Trash Course

by Penny Drake

  Police burst through the main door just as the three of us slipped out the side. Luckily, the cops hadn’t taken the time to establish a perimeter, or we would have been sunk. We hustled Andy away into a damp and chilly night illuminated by spinning red and blue police lights. I wondered what the cops would think when they found a flock of thugs trussed up like roasting chickens, and a gaggle of children with a wild story. The thought brought a little glow of satisfaction to my bruised and aching stomach as we jogged away with Andy in tow.

  Chapter Two

  Four days later, I was behind my desk, engaged in brave battle with my keyboard. Outside, the August sun shone hot and harsh, but in the air-conditioned lobby of Hawk Enterprises the air was cool and soothing. Blue carpet and green plants hushed the muted hum of the air system, though my mood was much more restless. The cursor flicked across the screen, and I replaced “teh” with “the” for the third time on the same page. I sighed and looked up from my typing for a moment. Big mistake. The reception area has a big bay window with a built-in seat, and I have a primo view of the back yard. Soft green grass, fragrant flowers, singing birds. My fingers drummed the keyboard, sending random letters skittering across the screen. Maybe just a quick stroll outside for some sunshine. I could—

  A lawnmower roared to life outside, and Melissa, our landlady, pushed the machine into view. She’ll turn forty soon—about ten years older than me—brown hair, stick thin, deeply tanned. Her face glistened with perspiration. Only ten seconds outside, and she was sweating enough to drip. I grimaced. Suddenly the idea of going outdoors was about as tempting as a blind date with Rush Limbaugh. I went back to my keyboard, content to stay inside with the lovely, refreshing air conditioning.

  The office building itself is an enormous twenties-style Victorian that was split into apartments sometime in the sixties. The residents—mostly University of Michigan students—had been pretty rough on the place, and Melissa had bought it for a song and a joke. Some serious renovation turned it into a series of offices for small businesses.

  Two doors open off my area. One leads to a conference room complete with a tiny fridge and an industrial-sized coffee maker. The other door leads to Ms. Hawk’s office, and it’s usually closed to preserve Ms. Hawk’s privacy. That’s fine with me. I don’t have to wonder if the boss is peering at me through the doorway or listening in on phone conversations. Not that it would bother me. I love working for Diana Hawk, and wouldn’t quit if I won ten million in tomorrow’s lottery.

  Computer keys chattered like chilly teeth under my fingers and I was humming “Bad Romance” as I typed, putting the final touches on the Maine report. Andy made it safely back to his parents, and the U.S. consulate has no record of our involvement—Andy didn’t know our names, and Mrs. Maine was glad to keep her mouth shut. Someone in charge probably knew something was up, but as long as none of it led to Hawk Enterprises, Ms. Hawk would be happy. There was no way for me to find out what happened to the other kids, but I liked to think they were fine, especially the girl with the peanut-butter-cup eyes who had grabbed my hand.

  The mail came, and I set the computer to printing three copies of the report while I sorted through it. Two bills, some junk mail, a business catalog, and three personal letters for Ms. Hawk. I automatically checked the postmarks. One from Seattle, Washington. One from London, England. And one from someplace I couldn’t puzzle out. I didn’t even recognize the alphabet. I was dying of curiosity, but they were personal letters, and I wasn’t going to ask.

  The printer finished up the report. I attached the final statement for what Mrs. Maine owed us, grabbed the mail, and was just about to bring everything to Ms. Hawk when the front door opened. A fifty-ish woman bustled in, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it like she was afraid Godzilla would try to break it down. She was breathing funny.

  I blinked. “Can I help you?” I asked, setting down the papers.

  But the woman was already rooting around in a capacious handbag. She produced an inhaler, shoved the business end into her mouth, and sucked like a crystal meth addict. Her breathing immediately eased, and she closed her eyes in obvious relief.

  “Are you all right?” Maybe I should dial 911.

  The woman nodded and took a deep breath. “I will be. Humidity and fresh-cut grass always make my asthma worse.” She crossed the room with short, tripping steps and held out her hand. “My name is Belinda Harris. I’m looking for Hawk Enterprises.”

  “Terry Faye,” I said, shaking it. Her grip was light and dry. “And you’ve found us.”

  “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure. There’s no sign outside the building.” Belinda had a southern accent. She was a little on the plump side, and her face was just starting to show signs of grandma jowls, her short, curly hair colored a careful brown. She wore a yellow sun dress with big buttons down the front and large, clunky shoes.

  “What can we help you with?” I said, putting on my Soothing Receptionist voice. “Would you like a seat? Some coffee or water?”

  Belinda Harris politely declined coffee and water, and I came around my desk to offer her a spot in the window seat. I sat opposite her with a legal pad on my lap. Ms. Hawk doesn’t like consulting with clients over a desk—she says men do that to establish authority, and she’ll have none of it in her office.

  Once Belinda was settled, her handbag within easy reach beside her like a favored cat, she said, “I have a problem. I haven’t heard from my uncles in almost three months, and I’m worried about them.”

  “All right,” I said in a voice that asked her to continue.

