Weed

by Peter Ponzo

  Chapter 14

  I phoned Charlie from the lab. When the phone rang Charles had been cleaning the silverware ... or so he later said. He answered the phone on precisely the fourth ring as I knew he would.

  "You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," he said in a low monotone. It was precisely what the answering machine would have said. I listened with amusement. "If you would like to leave a message ..." he continued. It was a useful ploy. The immigration authorities had phoned several times, enquiring as to the whereabouts of the native girl from Brazil, and Charles had simply recited the words from the answering machine, listened to their message and hung up without comment. He had become skilled at this deception and now continued: "... and/or your name and telephone number, then I will relay the information to Miss Fleetsmith when she returns. If you would like—"

  "Okay Charlie, cut the shit," I said.

  "Ah, Miss Fleetsmith. I was beginning to worry at your absence. Your bed hasn't been slept in and I assume—"

  "Working, at the lab, all night," I said. "Have I had any calls?"

  "Yes. A call from Dr. Barney Bernside, the coroner. He left no message. One from the assistant Chief of Police, a Mr. William Boone. He has learned from Dr. Bernside that you visited the coroner's office and were the first to discover the presence of the Dermafix skin on Mr. Oerschott. He would like to talk to y'all 'bout yer findins, in the lab, at Oerschott Medicals." The last sentence, in a Texan drawl.

  "Y'all?"

  "Yes, Miss Fleetsmith.Y'all."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes ... well, another call from immigration, about Penny."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "Nothing. We know nothing of her whereabouts."

  "You mean you impersonated the answering machine?"

  "Quite so, Miss Fleetsmith."

  "It's about 9:30 and I'll leave here shortly. Can you cook up some breakfast, an omelet maybe? I'm starved. And I'd like to talk to you about my findings and some strange things happening here, so put on your thinking cap. Ciao, Charlie."

  Later that evening, Charles described Josey's dramatic entrance after my earlier phone call. Again, it was a B-movie with Charles as screen writer, director and main character:

  I hang up the phone, quickly clear the flamboyant silver knives and forks from the table (my dad had been easily impressed by fancy silverware and, as that's all we had, we used it), made up a breakfast setting for two (that was to be for Charlie and me), cut the ham and cheese for an omelet.

  Josey enters, standing at the door, smiling. She is dressed in a light grey suit with a small red scarf tied about her neck. "Breakfast for two?" she says.

  Charles: "I can make it three if you wish."

  Josey: "Naw, coffee's fine. This sittin' around is bad for my waistline."

  Josey slips into a chair and I bring her a cup and fill it with black coffee.

  Josey: "Thank you Mr. Curran."

  I look at her, quizzically.

  Josey: "Yes, Charles, I've decided to become a lady of breeding. You are Mr. Curran and I am Miss Josephine. Josey no more. Josephine, or Miss Josephine, if you please. That's me."

  I return to my omelet. "Why the change of temperament, Miss Josephine?" I say.

  "I figure I ain't gettin' any younger, so I need to find me a man. Somebody who'll take care of me, treat me like a lady. I figure that means I gotta look like a lady, right?"

  I mutter: "Mmm-hmm."

  Josey: "Thought Hans Ohshit would look after me, but he ... well, you know."

  Charles: "Mmm." I am still fussing with the omelet.

  Josey: "And I gotta talk like a lady. Interested, Charles?" She lapses into the more familiar name. "I could use some lessons, in English." She smiles, her eyes cast to the floor, fluttering eyelids.

  The phone rings. I answer.

  "You have reached the residence of Miss Francis Fleetsmith," I begins. "Uh ... excuse me, excuse me, this is not Miss Fleetsmith speaking. I am Charles ...uh, yes, yes, certainly." I listen intently. "You-my-cota? I will tell her." I place the phone on the hook and turn again to my omelet, just as you drive up the driveway. The scene ends as you enter the room.

  "Hi gang," I said, striding into the kitchen and collapsing in a chair. "My, my, Josey, you look elegant this morning. But you need to wash your face, Honey."

  "Josephine, if you please," Josey said, with a small shake of her head. "You are lookin' at the new me. A lady." I grinned and Josey looked at Charles. "Mr. Charles is going to give me lessons ... in English." Charles shuddered.

  "Miss Fleetsmith," he said, doling out the omelet, "someone called from the University. He asked that you call him at your convenience. He said you would know who it was." Charles paused. "He had an accent. German, I believe."

  "Austrian," I said. "Unger?"

