Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  She was back at the screen before we moved past the reception area. Fredelle said in a low voice, “Autumn’s father is a very good friend of Mr. Van Zandt’s. She’s just finished first year college. I think she found it really difficult and she’s taking a year off, and she asked Mr. Van Zee if she could have a job. Her father’s not too happy that she’s taking time off from her education, but he agreed to let her work here. Autumn and her father both chat with Mr. Van Zee, so I don’t want her to catch on to what we’re really doing.”

  Not much chance of that, I thought, as we hurried through a door and into a large square office area.

  “Boardroom’s over there,” Fredelle said, pointing a pink fingernail at a glass double door leading into a glass-walled room with an impressive rosewood conference table. “There’s a smaller meeting room here. And this is our main office area. We have salespeople, too, but most of them are out of the office today. Of course, most of the building is given over to warehousing and fulfillment. If you want you can get a tour there, too, but this is where the problem is.”

  “Perhaps another time,” I said. I suspected there might be forklifts and pallets and trucks and other machinery that was not my thing there.

  A cluster of a half-dozen desks filled the central area. “My office is over here.”

  “I see you have a door,” I said. “And walls, even if they are glass.”

  Fredelle stiffened. “But I keep the door open and the blinds up. We have to be available to our employees. Mr. Van Zandt believes in an open-door policy.”

  Hmm. Defensive.

  I glanced around but saw no sign of the legendary leader. I did spot a middle-aged woman in towering heels who turned to sneer at us from the photocopier. I mention those heels not only because I am a shoe lover, but also because she would have been six feet tall even without them. She didn’t really need the shoes to attract attention. Her leopard-print miniskirt would have done that on its own, or perhaps the tank top barely containing a surgically enhanced bosom could have carried the day. I wouldn’t have wanted to foot the bill for her tanning sessions, let alone those hair extensions. She’d definitely dug herself a trench to stop the march of time.

  She checked out my outfit and seemed to barely suppress a snicker.

  As we stood there for an awkward moment, a slight, pale-haired man with vintage eyeglasses skittered past us, carefully avoiding eye contact. Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. Not usually what people do before being introduced, especially if a few of those spiky eyelashes might get dislodged. Never mind, I was secure in my opinion that the tanning, the hair extensions, and even the unlikely jauntiness of her breasts wouldn’t make her a day less than fifty.

  “Now what?” she said.

  Her name was Dyan George, it seemed. Fredelle introduced me, and as I held out my hand, Dyan regarded it the way you’d look at gum under a movie seat.

  “Charlotte is going to help us find some, um, more efficient ways to set up the office.”

  Dyan raised a precisely penciled eyebrow. “Start with the receptionist. I hear that in other offices they actually greet visitors and answer the phone.”

  Fredelle snapped back, “Autumn is coming along just fine. She’s young and she’s pleasant and she’s willing to learn.”

  Dyan managed an exaggerated and insulting shrug. “Anything to hang on to your job, I suppose. Good luck with that.”

  Whoa. Usually it takes more than two minutes before the knives come out in a visit to an office. But even I could see that Dyan George was special.

  Fredelle said, “I don’t have to worry about my job.”

  I liked the fact that a steely edge crept in under the sweet worried tones. No one loves a pushover, not even me.

  “I’ll show you around, Charlotte,” Fredelle continued as we abandoned the photocopier to Dyan. “Let’s start with my office.”

  A pair of peace lilies on stands flanked the door to Fredelle’s office. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Fredelle’s workspace had a row of African violets in the large east-facing window that looked over the parking lot. I turned to the motivational posters over the filing cabinet (Follow Your Dream, Climb Every Mountain, and Believe in Yourself ). Underneath the posters, a collection of porcelain puppies nudged a framed photo of Fredelle and what had to be Quovadicon employees taken at a staff picnic. Reg Van Zandt was front and center in his wheelchair. Fredelle beamed behind him. To the right Dyan had simpered at the camera. There was no sign of Autumn, but she was new. A very pregnant lady, blond and beaming, stood waving. A few dozen men in shorts and baseball caps grinned sheepishly in the background. I didn’t see Mel or Del, but the girl seemed familiar.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Oh dear, that’s our Missy,” Fredelle said. “Missy Manderly. She was on staff for ten years, ever since she finished high school. She knew everyone and everything about Quovadicon. She married one of the office supply sales reps who used to drop in a bit more often than was absolutely necessary. This was taken the week before she went on maternity leave. She’s just had twins.”

