by Norma Huss
“Three deaths and a beating, but since two knew each other, that’s the only possible connection? I don’t think so. Anyway, you can’t get answers today. Assuming they’d talk to you, it’s Saturday, not a work day.”
“Exactly. And I have a key to the door.”
“What?”
“I have Mrs. Hemingway’s keys, except for her house key, which the police insisted I return. I say, if a person leaves keys in a desk while she goes on vacation they’re fair game. And don’t tell me she didn’t go on vacation, I didn’t know that. So I have her car key, her office key, and another one. That’s the key Mr. Talbit wants. I wonder why. Was that yesterday I told him I’d get back to him in twenty-four hours?”
“Did I just ask you to put your words in logical order?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
“Search the office for evidence.”
Sylvie faced me, anger flushing her face. “You take one step out of this house and I call the police.”
Chapter 31
Sylvie would call the police on her own sister, I knew that. She was on a tear.
“You go too far,” she yipped. “You have no concern for your own safety, no sense of propriety. How can you blissfully ignore the police, ignore legalities, not to mention ignore me completely?”
She’d never listen to reason. I had to calm her down. When she stopped for a breath, I jumped in. “Stop, stop. I’ll do whatever you want. You want to sit here, I’ll do it. Just tell me.”
“Well, that’s better. At least—Okay, I know you. You’re still up to something. What is it?”
I did my innocent act, hands up, mouth gaping open. “Me? Nothing. Just trying to help you solve this case. I had a suggestion, that’s all.”
“Come off it, Jo. You never make suggestions. You give orders. You go your merry way. You pay no attention to anyone else. It’s always you, you, you.”
“Untrue, completely untrue. Okay, tell me. What would you do?” I laid the key chain on the table between us. “These are Francine’s keys. This one opens the door to the Abbott Computing Services office. It’s Saturday and no one is there.”
“Let me get this straight. Is this key to the office the same one Mr. Talbit wants?”
“No.” Would the mystery get her attention?
“What is it with you and keys? You had a key on our list of clues, which, I might add the police didn’t pick up on at all.”
“Mr. Talbit wants that key, the one on our list.” I dug inside my shirt for my hidden money bag and pulled the smallest key from its zippered hiding place. “This key. It’s Francine’s too.”
“If the key is so important, give it to the police. I don’t want to hear it.”
But of course she did. She listened, emotions flickering across her face as I asked, “Why did those overdue Accounts Receivable disappear from my desk? Why does Mr. Talbit want Mrs. Hemingway’s key? And what does it open? Not to mention, there’s a million other questions about the convoluted office relationships.”
She had a question of her own. “We can find answers to all that in an empty office?”
“We can try.”
As I outlined my plan, her curiosity overcame her reticence.
“Drop me off in front of the building,” I said. “Park and wait. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, then you call the police.” Since I knew nothing short of death would keep me from reappearing, it would, by that time, be a police case.
“So how will you know where I’ve parked? I’ll come inside too.”
“Not a good idea. If someone does come, we’d both be trapped.”
“If it’s that dangerous, forget the whole idea.”
Sylvie didn’t make idle threats, and I knew it. We argued for half an hour and finally agreed. I’d go inside, and she’d patrol the hall.
“I’ll take a police whistle,” she insisted. “I’ll warn you if someone comes into the office.”
That was not my favorite scenario. “Only if you just make a ruckus and not call the police before thirty minutes.” It was the only concession she’d agree to.
We reached the office in the late morning—elevenish. Sylvie stood at the end of the hall. First I tried the door which was locked, as I knew it would be. My key did its duty, but I only eased the door open an inch. No lights inside other than a greenish glow showing a computer was on. Why did they always leave things on? Gross waste of electricity. All day, every day, the computers were on, silently waiting a touch on the keyboard to brighten the monitor. I entered and locked the door behind me.
With no windows in the room, and even though I could visualize the receptionist desk directly in front of me and the two cubicles separated by file cabinets to the left, I needed my flashlight to see.
