by Unknown
“Hi, Walter,” I said, “how's it going?”
The welcome mat must have curled up again, because it made a flapping sound as the door shut. “Looks like you've got to get that mat fixed!” he recommended with a huge smile. I didn't point out that one doesn't get mats fixed; one just buys new mats. If I had, then I would be soliciting a conversation with him, and I refuse to do that because our mailman's a creep.
Now, before you think I'm a total witch, snubbing a fifty-five year old civil service worker with a wife and family, let me plead my case: Every morning that Bud entered the Chronicle, he insisted on interrupting each one of us by name, no matter how busy we appeared. Then he engaged us in “conversation” that consisted of various passive-aggressive remarks, which he delivered with an unfaltering, almost maniacal grin. His shtick was to act like Mr. Friendly—but I just wasn't buying it. If you asked me, Bud used amiability as an excuse to be an annoying jerk.
I paid him little mind, but unfortunately, like a cat, Bud clearly sensed dislike, and so he pursued me harder just to torture and torment me.
“Call me Bud,” he said now. “I told you, Caitlyn, Walter was my father.” Heh, heh, he added through a demented smile that bared all his teeth. “To my friends, I'm Bud.”
“Oh, that's right,” I said pleasantly, feigning dumbness, and focused on my screen. His name, Walter, was clearly printed on his uniform. Yet he insisted on contriving an affectionate nickname and forcing us to play along. The rest of the staff did go along with it, but silently, I vowed never to play ball.
Just then Ian came out of his office. “Hi there, Ian! Happy day to you,” Bud said cheerily. He reminded me a little bit of a dummy or the ventriloquist, not sure which one of the two, did it really matter? Both were creepy.
“Hey there, Bud, how are you doing,” Ian muttered with generic friendliness as he moved across the room to get some folders. He was obviously focused on something else. Ian stopped outside Monica's office and rapped on her half open door. “Monica, have you heard from Bart?”
“Yes,” I heard her say. “Actually he just called and said he'd have the piece on the hockey tournament emailed to you by this afternoon.”
Ian nodded. “Okay. Excellent. Thank you.”
“Oh! And also, Amber is on the phone,” Monica said. “The call bounced to my line.”
Amber was Ian's wife—soon-to-be his ex, from my understanding. According to Gary, the two had split up months ago, but the divorce wasn't final yet. Apparently Amber Beller still lived in their house in Seattle.
I peered over to gauge Ian's reaction, but it was unreadable. You couldn't tell if he was happy to hear it, annoyed, concerned, or completely apathetic. He simply nodded, and said, “Okay, you can bounce her back to me.” With that, he went into his office and shut the door.
I had to give him credit for being that professional. You weren't supposed to bring your personal life into the office, but most of us did anyway. Through the window on his door, I watched Ian sit at his desk and reach for the phone with the same matter-of-fact efficiency that he did everything else. Then I tugged the wheels of my chair closer to my desk and started to dial again.
“And how's Caitlyn today?” Bud interrupted, still holding our mail for ransom. How I wished someone would come into the office right now. Then Bud would have another person to focus on—and I could finish making that call to Femford Properties.
I pressed the button to disconnect and tried to decide whether to make the call with Bud standing there, or to pretend I was making a call and hope Bud would go away. If I went with option B, I knew I was running the risk that Bud would still linger and I'd have to carry through my bluff by faking a conversation with a dial tone like some psychopath.
Suddenly my hope came true. Monica decided to step out of her office and go fill her water bottle. “Hey there, Monica!” Bud said. “Oh—looks like you spilled some breakfast on your shirt this morning.”
“Oh...” Monica began, looking down at her shirt and appearing flustered and embarrassed.
“A little club soda, isn't that trick?” Bud said.
I just shook my head. “You catching this, Charlotte?” I muttered under my breath, as I picked up the receiver again.
