Death Loves a Messy Desk

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Consulted? Not so much. Mr. Van Zandt isn’t so big on consultation. I think she found out after she came back and Barb was there. She’d just accept that. And I would have, too.”

  “Really.”

  She grinned and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I can’t do anything with this mop since the twins came along.”

  Her hubby said, “You still look good to me.”

  I put in my two cents’ worth. “And twins would be worth a bit of extra styling products.”

  “For sure.”

  That was good. They’d both relaxed a bit.

  Another wail wafted through the door, and hubby looked ready to panic. I said, “I should let you get back to them, but one more question. So you’re saying Fredelle wouldn’t get upset to be treated as if her opinion didn’t count?”

  Missy shrugged. “I’ve been trying to explain. We were all used to it. It’s a one-man kingdom and Mr. Van Zandt is the ruler. Fredelle didn’t mind. Nobody else cared. Except Robbie and Dyan, of course.”

  “One more thing, I need to talk to a couple of your drivers. I believe their names are Mel and Del?”

  She shook her head. “I know all the drivers. No Mels or Dels.”

  “They may have been kidding about their names. Mel’s middle-aged, oversize seventies-style mustache. Del’s younger, shaved head, Celtic tattoos. Big guys, both of them. Mel wears a baseball cap.”

  A flicker of recognition showed in her eyes. It was replaced by a guarded expression. I wasn’t sure what I’d done. “I know who you mean. But they don’t work for us, I mean Quovadicon anymore. Oh boy. My husband panics when the twins cry. I have to go.”

  “Wait, can you tell me their names?”

  But I was talking to the air. Both of them had vanished into the interior.

  Not so fast, lady, I thought. I knocked on the door again. Politely, but firmly. I rang the doorbell for good measure.

  The husband showed up at the door again. He was sweaty and on the verge of panic to my eye. For some reason, that made him seem even larger.

  “Go away and stay away,” he said.

  17

  Resist the urge to multitask.

  In the long run, each activity will take longer.

  Lucky for me, I had a savings account, because I wasn’t going to make anywhere near my expenses on this particular week. If you work for yourself, you have to sock away extra during the good times. Savings account or not, I was happy to check out the teenage girl’s chaotic bedroom that evening. No office politics there, no missing women, but probably plenty of mother/daughter dramatics.

  The day hadn’t yielded much, despite a chunk of time wasted cruising around Woodbridge to check out black Honda Civics. Eventually I drove home to drop off the dogs and try a few training tricks. They were not in the mood. “Not optional,” I told them.

  I managed to eat a stir-fry instead of ice cream for dinner and to gather up some materials for the client visit. I find that having some fun photos and options available can make a difference with adolescents. Even so, sometimes nothing makes the difference.

  I fixed my hair and makeup, switched into dark denim dress jeans and my fitted leather jacket with a scarf, and headed out. My headache had subsided. I wasn’t under arrest or under attack. Plus this client was one of the few people in Woodbridge who hadn’t seen me on television during my frequent crime sprees, and I loved her for it.

  The disastrous bedroom was worth the trip. As I stood with my client at the open door, I estimated an even two feet of clothing strewn on the floor. The bed was unmade. Glasses and plates covered the surfaces. Curling posters of boy bands that I didn’t recognize covered the walls. School-books and papers and art supplies were strewn on top of the layer of clothing. The dominant scent was stale pizza with a hint of last week’s gym clothes. A Chihuahua in a pink jeweled collar moved through tunnels under the garments, appearing occasionally to bare tiny teeth and yip at us. I am always pleased when someone else owns a naughty dog.

  My client bit her lip. “I can’t even catch the little monster. Sydney says we can’t go in her room because it’s private property and it would be a violation of her rights.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “I suppose that’s true, too.”

  I let it slide. Not my relationship. “Is she around?”

  “She’s taken over the basement and refuses to participate. I really don’t know what to do. I am sorry to have dragged you all this way. Of course, I’ll pay you for your time.”

