by Edie Claire
She stepped off the elevator just as Jeff Hulsey, her team's manic but capable account representative, stepped on. She greeted him optimistically, with her usual humor. "Going the wrong way, aren't you?" Her smile faded as Jeff looked through her with hostile eyes, cracking his knuckles in tandem. He leaned to one side and pounded the control panel with a fist. The elevator doors closed.
Okay. Let's not panic.
Leigh turned around to face Esther Reed, the office receptionist. "What was his problem?"
The perpetually work-weary Esther studied her wrinkled hands with discomfort. "Good morning, Leigh. Mr. Lacey said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in."
Now let's panic.
Esther turned away and pushed a button on the office intercom. Leigh felt the artificial smile she'd been wearing slosh down into her shoes. What was the point?
She plodded down the hall to the door that bore Mr. Lacey's brass name plate. She and Lacey hadn't had a heart-to-heart in his office since the last big catastrophe. From all indications, this meeting would prove comparable. Leigh took a deep breath. It was her own fault; she could have called this morning. But then, she had been involved in official police business. She shouldn't be too apologetic, should she? She knocked.
Almost instantly she heard the booming response. "Come on in, Leigh."
She slipped around the heavy door, her level of wariness increasing. The voice was loud, but not angry. In fact, it was almost kind.
Mr. Lacey slouched in his high-backed recliner. He was a giant man, about six-feet, four inches, and bald as a cue ball. The Daddy Warbucks image was ill-suited, however. Despite his apparent efforts to be a good ole boy, his demeanor was decidedly sharklike. He motioned for Leigh to sit, then tapped his fingers together lightly beneath his chin.
Conversation with Lacey never came easily. He had the creative instincts of a copy machine and tended to avoid any discussion that couldn’t be summarized with a spreadsheet. After about fifteen seconds of silence, Leigh felt obligated to jump in. "I'm sorry I'm so late getting in, Mr. Lacey, but the fact is, I encountered a rather strange situation this morning. You see..."
He wasn't looking at her. He stared at his desk, shook his head slowly, and waved her explanation away. She stopped talking. He let her suffer in silence for a few more seconds, then stood up and walked around to the front of his desk.
It was not looking good.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Leigh fought the urge to grip her armrests tighter. He exhaled, leaned back, and perched himself on the edge of his desk. If he was trying to be casual, it wasn't working.
After about six hours, he spoke. "I told the rest of your team this morning."
NOT a good intro.
"I'm sorry, but the DecoDripless account is gone. Wainwright called me yesterday."
Leigh's heart seemed to stop. DecoDripless was the only major account her team had held since the milk cap fiasco. They couldn't survive the loss of two big accounts in six months.
"We just can't carry your team through this one," Lacey continued. "We've already shifted as much work as we can."
It was Leigh's turn to gaze at the floor. She was being laid off. Again.
"So I'm afraid your team is being laid off, effective immediately. You'll receive a severance package, of course."
"Of course," Leigh echoed.
"And a top-notch recommendation." Mr. Lacey was doing his best to sound warm. Leigh tried to appreciate it. "You've done a good job for us, Leigh. I don't think you'll have any trouble finding another position. I wish we could keep you on, but we can't."
She stood up and faced him. "Why did Wainwright pull the account?"
"Nothing to do with our performance, at least, that's what he said. He claims they're restructuring and pulling more work in-house."
Mr. Lacey didn't say anything else, and Leigh gathered she was being dismissed. She started to leave, but he spoke again just as she was opening the door.
"Mrs. Reed will give you the details about your severance package...and the office situation."
You mean, how soon I have to be out of here.
Leigh turned around. "Goodbye, Mr. Lacey. Thank you."
She went out the door and shut it behind her.
Thanks a lot.