  “That’s dramatic.”

  “If anybody could ever manage twins with ease, it’s Missy.”

  “I’ve seen her before.”

  “Well, Woodbridge isn’t all that big, as you know. They bought an old house off Long March Road and fixed it up.”

  “My friend Jack has a business in that area. Perhaps I’ve seen her around there. Some people are more memorable than others. That smile makes a real impression.”

  “It hasn’t been the same since she left. Dyan George may think she’s efficient, but she can’t hold a candle to Missy. Missy was perfectly organized and sensible and levelheaded.” Fredelle lowered her voice. “Dyan’s all about control, not really about how to get the job done. I’m just lucky that the whole office hasn’t quit since she came on.”

  “Yes, I noticed that she makes digs about people to their faces and behind their backs.”

  “You mean Autumn? She doesn’t even notice. She’s very sweet, and even though I find myself defending her from Dyan, she’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”

  I coughed, surprised at the usually gentle Fredelle’s comment.

  She shrugged. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. But she’s one of the usual cases.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Van Zandt wanted her hired. Mr. Halliday, that’s Autumn’s dad, is a really good friend and a business associate of his. He wanted his daughter to have a safe place to work and not end up in a bigger city where bad things can happen. You may have noticed, she’s kind of, um, naïve. So she’ll stay until she decides to move on or finds another college to go to, if she can get accepted. That’s the way it works here. Family firm. People first.”

  “And this person?” I pointed to the second row and the shy fellow who’d avoided eye contact with us earlier. He hadn’t hung around for an intro.

  Her face softened. “Oh dear. Poor Robbie.”

  “Poor Robbie?”

  She smiled as though her imaginary puppy had made a puddle on my carpet. “He’s so shy.”

  “Oh. And ‘poor Robbie’ is . . . ?”

  “Robert Van Zandt. The owner’s son.”

  I wasn’t sure what the subtext to this was. “And he works here, too?”

  “Mmm,” she said. “Well, of course he does. As I said, family and friends first with Mr. Van Zandt, you know.”

  “What does Robbie do?” I made sure I didn’t say poor Robbie. Chances were I’d meet this person, and I didn’t want to have any prejudices toward him. Or worse, blurt out, You must be poor Robbie.

  “He’s not under me, here in administration. He does some kind of liaison with clients and backup for client service. He’s actually quite gifted technically. He’s also in the IT area with Barb. Reports directly to Mr. Van Zee.”

  I interpreted that to mean Robbie didn’t do very much of anything, but that Fredelle obviously liked him a lot.

  “
Is Barb in the picture?”

  “Sure, right there.” Fredelle pointed to a woman in jeans. Her back was turned to Dyan. I couldn’t make out her face clearly, but she appeared to be talking to Robbie Van Zandt in the second row. Somehow this didn’t surprise me. Photos can reveal a lot about the dynamic of a group. Barb and Dyan wouldn’t have been a good mix.

  “And Dyan George?”

  “Admin support. Accounts receivable mostly. Other accounting duties. Payroll. She’s been here for a few months and she thinks she can take over as office manager, push me out the door into an early retirement. But I’ve been here since Quovadicon was founded, and she won’t get this job without a fight.”

  Well.

  I glanced at my watch. “And where is the desk you want me to see? I should keep moving.”

  “It’s in the next area. We call it the IT section, but really there are just a few computers and things, lots of wires, monitors, and printers and extra drives. It’s not pretty, though, so it’s better to keep it out of sight. But there’s no way we can keep people from noticing Barb’s desk. They have to walk right past it to get to the staff room. It’s causing all kinds of friction, as I said. Dyan’s using the whole situation to undermine my authority.”