  Excellent. That saved me from making the point to her. I said, “Let’s be optimistic. I have some samples of rooms to show you. They’re fun. I see a lot of art supplies. Is she artistic?”

  The mother shrugged. “How would I know? She never talks to me. Do you think this disaster is her way of keeping me out?”

  “My guess is she’s just defining herself.”

  “I worry about what’s she’s hiding. Marijuana plants or something. I don’t even know what. I’m not a snoop, but if I were, I’d never find it anyway.”

  “Or she’s just growing up and wanting to make her own decisions.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I’ll leave the samples for you. And you can tell Sydney that if she’s interested that she and I can work together and you’ll—”

  “Mind my own business?”

  “I was going to say ‘pick your battles.’ ”

  “That’s what my therapist tells me. Unlike some of my friends’ children, at least Sydney stays home long enough to create and maintain this . . .”

  Turbulence, I thought. “Did your therapist suggest that you stop doing her laundry?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” I said with a glance at the ocean of clothing in front of us. I kept a straight face, too, as we headed for neutral territory to check out the samples. I bet myself that Sydney would show up within fifteen minutes, sit sulkily with us, and sneer at everything I brought. I won that bet. I also figured that Sydney would want to meet with me on her own, but she’d never let herself look excited about it. Right again.

  My new client’s mother stood waving from the front porch of the house as I left. It had been worth the long drive home on the interstate just to see the look on her face. Sydney and I now had an appointment booked for Monday evening. She had some fun prep work to do on the weekend, mainly identifying what she used her room for, such as studying, socializing, hobbies, music. I asked her to consider whether she wanted to see her clothing or keep it out of view. Although as most of it was on the floor, I thought I knew the answer. I waved back as I backed out and eased the Miata onto the street. I was grinning, too, as I headed for the highway. The project had taken my mind off recent events. It was positive and soothing, and there was a chance that everyone would be happy with the outcome. Now all I had to do was head home, walk the dogs again, and what? The grin faded.

  Of course, being late September, it was already dark before eight. I had nothing much to do that evening, except envy my friends: Sally busy with her family, Margaret busy with her TDG man, Jack busy planning the bike race that ate the world and . . . but I didn’t want to think about that.

  Unfortunately, dog training can chew up only so much time. Maybe tonight would be a good time to clean out the freezer. I could relabel all the frozen foods with fresh crisp date info. Maybe I could color-code them according to contents. That would be fun. Red for meat and chicken, yellow for soups, green for vegetables, and white for ice cream, although that didn’t last long enough for dates to be an issue.

  Of course, labels could peel and curl. Or else be impossible to get off the tops of containers. What about color-coded containers? That would be even better than mere labels. I could get lovely square ones that would fit together and look nice and neat in the freezer. Perhaps a trip to the Container Store was in order.

  These were pleasant and diverting thoughts as I motored along. And except for the number of trucks
on the road, it would have been a relaxing drive back. But why are huge trucks so unnerving on the highway at night? Perhaps it’s their size, or the weird way their front views simulate menacing human faces. The semi behind me was driving too close for safety. It’s just nerves, I told myself, they’re vehicles full of sacks of sugar and plastic soda bottles and disposable diapers. There’s nothing threatening about them.

  Get back to thinking about that freezer of yours. What needs to be done?

  Hold on. Who was I kidding? Except for a new stash of Ben & Jerry’s, two bags of stir-fry veggies, and a variety of fancy ice cubes, my freezer was a vast empty wasteland. I had absolutely no need for containers. Of course, that could change. Maybe I should make some soup, and that would allow me to label it. I could swing by Hannaford’s and pick up the soup ingredients and jump-start that project. After all, I already had the labels. Of course, I had no idea what was actually in homemade soup. Onions? Celery? Chickens? Magic spells? It wasn’t like my mother had ever whipped up a batch of savory stock. That’s what caterers were for.