I went to Mrs. Hemingway’s desk and searched it thoroughly. I’d certainly feel a fool if those missing files were inside, but they weren’t. In fact, the drawers were completely rearranged. The new employee had settled in. Or had Mr. Talbit done what he should have done in the first place? If he’d emptied everything out before I came on the scene, he’d have had all the keys, and I wouldn’t have found a body.
Those missing files puzzled me. Were they only a freak anomaly? Probably. But creative bookkeeping takes many forms.
Not anything I could check. Or could I?
The thumb drive was in my bag, with accounting records I hadn’t deleted. I inserted the thing and set Francine’s computer to copy the office files under a new name. Two records, a few days apart—maybe not long enough to catch discrepancies—but, maybe so. As the computer hummed, I glanced through Vanessa’s and Barb’s desks. Nothing obvious.
Hard files were something that couldn’t disappear with a push of a button. Perhaps that’s why Abbott Computing Services kept a complete set. The Receivables were behind Vanessa’s desk, in the sideways cabinets that are so often in doctor’s offices. They were locked, but Vanessa’s key was in with her paper clips.
I opened drawers, flipped through files, checked my watch, and opened more drawers. I’d better leave soon. But what was I looking for? And would I recognize it when I found it?
Each receivable file had only a few sheets of paper. What was the name I remembered? Deefer. No sign of his unpaid bill, or even his name in the file. I removed a couple of other files, a thin one and one with, maybe, ten sheets, and sat on the floor, leaning against Vanessa’s desk. If I didn’t find anything soon...five minutes more, that’s all I’d stay.
The smaller file had one order, but it was for software for fifteen work stations, $12,070. Not bad if each of those files held the same. The other file was in a person’s name, J. D. Kilingham. Or, it could have been a company.
Suddenly, I heard the whistle. Shrill and repeatedly. I turned off my flashlight as I heard Sylvie’s ruckus in the hall. Female voices. The loudest was Sylvie. The other mumbled. Probably something like, “What the hell are you doing?”
I waited for the voices to recede. Except, the office door opened. I squirmed close to the desk, not breathing. The overhead lights flicked on. It’s only a guard, taking a quick look-see. I’d be okay.
But that wasn’t to be. The woman came inside and closed the door behind her. I was trapped! My blood pulsed in rhythm with the approaching footsteps.
Chapter 32
The woman’s footsteps closed in on me. It was Vanessa, I knew it. She would reach her desk, see me hunkered down behind her divider. I couldn’t say I’d just stopped by for a chat.
Not in the dark, behind a locked door.
A drawer opened.
That was too close! The woman had stopped at the first desk. She closed the drawer, then began tapping on her keyboard.
I peeked around the corner. Barb’s desk light glowed. The back of her head, with its blond Afro, tipped forward to focus on her computer. I couldn’t read the screen, but what did it matter? I was safe for the moment. Barb was catching up on work. I relaxed, then tensed again. Would her work
involve the file cabinets? Would she find me trying for the flatter-than-flat look between Vanessa’s desk and the files?
Damn and double damn.
She’d discover me for sure. Could I babble, go for crazy? Talk to Clyde and other invisible entities? Run the emotionally erratic gamut? That would work on the street, but not at an office where I was accepted as an intelligent and rational person.
I had to sneeze. I couldn’t sneeze. I never sneezed. I put my finger under my nose, pulled my face down, and breathed silently through my mouth. No, I couldn’t sneeze. I wouldn’t sneeze. But how long could I cower in complete silence?
Barb kept doing whatever it was she was doing. How long? Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? An hour? Time passed, an eternity. I ached, my joints twitched. I had to move. Would those aching joints creak?
Slowly, I stretched one foot, flexed it, pointed my toes up, then down. Wrong move. My foot cramped and I couldn’t even yell. Silently I pulled my toes up, then my whole leg until I reached my foot. It needed a massage, but I couldn’t remove my shoe.