  “I get a letter from Uncle Lawrence once every other week, like clockwork, and I always write back within a day or two. These are paper letters, you understand—not e-mail. The last one arrived back in May. I’ve written seven times since, but haven’t heard a word. He and Uncle Howard are elderly, you understand, and I’m worried something has happened to them. They don’t own a telephone, so I couldn’t call.”

  “Where do your uncles live?” I asked.

  “Right here in Ann Arbor. I flew up from Missouri—” she pronounced it Missoura, “—to find them.”

  “You’ve been out to their house, then?”

  “I rented a car and went straight there from the airport,” she said. “But I couldn’t get into the house.”

  “The doors were locked?”

  “They were blocked,” she corrected.

  “Blocked,” I repeated.

  “With junk.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, confused.

  Belinda gave a heavy sigh. “This is…well, it’s a little embarrassing.”

  It always surprises me what some people call embarrassing. Women get robbed or raped and call it embarrassing. They get abused or molested by their fathers and call it embarrassing. They get hit over the head by a carjacker and call it embarrassing. That’s bullshit. The dog pooping on the rug in front of company is embarrassing. Getting caught snooping in the host’s medicine cabinet at a party is embarrassing. Finding spinach stuck in your teeth after a job interview is embarrassing. Getting raped, ripped off, or molested is more in the range of horrifying, outrageous, or appalling. But I would never say this to a client.

  “All our consultations are kept in strict confidence,” I said. “Ms. Hawk and I will not discuss your case with an outsider unless we have your express permission. We could also go into the conference room, if you’d like more privacy.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s nothing the neighbors don’t already know, I’m sure. My uncles are…eccentric, you understand.” She cleared her throat. “They hoard.”

  I was still confused. “Hoard?”

  “They’ve lived in the same house for over fifty years, and I don’t think they’ve thrown anything out in all that time.” Belinda gave a little cough. “The doors and windows are completely blocked by junk. I found two unlocked doors, but I couldn’t get either one to open more than an inch or two. I looked in the windows, and couldn’t see
anything but piles of boxes and stacks of books. By then, my asthma was acting up, and I had to go back to the car.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Yesterday. I called the police and they sent over a pair of officers, but they couldn’t get in, either, and not for lack of trying. Then they checked the mailbox, and there wasn’t a thing in it. Someone was moving around well enough to pick up the mail, the officers said. Right after that, they got called away to investigate a robbery and left. I did learn that social services has tried to investigate my uncles’…habits a few times because the neighbors have complained about the messy yard, but social services can’t do anything unless my uncles specifically ask them to.”

  I gave another sympathetic nod and mentally filled in a few blanks. Budget cuts all over the state had made things difficult for both cops and social workers, and very few resources were devoted to looking after adults with mental illness. Crime took precedence over checking on two reclusive old men.

  “Did you try the fire department?” I asked. “They’re good at getting into difficult places.”

  “I did,” Belinda said. “They said I should call the police or social services.”

  “Don’t you have any relatives who could come up and help?”

  Belinda shook her head. “I thought of that, of course. But my husband and my brother can’t get away from work to come up, and my daughter lives in California. I didn’t know what to do, so I came to see you.”

  “How did you hear of us?”

  “The motel where I’m staying gave me a bunch of promotional flyers. A card for Hawk Enterprises was in them. It said you solve problems, so here I am.”

  I blinked at this. Ms. Hawk and I both have cards, but we don’t hand them out as promotional material. Maybe it got in there by accident? Our clients frequently stay in hotels and one of them could have dropped the card. I supposed it was a minor point.

  “So it’s been three months since you last heard from your uncles?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I suppressed a grimace, dreading what I had to say next. “Ms. Harris, you know that it’s possible your uncles are…”

  “Dead?” she said. “Yes, I’m aware of that. It’s the most logical explanation—except that someone’s getting the mail. Maybe someone’s stealing it, hoping for a Social Security check. No matter what, I need to find out. If they are dead, I certainly can’t leave them in that house.”

  “Did you notice…I’m sorry, but I have to ask…any kind of odor?”

  “Like a corpse?” Belinda said. “No. Nothing. That’s another reason the police weren’t thrilled about trying to break in.”

  I gave Belinda Harris a casual once-over without seeming to stare, trying to assess her position. For someone who had flown all the way up from Missoura to check on two missing uncles, she seemed awfully willing to toss around words like dead and corpse. On the other hand, if her only contact with them was through letters, how concerned could she get?

  “Is there any other family?” I asked. “Someone who might want to be involved besides your husband and brother?”

  Belinda shook her head. “There are some distant relatives—cousins, great-nieces and nephews, you understand. They’re out in Chicago, last I knew. But I don’t know how to contact any of them.” She sighed. “I think I’m the only family member my uncles talked to, if you could call it talking.”

  I was furiously scribbling notes in my own improvised shorthand. “How long have you been writing to your uncles? It doesn’t sound like something you’ve been doing since you were a kid.”