  Before I started my soup campaign, it might be a good idea to actually get some soup recipes. That would be another pleasant diversion. I could print out the recipes and put them in a little binder. Or keep them in a folder on my computer. Or would it be better to get a cookbook? A soup cookbook. There was a lovely new and used bookstore uptown on the arcade. That might be the best thing. I could get advice, as I had never actually owned a cookbook. It might represent more of a commitment to this soup venture than merely printing recipes from the Web or scoring a copy of Soup for Total Losers.

  Of course, it wouldn’t take a team of shrinks long to figure out that I didn’t need soup at all. My usually smooth workweek had been chaotic; I was feeling lonely; my social network seemed to be in self-destruct mode; my best friend was lost to me, perhaps forever; and I needed a new way to use my downtime. Perhaps one that wouldn’t involve chopping celery.

  I was still two exits away from my route, but I was fed up with the looming truck. Time for a different route. I wanted to ditch that turkey. I signaled and moved over to the exit lane. The truck pulled over, too. He was still close enough that his headlights made it hard for me to see. Never mind. At least there wasn’t much chance that he’d be going my way.

  Wrong.

  I turned left to head back into Woodbridge. He followed. I decided I didn’t want those headlights behind me all the way into town. Easily dealt with. I swung right to take the old route into town. No truck driver in his right mind would take this route. It was peppered with stop signs, hidden driveways, and blind corners. Plus it went through Vineland Estates, which had ridiculously low speed limits.

  Just what I wanted.

  Apparently just what he wanted, too. We’ll see about that, I decided, making a quick right, stopping at the second stop sign, and then managing an even quicker left. Next I turned right to get onto a long and winding road that was scenic in the day and quiet and empty at night.

  So long, sucker.

  My heart rate soared as the headlights followed. What the hell? He wasn’t even slowing down for those stop signs. His wheels squealed as he took the turns too fast for safety.

  There’s never a cop around when you want one. And I really wanted one. I would even have been happy to see Nick the Stick at that point.

  But come on, someone had to see this huge thuggish vehicle barreling through a residential area. But although there were lights in the houses and the flicker of televisions, no one stood on their lawn chatting, no one was conveniently pulling their car into their driveway. I was on my own.

  I gunned the Miata and sped ahead. The lights got no farther behind. In fact, I thought they were getting closer. I needed to attract attention fast. I leaned on my horn, staccato beeps followed by long, loud blasts, then beeps again. Three short, three long, three short, all run together. SOS. My organized childhood badges continued to pay off.

  Please someone hear me and stick your head out the door. This guy thinks he has no witnesses. Bad, bad news, because at the end of this small development was a track of parkland surrounded by woods. My heart rate spiked again. Was this where the Impala was found? Had that driver been run off the road by a truck straight out of a horror movie and then murdered? I tried not to think about the body in the trunk.

  Whatever else happened, I had to stay where someone might spot me. I didn’t know Vineland Estates well, but I remembered that several of the streets ended up on the route to the park. The others appeared to keep going around in circles, crescents, and possibly spirals straight to hell.

  I pressed on the accelerator and rocketed around a corner. The truck stayed on my tail. In my rearview mirror I could see it wasn’t hauling a trailer, just the cab. Who knew one of those could whip around like that? The Miata is easy to handle and turn. I kept making short sharp twists. I changed my direction without warning, up and down the meandering crescents of this seemingly uninhabited neighborhood. I kept leaning on the horn. Still, by the time anyone stuck their head out the front door, I would have zoomed on to the next street. Would anyone ever spot the speeding truck and call the cops?

  By this time, I felt angry as well as desperate. With all those paved driveways and basketball hoops, couldn’t one kid be out practicing layups? Did everything have to stop just because it was dark? What was this country coming to?

  My cell phone was in my handbag, within reach, but I needed both hands to hang on to the wheel. As I shot down a relatively straight stretch of road on Malbec Crescent, I held the wheel with one hand and unzipped the purse with my other. By the time I yanked out the phone, the truck had gained. He was almost on my bumper. I floored it and flew into the next crescent. The roar behind me told me he had the same plan.