Just then, Gary Netland came in. As usual, he entered with his phone tucked under his ear and his mirrored sunglasses over his eyes. “Hey, Gary, it's almost ten o'clock—working a half day today?” Bud joked. Not bothering to acknowledge the issue of his punctuality, Gary stayed absorbed in his phone conversation all the way to his desk. Finally Bud said, “Well...here's the mail.” He waved it in the air for a few seconds of grandstanding, before finally setting it down on the table and leaving.
Relieved, I set about to finish what I'd started. Once I heard the line ringing, I began tensely tapping my pen on the edge of my desk. I had to move quickly before Ian noticed that I hadn't been getting any work done.
“Femford Properties,” a receptionist finally answered.
“Hi, I'm calling from...um...Blackburn Cleaning Company,” I improvised. “I wondered if you are in need of a fully-equipped cleaning service for any of your properties. Particularly properties in the town of Big Clock?”
“Thank you, but we're not interested in hiring a new cleaning service at this time.”
It sounded as though she were about to hang up so I panicked. “Wait! Um...you use the Ever Clean Company, right?” I bit my lower lip, hoping she'd buy into my act.
“No, we use Spotless Find,” she corrected me.
“Spotless Find, that's right! Okay, well thank you,” I said and hung up.
When I found Spotless Find Cleaners online, I scoured their website for as much information as I could find. It was a high-end website, but an all too brief one. I clicked on the link that read: Clients.
Sure enough, Femford Properties was listed, along with several other businesses in the greater Minneapolis area. When I saw R&D Labs listed, my enthusiasm soared. My friend, Amy Laraby, not only worked at R&D Labs, which was located on the other side of town, but her parents were two of the founding partners. Quickly, I pulled my cell out of my bag and pressed speed dial #5.
Typical Amy, the call went straight to voicemail. I say “typical” because Amy was probably the only research scientist at R&D who was responsible and focused enough to actually turn off her phone at work.
“Hi Amy, it's me,” I began hastily. “Sorry for whispering, it's a long story. Listen, when you get a chance, please call me back. ” I paused and glanced around; Gary was glued to email, Monica was caught up in a cruller, and Ian was still in his office with the door shut. “I think I'm about to do something crazy, and I'm going to need your help.”
Chapter 5
There was a time in a girl's life when she needed to go against the crowd—to blaze her own trail, to be an individual. And then there was a time when she needed desperately to fit in. They key word tonight, I reminded myself as I waited in my car across the street from the clock building, was: blend.
Amy, who spent many of her evenings working late at R&D, had filled me in on the basic attire of the Spotless Find cleaning crew. White or light-colored khaki pants and white shirts. I figured the uniform tied into the imagery of the company name—whereas a more practical and less symbolic Amy speculated that it had to do with the bleaching effect of the cleaning agents they used. Amy explained that a white uniform would be the most cost-effective option, because it would camouflage any spots caused by cleaning agents splashing on the clothes.
Either way, beneath my parka, I was decked out in white—waiting for the Spotless Find van to arrive. I had spoken to Amy only yesterday, so I hadn't exactly had weeks to plan this. But I wanted to seize the momentum of my investigation, and if there was a trail at all, I didn't want it getting cold.
After work today, I hurried home along the salted roads. Hastily, I changed my clothes, took Cappy out, then set down a bowl of “multi-grain dog crunchies.” If you asked me, they smelled pretty p
utrid, but Cappy lunged on the offering like it was pizza, then curled up in front of the Christmas tree. Luckily, I hadn't run into Lucy on my way out. Knowing her, she probably would have wanted to chat—and then had thoroughly hurt feelings when I'd been unable to do so.
You might be wondering why I was in such a rush. Well, since I didn't know Spotless Find's daily route, I had no idea what time they typically arrived at the clock building. According to Amy, R&D Labs got cleaned at about seven o'clock each night—but since R&D was on the opposite side of town, and by all accounts on their website, Spotless Find was a large company, it was unlikely that the same crew would do both buildings.
So I had parked across the street, watching people leaving work, getting in their cars—seeing the building slowly but steadily empty for the evening.