Why did Barb have to come to work on a Saturday morning? No, Saturday at noon, I realized after I checked my watch.
Why, indeed?
Would she notice if I looked again? Gingerly, I moved my face to look beyond the desk as she pulled up a screen full of words. Then it disappeared only to be replaced by another full screen. Was she moonlighting on the great American novel? No, there were words, but lines too. A grid. A cross-word puzzle? No, too much empty space.
“Forget fantasy,” I told myself. “This is the Billing Department. She is an accountant. What else could it be but invoices?”
I had half a notion to come out and tell her I was searching for inconsistencies. She might even help. No, she’d call the cops and I’d be in jail for the next twenty years. I stretched my other foot, but I didn’t point my toes.
Someone banged on the door. Where was I trapped, Grand Central Station?
It was Sylvie, doing her ruckus thing. “Security,” she yelled. “Who’s in there?”
“Shit!” But my warden got up, stood by the closed door, and said, “My name is Barbara Girod. Check your roster. I’m an employee, working overtime.”
I took advantage of the interruption to scuttle across open floor to Mrs. Hemingway’s desk. It was away from both the file cabinet and the other desks, nestled between the wall and the coffee alcove. My bag slid against the waste basket, rattling it. I held my breath. But Sylvie was still yelling on the other side of the door. I crept under the desk, out of sight. Pulled my knees up.
Barb didn’t know who she was. Why should she? I pulled the waste basket in behind me. Snuggled in for the long haul and amused myself plotting salvation. Barb opening the door and saying, “You’re the fool with the police whistle,” and calling the cops who would come and arrest us both. No. Sylvie jumping at Barb and in the commotion, I walk out. Not likely. Sylvie running and Barb running after her while I escaped. Much the best scenario.
Why had Sylvie stayed around so long? Why hadn’t she called the police in the—I checked my watch—now forty-five minutes?
Because Sylvie didn’t want the police to catch me, any more than I wanted to be caught. She stopped haranguing Barb, and Barb went back to her desk.
It couldn’t last. Which would be first, the police showing up, or Barb discovering me? There was always the possibility that Barb would leave. Or the possibility that Barb would see me and think it was all hilarious, while I would be intensely embarrassed. I could live with that. So could Sylvie. In fact, she’d prefer it.
Barb was on the move, but not toward the door. I shrank back into my corner. Then I heard a file drawer open. Thank God I’d moved. One drawer slammed shut and another squeaked open. Then another.
“What’s this?” After a pause, she snorted. Then, “Two of them!”
One thing about talking to yourself, you didn’t have to make any sense to eavesdroppers. In five minutes Barb was gone. Ten minutes more and I heard a rap on the door.
Sylvie called, “All clear.”
When I opened the door, she said, “Where were you? Let’s get out.”
“You bet.” I was ready to leave, but I glanced back. The files I’d dropped were no longer on the floor. We were almost out of the door when I realized I’d forgotten something.
“My thumb drive!” I said. I didn’t bother electronically releasing it. I just pulled it out. “Now we go.”
“Are you copying their records? Isn’t that illegal?” Sylvie asked.
“Just something I didn’t complete when they paid me for it,” I said, which, if I meant finding missing files, was more or less the truth.
Sylvie looked doubtful, but continued. “That woman, who was she?”
I opened the door and looked both ways. “Barb.”
“And you think she might come back.”
“Possible. Care to walk down, just in case?”
“Six floors?”
“How about one, then we catch the elevator from the fifth floor?”
“I like it,” she whispered as she crouched a bit, going into her detective mode.
Fortunately, she didn’t claim it was one of those things only crooks do. Or, that I was absorbing too many homeless habits. She would have been right on both counts.
~ ~
We stopped at a kiosk and ordered hot dogs. I said, “Life-style is a funny word,” then realized Sylvie hadn’t followed my train of thought.