  Valpolicella was the same as every other street in the area, the houses well-spaced with large lush lawns. I thought about driving straight across one of the lawns, but I worried about sinking into a backyard pool. Plus, the spaces between the houses were so wide that the truck could just follow. I pictured myself up against a fence with the cab pushing me into it. As I struggled not to panic, I shot past a house with a three-car garage that narrowed the space between it and its neighbor. I jerked the wheel and did a U-turn past the truck. I switched off my lights, then turned again sharply and careened down the side lawn and between the two houses. Luckily there was no pool, and better yet, no fence between this property and the one in back of it. I flew across the property and out onto the street behind. I needed to get out of the view of the truck for long enough to hide myself and my car.

  Halfway down whatever wine street I had turned onto, luck smiled on me. A double garage door was open, one car inside. I turned sharply, hit the brakes, and slid into the garage. I hopped out of the Miata and spotted the garage door button. I pushed it and heard not only the rattle of the door closing, but also the rumble of the cab approaching.

  My heart was still pounding as the garage door automatic light flicked off. I stood there in the pitch dark, disoriented. Why hadn’t I looked to see where the door to the house was? At least I still had my cell phone in my hand. I managed to flick the phone open and call 911 by the dim light of the tiny screen.

  “Help! I’m being chased by a crazy truck driver! I think he’s trying to kill me. Get someone out here soon!”

  Mona Pringle’s familiar snide tone responded. “That you again, Charlotte?”

  Oh boy. I guess she owns the four-to-midnight shift. “Yes.”

  “Well, the fun never ends.”

  “Mona,” I whispered, “it’s not fun. I don’t know where he is. I am in a garage and it’s dark and I don’t know if he is outside. He could drive his truck through the door and crush me and maybe he’s listening.”

  Okay, I realized how nutty that sounded, but it was all true, if a bit jumbled.

  “Where are you?”

  “I told you, in a garage.”

  “Address?”

  “I don’t know. So
mewhere in Vineland Estates. The street’s parallel to Valpolicella on the south side. I don’t know the street name or the number of the house. He was chasing me and I just drove in and closed the door. I kept blowing my horn but no one heard me.”

  “Oh, people heard you all right. We got lots of calls about that truck chasing a Miata. I should have known you were involved. We have units on the way to the area. We’ll try to find your location.”

  I blinked back hot tears, a response to the shock of the chase. “I’ll try to find out, too.”

  The phone was a dim source of light, but perhaps enough to find a door. I felt my way along the garage wall.

  Mona was squawking. “Charlotte?”

  “I’m trying to find out where I am.”

  “Units are on their way.”

  “Tell them to watch for a big truck, just the cab.”

  “What color?”

  “I don’t really know. It was behind me shining its lights, they practically blinded me. And it’s dark out, but I believe it was red.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  “Wait! It’s a Volvo. I saw the name on the front.”

  “What about the license plate?”

  I paused. I closed my eyes to recall. “There wasn’t one.”

  “Well, there had to be one, Charlotte. That’s the law.”

  “This guy’s not so big on the law,” I said. “There won’t be many murderous trucks rampaging through this neighborhood. Tell them, if they see one, just stop it.”

  “Yeah. They figured that out already. And Charlotte?”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you should stay put.”

  “Well, I’m a sitting duck if that truck takes a run at this garage, if he saw me come in.”

  I picked up a rake as a weapon, not that a rake is much defense against a Volvo of any size or color. I hammered on the door to the house.

  Nothing. No voices. No answer.

  I tried the doorknob. To my astonishment, it opened. Lucky me, open garage door, open door to the house. Bless this family. Absentminded people went way up in my estimation. I stepped through the garage entrance and into the house. Everything was dark. No sign of anyone. At least the streetlight illuminated the interior enough to avoid tripping.