  That was interesting. Fredelle seemed more like the office mom than an administrator. It was hard to imagine her having any authority to undermine. But I knew enough about office moms to realize that they have their strengths and their supporters, and sometimes the ambitious new-comers learn that the hard way. With luck, this Dyan would, too.

  Fredelle said, “No point in putting it off, I suppose. Let’s go.”

  We strolled around the office, with Fredelle describing who sat where and what they did while I pretended to take notes. Quovadicon’s offices contained solid, good-quality furnishings in pale wood veneers. The new-looking baffles dividing workstations were in a soothing shade of sand. There was nothing much to note: Dyan had a heavy vase with tiger lilies on her desk and an animal-print cover on her ergonomic chair. Not a scrap of paper anywhere in the office. Aside from an oversize photo of herself sunbathing poolside in a minuscule bikini, there was nothing on the wall. I figured she couldn’t resist a chance to display her enhanced pectorals. Other than that, the Quovadicon offices presented a sea of neutrals—smooth, well-functioning, and just a bit boring. I found myself anticipating the drama of the messy desk in the IT area.

  As we entered an enclosed area with two workstations, Robbie Van Zandt glanced up and dropped the paper he’d been staring at. From where I stood, it looked like a photo. He snatched it up and pushed it into a file folder. He flushed beet red and thrust himself out of his chair. Before Fredelle could say a word, he barreled past us down the corridor and through a door. Fredelle uttered a nervous gasp. I glanced at the desk he’d abandoned: a laptop, and a workstation, plus a telephone and one file folder. Behind the desks and under a long window, a trio of bookcases lined the wall. Like Robbie’s desk, it seemed neat, functional, unremarkable. That just amplified the sheer height of the chaos that sat on the desk opposite it.

  It took my breath away.

  That surface was completely buried in a hill of papers, no two of which seemed to point in quite the same direction. I blinked in surprise at what looked like a sock protruding from the top tier. Perhaps it went with the pair of slightly dirty sneakers, sticking out, on the side. Here and there the tails of candy bars were visible, as were copies of People, Us, and Soap Opera Weekly. If there was an in-basket or an out-basket, they were well and truly buried. Surplus materials stacked on the floor, mostly manuals for software as far as I could tell, obscured the sides and front of the desk.

  I tripped over one of the many cables trailing from the desk and onto the floor. As I picked myself up, I noticed the curling edge of an old sandwich. I figured that might have contributed to what looked distinctly like mouse droppings. Or the sardine can might have attracted furry visitors. Hard to say.

  Somewhere underneath the haystack, a telephone was ringing.

  A cast-off blue fleece jacket lay crumpled on the chair seat. I counted five cups: two beside the keyboard, two more on the floor, and another in between the ragged stacks of unfiled papers on the filing cabinet. I peered into it and recoiled at the crust of mold. The space under the desk was reserved for more sneakers. I tried not to inhale, as the sneakers and the moldy coffee cups made breathing a challenge. Of course, that could have been the empty take-out containers in the trash.

  I could honestly say I’d never seen anything like it.

  Fredelle bit her lip. She was in a tricky situation for sure if this was what she had to defend against critics.

  I noticed a pack of cards sitting on top of that fleece jacket. 52 Tips To Get You Organized Fast.

  A sneering voice behind us said, “Disgusting, isn’t it? I think we have to have it fumigated. That looks like rodent dirt to me. And who knows what’s in the drawers. Dead rats? I could ask her, but big surprise, Barb’s gone home for the day.”

  I turned to face Dyan. She stood with her arms folded in a way that emphasized her chest as well as her words. “I don’t know how anyone could make that much disgusting mess so fast. She must have been working hard at it, that’s all I can say.”

  I had a pretty good idea who had left the cards on the seat.

  As the words left Dyan’s mouth, Robbie Van Zandt scurried past her in the hallway, avoiding his own office area and shooting Dyan a look that should have blistered her tan skin. Ah, there’s always so much undercurrent in every office, but Dyan was in a class of her own.