  “Oh no. I knew about them, of course, but I never laid eyes on them until my mother died about five years ago. Mom was their younger sister, you understand. I was at her viewing when I noticed these two old men hovering around the back, shy as wild turkeys. One of them was in a wheelchair and wore thick, heavy glasses. Both of them had dressed in these rumpled brown suits that probably hadn’t seen the light of day in twenty years. When I saw them, I knew right off who they were, so I went over and introduced myself. Uncle Howard—he was the one in the wheelchair—never did say more than hello, but Uncle Lawrence and I hit it off surprisingly well, considering where we were.”

  “How old are they?” I asked, careful to keep my question in the present tense.

  “Well, let me see. Mom was a week short of seventy when she went, so that would put both uncles in their mid-eighties.”

  “Did you have more conversations after the funeral?”

  “No, we never spoke again. Uncle Lawrence did give me his address, and after Mom died I felt a need to connect with her family, you understand. So I wrote a letter. I didn’t think I’d hear back, but a few weeks later I got a letter back. It was such a nice surprise, so I wrote again. He wrote me again, I wrote him, and it became a little tradition with us. I told him about my husband and my daughter and what we were up to, and he wrote me about the Peale family history—where we came from, old family stories, that sort of thing. We came from Philadelphia, you understand, and before that, southern England. He didn’t write much about himself. I guess people can be shy even in a letter.”

  Belinda sighed heavily, suddenly looking old and worn, like an overused shoe. “I would like to know what’s going on at that house. It’s a family duty, you understand, but I’m also worried about those two. Uncle Lawrence was so nice in his letters, and I always looked forward to the next one. The idea that he and Uncle Howard could be dead…well, I can’t stand the idea that their bodies might be locked up in that awful house, all alone. And if they aren’t dead, why did Uncle Lawrence stop writing to me? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  I made a couple more notes, growing more intrigued as I wrote. You always hear about these kinds of people, collectors gone haywire. I wondered what kind of stuff might be in that house, and after spending most of a week in Russia chasing down child traffickers, the chance to go poking around inside an old house filled with who-knew-what sounded like a fun change of pace. I’d also spent the last two days typing up notes and reports, and I was getting antsy. My butt felt numb from sitting in my desk chair, and this would be the perfect excuse to shut down my computer and move around.

  Provided Ms. Hawk took the case.

  “Let me discuss this with Ms. Hawk,” I said. “This case sounds just like the sort of thing we handle, but I have to run it past her.”

  Belinda nodded. I rapped briskly on Ms. Hawk’s door and entered, feeling my heart beat a little faster. Even after three years of working for her, I got a little thrill at introducing her to a potential new case.

  Diana Hawk’s office is done in Early American Potted Plant, and the place smells like a greenhouse in the spring. I don’t know the names of half the greenery, but plants sit, hang, and spread over every surface except her polished mahogany desk. The windowsill looks like a jungle. Ms. Hawk herself was on the phone, and she waved me in. She wore watered blue silk today, and her black hair hung down to her shoulders. A wide-brimmed blue hat graced her head. Ms. Hawk usually wears some kind of hat, even indoors, and I envy her ability to pull off that look. At her throat glittered a silver pendant. It’s shaped like a hawk flaring its wings, about to strike its prey. I’ve never seen her without it.

  “…of course, darling,” she was saying in her low, rich voice. “We can talk more then. How far ahead is the time in Kyiv? Fine. I’ll call you later.”

  I closed the door as she hung up. “Kyiv? Anything to do with the Maine case?”

  “Hardly. That was my brother,” she said, smiling.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said. Come to that, I didn’t know anything about Ms. Hawk’s family. “Does he live in Kyiv?”

  “Sometimes,” she said briskly. “Who’s out front?”

  “Potential new client,” I said, and sketched out Belinda’s situation.

  “Sounds fascinating,” she said. “Draw up a contract for her. Five hundred, with two.”

  I nodded and went ba
ck to the outer office. Belinda was reading a paperback book which she stowed in her purse when I emerged. “Ms. Hawk has asked me to draw up a contract for you,” I said.

  “Let me tell you the terms, and you can decide if you’re interested.”

  “All right.”

  “We charge a daily rate of five hundred dollars, plus expenses,” I told her. “Any expense over a hundred dollars, we’ll clear with you first. In addition to the monetary fee, you’ll owe Hawk Enterprises two favors.”

  Belinda looked blank, the usual client response. “Favors?”

  “At some point in the future, Ms. Hawk or I will contact you for some kind of favor,” I explained. “And you’ll need to do it. It will never be something that will risk your safety or reputation, but we will ask.”

  “What sort things do you ask for?” she asked warily.

  “It depends on you, actually,” I said. “Some of our high-society clients have provided us with invitations to particular events and introductions to particular people. A computer programmer client might help us get an important password. A cleaning lady can get us the contents of an office wastebasket. That sort of thing.”

  “I see.”

  “Most of our clients find it a little exciting,” I said with a smile. “Getting involved in a case, and all that. As I said, there’s never a risk to you. Unless you want to take one.”

  Belinda cocked her head. “Do many women take risks for Hawk Enterprises?”