But she had. “A buzz word,” she said as we took our napkin-encased buns. “For instance, even if it’s research, I think your life-style is the pits. But if I should tell a particular one of my friends that your life-style is the pits, she’d say, ‘Oh, dear. Is she one of those?’”
There were moments when I would happily move in with Sylvie. But she was too much like me. She had to ruin it. As she unlocked her car door, she told me, “I should turn you into the police. You’re breaking and entering and driving me crazy with worry. Jail would serve you right. You were supposed to stay with me. That was a condition.”
“No, it was a suggestion.”
“You promised, which promise you’ve already broken. And you had to discover another body.”
I shrugged and arranged two napkins on my lap. One must guard against dripping ketchup. Before I bit into my hot dog, I flicked the car radio on. “Maybe we’ll hear about Asher’s murder.” And there it was, on the news.
“...this morning at Sinking Springs Park. Identity is being withheld until the next of kin is notified. Police continue their investigation.”
“Still continuing their investigation.”
“They always do.” But my thoughts were on my thumb drive. “Did you get your computer back?”
“Next week.”
Next week wasn’t soon enough. “Would you like to meet Mel?”
“Another imaginary cat? Or do you have a dog too?”
“No. He’s a recovering alcoholic who loves my Eggs Benedict.” Nothing like an illogical truth to throw Sylvie.
“Okay, don’t tell me!” Sylvie said. “Who, or what is Mel? If you feel like telling me.”
“Someone with a computer to read my thumb drive.”
Sylvie did her rolling eyes bit. “Really.”
It must have been curiosity that forced her to turn her car toward the address I gave. I hated introducing her to Mel. They’d compare notes. I’d be outed as a non-bag lady. Or, maybe not.
“He knows me only as a bag lady,” I said.
Chapter 33
While I walked directly up the cracked cement sidewalk to the narrow house to ring the doorbell, Sylvie approached slowly, searching for clues to the inhabitant. She’d appreciate the neatly trimmed grass, the freshly painted porch, and the row of red and yellow tulips bordering severely pruned shrubs.
“Sylvie, this is Mel, a good friend,” I told her when he came to the door. To him, I said, “Mel, this is my sister, Sylvie.”
To say they looked at
each other in astonishment was putting it mildly.
Mel recovered first. “I didn’t know you had such a lovely sister,” he said, piling on the charm.
“And I didn’t know Jo had such a handsome friend,” Sylvie replied. I could see the wheels turning. Like, “Is this where you are when you claim to be on the street?” Or, perhaps, “Wow! And me between husbands.” Not that I had any desires in that area.
In any event, it took all my persuasive powers to sidetrack their polite chatter of lovely Sylvie, handsome Mel, delightful garden, and get to business. “Mel, I’ve got a thumb drive full of clues.”
“Is it legal?” he asked.
Sylvie answered, “You may not know it, but my sister is...”
“Looking forward to any help you can give, ” I said.
Sylvie glared at me and continued. “...quite honest. Perception is often different from reality.”
“That right?” he asked. He hesitated, but led us to his computer. While he chatted to Sylvie—she did have her ways—I printed up the whole works; the two copies of this month’s Abbott Computing Services receivables, payables, and paid accounts. That took a few minutes, which allowed Sylvie to bring up multiple subjects.
Then Mel saw the records roll from his printer. “Are these legal copies?” he asked. “Perhaps I should ask how you obtained them.”
“Perhaps,” I said, thinking just the opposite.
Sylvie looked at me like she wondered too.
“You don’t have to look at them.”
“That’s not a good answer.”
“You’re right,” I told Mel. Why had I ever thought this was a satisfactory plan? Mel worked for the police. He’d never agree to searching financial records.
“She’s writing an exposé,” Sylvie said suddenly, and I knew the whole bag lady thing was about to unravel.
“Writing. An exposé.”
Sylvie threw her hands up. “You may as well know. She isn’t really a homeless bag lady.”