different song?” asked Archie. “I had thought about going with ‘Glory of Love.’”
“From The Karate Kid?” I asked. I was trying not to become incredulous, but it was happening anyway.
“From Karate Kid II,” said Archie.
“I don’t think that your song choice is the problem,” I said. Although, it wasn’t helping.
“I just thought things had changed,” said Archie. “I thought it would work. And besides, I wanted Lawrence to know that I wasn’t giving up.”
This seemed like a very strange thing to say. My reflex would have been to say: “How did you hear about Lawrence?” but I held back and decided to play dumb.
“How does this involve Lawrence?” I asked—which was a similar question, but more naive.
“Never mind,” said Archie. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
Detectives, as a rule, don’t like it when people tell them “never mind,” and I did not like it now. I minded. I also wanted to tell Archie that his plan did not make a whit of an impression on Lawrence, as he was drunk off his ass. Unless, wait—the wedding proposal was the reason Lawrence was drunk. But the timing on that didn’t work out. Or did it?
The Questionable Behavior of Dahlia Moss Page 20