***
Had she been an actress in a movie, Leigh would have headed straight for Point State Park. She would have watched the pigeons fighting over bread crumbs, then let the spray of the Point fountain settle on her hair while she reflected on the meaning of life. As it was, she walked straight to her car, drove to the nearest convenience store, purchased a Tootsie Roll, a Snickers bar, and a Diet Coke, and consumed them in the parking lot. Her only reflection was that she had neglected to buy a lottery ticket. When the Snickers wrapper was licked clean, she started the car. An ancient instinct took control of the wheel and steered her to the Koslow Animal Clinic.
The business that was her father's pride, joy, and lifetime obsession was only slightly larger than the other brick row houses that flanked it; a tiny lot in the back passed for a parking area. Leigh squeezed the Cavalier into a slot behind the dumpster, throwing in the candy wrappers as she headed towards the clinic's back door. She opened it and stepped into the kennel room, wincing when a canine chorus announced her arrival. A harried-looking veterinary assistant paused in the midst of dumping cat litter and raised her eyebrows at Leigh. "Sorry Denise," Leigh said sheepishly, closing the door. "Just need a word with The Man." The younger woman tossed her head in the direction of the exam rooms and went back to work.
Leigh found Randall Koslow, DVM, sitting on the wheeled stool in exam room one, snipping away at the feathers of a displeased blue and gold macaw. The uncertain-looking teenage employee holding the bird was sweating bullets—the patient seemed to have an unhealthy fascination with her hot pink glued-on nails. Leigh's father was, as always, oblivious to such signs of distress. "Tighter around the neck, don't squeeze the chest," he said mechanically. "Now, let's do the claws."
Leigh nodded at the bird's owner, a thin, fiftyish-looking woman wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. The woman responded with a plastic smile, her hands fidgeting over a pack of cigarettes protruding from her denim handbag. When the trim job was finished, Leigh's father replaced the bird in its cage. The bird's owner nodded hastily in all the appropriate places during the avian husbandry lecture, then swept out in search of a more carcinogen-friendly environment.
Dr. Koslow turned to his only daughter with his usual no-nonsense manner. "It's the middle of the day, Leigh. What's happened?"
She waited for the teenager to finish running cold water over her fingers and leave. Randall Koslow sat patiently, adjusting dark-rimmed glasses over his thin nose. He bore an amazing resemblance to Dennis the Menace's father, a burden that might have annoyed a man of lesser self-esteem.
"I got laid off again," Leigh said simply.
Dr. Koslow's wince was almost imperceptible. He removed his glasses and blew on them, then wiped an imaginary smudge with his smock. "Hard times for the company?"
"That, and I got caught dancing naked on the boss's desk."
Dr. Koslow's answer was matter-of-fact. "Then you'll get another job in no time. You have a good record; you're a talented writer. I assume you can dance half decently." He replaced his glasses. "This sort of thing is happening to everybody now. Don't beat yourself up over it, just go get another job."
A shrill bark from the crowded waiting room echoed through the door. Dr. Koslow rose. "Anything else?"
Leigh smiled. Her Dad wasn't the gushy type, but he could always make her feel better. "Um, actually there is," she answered. "Mao Tse's throwing up again. I need some Laxatone."
"Take whatever you need," he answered, reaching for the door. Then he turned. "I assume you don't want me to mention this to your mother."
Leigh shivered. "God forbid. She wouldn't eat for a week. I'll tell her after I've found another job."
Dr. Koslow
nodded. "Good plan." He opened the connecting door to the waiting room and poked his head out. "'Sugar' Fedorchak?"
Leigh slipped out of the exam room, grabbed a tube of Laxatone from the pharmacy shelves, and left through the back door. The kennel dogs had no comment.
***
It was late afternoon before Leigh returned to Cara's house. Balancing several bags from the office supply store with one arm, she let herself in the front door. The phone was ringing as she stepped inside.
"Cara?" she called around the bags, "You here?"
There was no response. Leigh looked for a place to put her packages, but seeing only a spindly antique table, she dropped them in a heap instead. She ran to the security box, punched in the code, and dove for the phone in the study. The lady of the house didn't believe in answering machines; she rarely even answered in person. Apparently, letting someone think you weren't home was more polite than ignoring a message.
"Hello? March residence."