I had heard the clock gong six times on the hour, and I kept waiting. Alternately I would shut my engine off to conserve gas, and then on again for the heater. By the time the big clock was about to announce seven o'clock, I sighed. I was cold, impatient and anxious. At this point, I just wanted to get this over with. Again, I revved up my car.
And then I saw it. Like a beacon of light in the darkness, a pale yellow van appeared on the cross street ahead of me. It was stopped right below a street lamp so I was able to read the name printed across the side. This was it. I shifted my car into “Drive.” Sucking in a breath, I channeled all the determination I had—then followed at what I hoped was an inconspicuous distance as the van turned into the lot that wrapped around the clock building. Once I was parked, I quietly got out and lingered beside my car, waiting for my moment.
I watched as five people in winter jackets and white pants departed from the van. Carrying buckets, mops, and a vacuum, they walked past the main revolving doors, over to a side door. I sidled up closer and saw one of the men take out some kind of card key. Then they went through the door, one by one. I hurried over until I was only a few feet behind the last person entering. I was able to catch the door with my hand just before it shut.
This side door opened right into the lobby of the building. So I wouldn't have to trail them too long before I came out of nowhere—which was now.
“Hold the elevator, please!” I said, darting across the caramel-swirled marble floor. In my desperation to blend, I nearly collided with a potted ficus tree.
Clearly surprised, the Spotless Find crew watched me jump into the elevator alongside them. Conversation came to a halt. I reminded myself of the woman at the pharmacy, how because she had looked and acted the part of the pharmacist, I had been completely convinced, and I mentally repeated the trite mantra: it was all attitude.
“Hi, I'm Caitlyn,” I said. “Normally I'm at R&D Labs, but tonight I was sent here,” I explained vaguely. “Um, I hope you don't mind,” I threw in lightly at the end and gave an eager-to-please smile.
The crew, which consisted of three women and two men, all just exchanged looks with each other and said nothing to me. Literally, nothing. One of the men shrugged, and that was it. Understandably, I was concerned and cautious. I hadn't thought it would be that easy. What was the catch?
Maybe they had misunderstood and assumed that I was working late for one of the companies here—that I had legitimate access to the building?
The elevator doors sealed us inside, and we started going up.
The crew began speaking to each other in Spanish. Two cleaners got off on the third floor. One on the fifth. There was only one remaining with me by the time I reached the top floor. She was a short Hispanic woman around thirty, who was giving me a side-eyed look that was hard to pinpoint—though I'd venture to guess it wasn't ebullience. “Hello,” I said merrily. “As I mentioned, my name's Caitlyn, and I'll be helping you with this floor...”
We stepped out of the elevator in tandem. Being only 5'3 myself, this compact little woman had to be the first adult I had ever towered over.
There were two sets of glass doors, one on each side of the elevator. The doors to the right had the words “Metropolax Company” printed across them in gold. The glass to the left was unmarked. Therefore, it seemed logical to assume that Metropolax was the only company located on this floor. “Uh, do you always clean the Metropolax Company?” I asked casually, motioning to the name printed on the glass.
Finally she spoke to me. “I clean the eighth floor. I don't need any help.” Her voice was flat. “I always do it myself.”
So this was going to be the catch—a 4 foot, 10 inch woman with a bucket in one hand, and a mop that was taller than her in the other. There was something fiercely stubborn about her, I could just tell.
Quickly, I tried to win her over. “What's your name?”
“Maria. I don't need help cleaning,” she said again. She didn't sound mad as much as insistent.
“I know, but...it's just for tonight...” When she didn't acquiesce, I improvised, providing a more expansive lie. “Like I said, I'm normally over at R&D Labs, but they had a cancellation, uh, some kind of experiment gone wrong...I think a Bunsen burner blew up or something,” I added, hoping that vague jargon from junior high chemistry class would add authenticity to the moment.