  Charles jumped up. "You are welcome to my omelet. If you're hungry I can—"

  "Professor Unger, the microbiologist. That's who called. Did he say anything about the Dermafix?"

  "Nothing that I could understand, I'm afraid."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He simply asked that you return his call and that he would give you a lecture on mycology. He did mention a name for the foam you left him." Charles sat at the table and began to eat. He seemed a bit embarassed.

  "Well?" I asked. This could be important.

  "I beg your pardon?" Charles said, his fork stopping just short of his mouth.

  "The name, Charlie. The name for the foam." That man could frustrate!

  "I am afraid, Miss Fleetsmith, that the name eludes me. I should have written it down the minute he said it. I apologize for my momentary lack of acumen, but I am certain that if you return his call—"

  "You-my-cota," Josey said, looking pleased.

  Charles looked rather embarassed. "Yes, I think that was it."

  "Eumycota?" I repeated. "Fungi? Mushrooms?"

  Charles stopped eating. "Yes, of course, if you wish." He got up and walked to the refrigerator, pulling a plastic bag of mushrooms from a shelf.

  I groaned. "Forget the bloody mushrooms. I hate mushrooms. But Eumycota, that's a type of fungus. Mushrooms belong to that division. Did he say the foam was a mushroom?"

  "Professor Hunger's entire conversation," Charles said, "was something like 'I am calling from dee university, pleez tell Miz Feetsmith to call me, I vill giff her a lecture on mycology, tell her I believe dee foam to be ... to be—'" Charles looked at Josey.

  "You-my-cota," Josey said with a smile.

  "Eumycota," I said.

  "Quite so," Charles said. "And that was the extent of the conversation."

  I jumped up and walked to the phone, paused with my hand hovering, changed my mind then turned to leave the room.

  "I think I'll drive over to see Unger," I said.

  "But Miss Fleetsmith," Charles whined, "you haven't finished your omelet, in spite of your apparent hunger. Further, you said you wished to discuss certain findings you made at the laboratory last night, and I would be delighted to engage in such a discussion. Finally, you have not slept and need to rest. I am certain Professor's lecture on mycology can wait."

  I wasn't listening, but standing at the kitchen door, thinking. Reminded of what I wanted to speak to Charles about, I said: "Somebody has fiddled with the computer."

  "At Oerschott Medicals?" Charles asked.

  "Yes, some files on my hard disk have been copied. Somebody knows my password and has been looking through my Dermafix research files."

  "Who knows your password?"

  "No one. In fact, the only person who could get into my files is the manager of the computing centre, but I don't believe she'd be even slightly interested."

  "Has anything been modified, on your files?"

  "No, just copied."

  Charles droned: "Somebody got into your laboratory, copied certain files onto a disk, files relating to your research in
to the properties of Dermafix, then left with that information." Repeating the words seemed to clarify the situation to Charlie. He pushed his plate aside, frowning. Josey, who earlier looked bored, now seemed interested. I returned to the table, sitting slowly. "Who would be interested?" Charles said.

  "How'd you know that?" Josey asked.

  "Know what?" I said.

  "That somebody took a copy," Josey said. "I do that all the time, take copies, and nobody catches on. There ain't no way to tell when copies are taken. That's what Ohshit told me. Just take a copy and ... " Josey stopped and her face turned red. "Uh, what I mean is—"

  "Aha! So you took copies of my files!" I said.

  "No way!" She looked flustered. "I don't ... I never—"

  "C'mon Josey. Out with it!" I was angry. The little twit.

  "Oh lordy, what to say? Ohshit would give me a list of userids," she said slowly, "and passwords and a list of files and he said I should take copies each Friday evening and put them into his disk space. No way anybody would know, he said. You can't trace a copy, he said."

  "And did you take copies of my—?"

  "Lordy, no! Your lab was off limits to everybody. Even me. That's what Ohshit said. I didn't know your password or nothing. I swear."

  "Miss Josephine, you have just admitted that you did copy files," Charles said. "If you didn't copy the files of Miss Fleetsmith, then whose files did you copy?"

  Josey looked uncomfortable. "They was from the business office, from Ohshit Medicals, from Ohshit Plastics. Once a month I'd copy from ... from—"

  "Go ahead, Josey," I said in a low and angry voice. "You don't work for Hans anymore."

  "JMP," Josey muttered.

  "Jason Medical Products?"

  "Yes, but just once a month."

  "Espionage," Charles said.