  Dyan ignored Robbie, perhaps didn’t even see him. She was glaring at Fredelle. “This is a disgrace. She should never have been hired. No one with a shred of competence would have let this oinker through the door.”

  Fredelle bristled, a fresh pink flush spreading over her round face.

  I glanced at my watch, and turned to Fredelle. “What’s left to see? Just the staff room?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at me with gratitude. “It’s through here at the end of this corridor.”

  Dyan snorted as we slipped past her. “Although most of us lose our appetites before we get there. It’s no way to run a business.”

  The staff room was unremarkable. I observed a couple of round tables, a half-dozen comfortable chairs, and a microwave, fridge, and sink. The dish towels with the pastel ducks in bonnets indicated that Fredelle kept things homey. It was tidier than most and better furnished, although perhaps it just seemed that way in contrast to Barb Douglas’s desk. It smelled better, too. The bulletin board was tidy and well-ordered even if it was covered with photos and jokes and a thank-you card next to a photo of a smiling Missy Manderly and a pair of sleeping twins.

  I noticed with approval that the large red fire extinguisher was in an easy-to-reach location. One of my tasks in a previous job had been volunteer fire warden in the office. I care about these matters. I’d noticed one in the IT area too, but it would have been hard to access it past all that debris. This was properly mounted, with instructions in large type posted over it. Number one being CALL 911 FIRST. And naturally there was a phone.

  “Fredelle! Fredelle!” Autumn rushed down the hallway toward us, her hair streaming behind her. She mouthed the words, “It’s Mr. Van Zee for you. He’s on line one.”

  Fredelle gasped and her small pink mouth formed a perfect O. As Fredelle pivoted on one foot and skittered toward her office, Autumn turned back toward the so-called IT area and shook her head. “Oh wow,” she said. “How is that possible?”

  Dyan smirked. “Special talents.”

  Autumn’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  Dyan rolled her eyes. “No, not really. Barb’s a disaster and she’s a disaster because the person who hired her doesn’t know squat about how to run a business even if she thinks she does.”

  I made a point of looking at my watch and said, “Oops, better get going. Please tell Fredelle I’ll call her tomorrow morning to discuss th
e next steps and the contract, Autumn. If you don’t mind.”

  Autumn’s smile lit up her vacant, pretty face. “Oh, I don’t mind, Caroline. I am supposed to leave messages.”

  Right.

  “Next steps,” I repeated, “and contract.”

  Back across the office area, Fredelle’s door slammed shut and blinds snapped down in the glass walls.

  Dyan pointed a dangerously long fingernail at Barb’s desk. “Miss Piggy shouldn’t have been able to put one cloven hoof through the door. And someone else shouldn’t be slamming doors and getting away with it.”

  Autumn’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  “Who do you think, Einstein?”

  Autumn shook her head. “Fredelle? But she’s so . . .”

  “Useless?”

  “No, Dinah, kind. She’s so kind to everyone.”

  “Yeah well, this is a business and kindness has no place in it. If I were in charge, none of this bullshit would be going on.”

  Autumn glanced my way before staring at Dyan, a whisper of panic crossing her lovely young face. “But you’re not in charge, Dinah.”

  “You think?”

  Autumn raised her chin. “But you’re not.”

  “Maybe, but it won’t be long now. And it’s good to know which side you are on, Little Miss Useless. And for the thousandth time, my name is Dyan. With a Y.”

  It seemed like a good time for me to make my escape before some of Dyan’s animosity rubbed off on me and I offered a personal opinion beyond the scope of my project.

  At least it had stopped raining. I was still pondering the evils of office politics as I tried to protect my suede wedges from the puddles and headed toward the Miata in the parking lot. I had never once regretted leaving the corporate world for small-town Woodbridge. It might be hard to get a good haircut in a town this size, but you didn’t have to watch your colleagues routinely eviscerating each other. I didn’t miss it, but at least I knew how to deal with it. And a glimpse at someone else’s office miseries reminded me that I’d made the right decision in coming home to start my own business.