Maria paused and looked off to the side, obviously still displeased. Without waiting for her, I pulled on the handle, but the glass door to the Metropolax office was locked. When Maria glared at me, I switched to a more pleading approach. “Please, I promise I won't get in your way. I just...I really need the hours,” I told her, trying to look as pathetic as possible.
That seemed to strike a sympathetic chord. “You have kids?” she asked.
“Yes,” I agreed quickly. “Just one...my daughter, uh, Blackburn. It's a family name, on my mother's side...I call her 'Cappy' for short,” I rambled. Maria's dark brow became more furrowed, as I prattled on, “So shall we get started? Like I said, I promise not to get in your way. And I'll clean whatever you want. Think about it, it will go twice as fast!”
“We all leave together anyway,” Maria countered.
“Well, okay, you won't actually get to leave early—but you'll be done sooner and get paid for the same time, even though you'll have an extra set of hands.”
That seemed to clinch it. With an acquiescent shrug, she took some sort of badge out of her coat pocket. Then she told me, “We leave our coats in that closet,” pointing to a door that was across from the elevator. “There's a mat to wipe your shoes over there, too. So we don't bring snow and salt from outside.”
Once our jackets were put away, Maria waved her badge across the black pad that was mounted on the wall beside the door. There was an audible click. Finally I was pushing past the glass door and stepping into Metropolax.
We paused, while Maria rustled through some plastic bags in her bucket. I ran my eyes all around. I noticed another one of those black pads on the wall, also no larger than a deck of cards. I had to infer from this that the doors locked automatically, regardless if you were coming or going. So, one would need a badge not only to get in the office, but also to leave.
“You do all the usual things,” Maria said now. “Clean the sink, wipe down the counters, mop up any spills on the floor...” I have to confess that while Maria listed all the chores I was supposed to do, my mind drifted. I was consumed by my surroundings, taking in the ambiance of the Metropolax Company and whatever details I noticed as I went. It was a fairly generic, but still attractive office, with spacious cubicles and a cream colored carpet. The walls were a pale sage color and textured, as if papered with fabric. “Dust the plants,” Maria continued, “and the window sills, empty the trash cans...”
It didn't appear to be a large company; in fact, Metropolax only took up half of the eighth floor. It didn't wrap around to the other side, as I was expecting, but rather was a horseshoe shape, with the only access being that one set of glass doors. It made me wonder what, if anything, was occupying the space to the left of the elevator.
“And that's it,” she finished.
“Listen, Maria...” I
began, as she stopped short to get her supplies in order. “Did you read about that robbery that happened in this office last week?”
“What about it?” she said, sounding defensive.
“Nothing, I just read about it. Did it freak you out—I mean, just that you were here, and then soon after you left, someone broke in to rob the place?” Maria's shoulders seemed to tense, and I knew I'd misstepped. My intention was to make sure that she didn't feel I was accusing her, but my approach had flopped anyway.
“I don't know nothing about anything,” she declared. “We didn't even work that night.”
“What do you mean?” I asked curiously. “It was a Tuesday night, right?”
“We come here Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. We don't come on Tuesday,” she said, then thrust some garbage bags, a rag, and a bottle of Windex into my arms. “You can start in the kitchen,” she said.
“So you didn't even have to talk to the police?” I asked, trailing behind her. “Make a statement or answer questions...?”
Clearly annoyed, Maria spun around and put her hand on her hip. “I told you: I don't know anything. Ingmar told the police we didn't come that night. And that's that.”
“And Ingmar is...?”
Skeptically, Maria cocked her head and gave me more of her side-eye action. “Ingmar—our manager?”
“Oh! Right, Ingmar, our manager,” I fumbled. “I know a few Ingmars, that's why I was confused.”
Looking doubtful, Maria raised one of her arms and motioned to the left. “The kitchen is over there. Just follow the loop around and you'll find it.” With that, she added the mop to my armful of goodies, and continued on her way.
Like Maria instructed, I followed the natural path around the cubicles until I came to a wide, open archway that led to the kitchen. Once I was there, I dropped off all my stuff, and left—continuing on my primary quest to find the supply closet.