A cranky, shrill voice spat into the other end of the line. "Is this the maid?"
Leigh controlled her annoyance. "No, it isn't. Whom were you calling?"
Throaty laughter echoed out the earpiece, and Leigh's face reddened. "Maura Polanski! What the heck is your problem? I about gave myself a hernia running for this phone!"
The laughter funneled down into a dramatic exhale. "Just couldn't resist, Koslow. You sounded so formal."
Leigh was in no mood to be the brunt of somebody else's joke. "So what do you want, anyway? I've got work to do."
"What do I want?" Maura asked, after a short pause. "Have you forgotten you’re living at the site of an official police investigation?"
She had. "Of course not. But I thought you finished with all that. What is it now?"
This pause was longer, and the voice that followed was more serious. "I don't have the best news for you. In fact, it's rather worrisome."
Leigh was unmoved. Worries? She had her own to deal with.
Maura continued. "I just got a call from the medical examiner's office. They haven't finished the autopsy report yet, but they did find something when they removed the clothing."
Leigh tapped her foot on her cousin's new carpet and thought about whether or not she had bought the right printer cartridge. Perhaps she should invest in a laser printer anyway. Resumes had to look good in her line of work…
"There was a note pinned to the shirt. Handprinted on plain notebook paper—new, fresh paper."
"Yeah, all right," Leigh said impatiently, debating whether she could afford any computer supplies now that she was unemployed. "So what did it say?"
Maura cleared her throat. "It said: GET OUT OF MY HOUSE."
Leigh's brain shifted back to the present. Get out of my house. Whose house? Her brow wrinkled. "What is that supposed to mean, Maura? Was the note intended for Cara and me?"
"I've got no way of knowing that yet, Koslow. The medical examiner still hasn't officially stated that the body was embalmed or how long the man's been dead, much less cause of death. Then there's the matter of identity..."
Leigh clenched her teeth. Perhaps, on a better day, she might be more patient. Probably not. "So, why did you even call me?" she barked. "I don't know if the note was meant for us, I don't know who he is, what house he's talking about.... Oh, for God's sake. The man's dead! He didn't write the stupid note anyway!"
A long pause followed. When Maura spoke again, it was in her best calm-the-hysterical-citizen voice. "I realize this embalmed body thing has been unsettling. But you're sounding a bit over the edge. Is something else going on?"
Leigh remembered why she liked Maura so much. She was one perceptive human—a trait that undoubtedly served her well as a policewoman. Leigh's temper cooled. "Yeah," she said, more quietly. "I lost my job."
"Geez, Leigh," Maura sympathized. "I'm sorry. Did you see it coming?"
"I should have." The offer of an empathizing ear proved too tempting to pass up, and before Leigh knew it, she had vented a few years' worth of job frustrations. When she noticed several other phones ringing in the background at the station, her cheeks reddened. "Thanks for listening, but I don't want to hold you up."
"No problem," Maura answered, with ill-disguised relief. "I'll let you know if I hear any more about the case, but I doubt I will. The detectives will contact you themselves. My butt is back on traffic duty."
Leigh thanked Maura and hung up. To hell with disoriented corpses. She had résumés to write.
Chapter 4
Leigh unrolled the Thursday morning Pittsburgh Post with great expectations, her little-used optimistic side in full swing. First, she was going to be a celebrity. Second, she was going to find a new job.
The mood didn't last long. "Body Found in Avalon" held not a hint of sensationalism; in fact, it was downright dry. Leigh cursed the lackluster reporter who had interviewed her the day before. A journalistic purist—what were the odds? To add insult to injury, he had spelled her name "Lee," which was unforgivable.
The classifieds were no better. Not only were no advertising agencies dying for copywriters, but the only reference to a journalism degree came next to the words "salaries to 14K."
She tossed down the paper and tore the wrapper off her fourth low-fat granola bar. Coffee. I need coffee. She was about to search for some when Cara joined her in the breakfast nook.
"Morning," Leigh said, sounding more cheerful than she felt. Cara looked awful. Her normally perfect hair hung limply over her shoulders, several renegade strands sticking out in odd directions. Her eyes were red-tinged and her lids puffy.
"Yeah, I guess," she groaned, shuffling over to open the refrigerator. "Did you and Maura eat all those donuts?"
Leigh sniffed. "You, Maura, I, and half the coroner's office finished them by noon, yes." She rose. "You can have some breakfast bars if you want," she said, holding out the box. "They're sweet."
Cara looked at the box skeptically, but pulled out a bar and sat down. Leigh poured two glasses of orange juice and joined her. "Bad night?"
Cara glanced up in surprise. "Why do you say that?"
Leigh smiled slyly. "Um, gee, I'm just psychic I guess."
Cara looked at her hair out of the corner of her eyes and tried to smooth it down. "You were out at your mom's house pretty late last night," Leigh continued. "Did she make that great lasagna?"
Cara nibbled at the breakfast bar with distaste. "If she'd been making lasagna I would have invited you. Actually, she served chicken salad—it was a Ballasta Basket party. I thought the guests would never leave."
Leigh gave thanks for being spared the invite. Her aunt's chicken salad was second to none, but not even lasagna could make her spend an evening with thirty Martha Stewart fanatics cooing over Ballasta baskets.
"But even after I got back," Cara continued, "I didn't go straight to bed. Something Mrs. Rhodis said made me want to look around the bookshelves in the study."
This statement begged several questions, but Leigh decided to take first things first. "Mrs. Rhodis?" she asked. "That's the older woman who lives next door, right? I didn't know she knew your mom."
"She didn't," Cara answered. "I invited her. She was fussing over my Ballasta laundry basket the other day, and she's a neat lady. She hangs her clothes out on the line too. She has a dryer, but we both think there's nothing like that fresh smell—"
Leigh's efforts at polite conversation did have limits. "You were saying something about searching the house?"
"Yes," Cara backtracked, becoming more animated. "It's all very interesting. You know about how I found the money?"
Leigh nodded. A few days before, Cara, who was used to thinking in geometric terms, had noticed a discrepancy in the woodwork around the master bedroom fireplace. She thought there must be a potential space not accessible through the existing cabinets, and a more thorough examination revealed she was right. A camouflaged door opened to a small compartment, which contained a blank book and a metal tackle box with $300 in
cash and some old coins. From Cara's reaction, you'd have thought she won the lottery.
"You still have it, right?" Leigh asked.
"For now," Cara answered. "But I think I'll give it to charity. It must have belonged to the man we bought the house from; but he's dead, and apparently he had no family."
The image of a small piece of paper flickered through Leigh's mind. Get out of my house.
Cara continued. "Anyway, this man, his name was Paul Fischer, lived in this house practically his whole life. Mrs. Rhodis lived next door to him for over forty years, but never got to know him very well. Do you believe it? She says he kept to himself, went to work and came back, and didn't have much of a social life. She only saw him when he was outside working on the house. He kept it in great condition, as you can see, so he clearly was a decent handyman and carpenter. Which led me to believe that he designed and built the compartment himself." She bit off a larger bite of breakfast bar.
"A miserly type who didn't trust banks?"
"That's what the police suggested when I found the money. Apparently he had no bank account, at least not when he died. So building a safe seemed a reasonable enough thing for him to do. But then I talked to Mrs. Rhodis."
A tiny bell went off in Leigh's mind. Hadn't she known a Mrs. Rhodis in her days at the Koslow Animal Clinic? She closed her eyes and tried to get a picture. "Yep," she said proudly, opening her eyes. "Got her. Short, round, wild hair. Polyester. Dynasty of clairvoyant white poodles."
"That's her," Cara grinned, "but I think the current poodle is apricot. Or maybe it's what you'd call champagne?" Realizing she was getting sidetracked, Cara shook her head and moved on. "The point is, she told me that before Paul Fischer died, he hinted that he had some important papers at his house."
Leigh's stomach twitched unpleasantly. "You mean, like a will?"