Death Loves a Messy Desk (10 page)

“I am so grateful,” she said, as she put the note with the address on it into my hand.

The phone trilled on the desk.

Fredelle glanced toward it and flinched. She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Reg.”

To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure it
was
such a good idea to approach Barb Douglas. Whatever she imagined I was planning to do to her on my first visit to Quovadicon, she had certainly been extremely upset by it. Never mind.
You don’t get anywhere in life by being a coward
, I reminded myself.

I found her building without any problem. Woodbridge is short of apartment buildings and condos, but if you’re lucky you can find, as I did, an excellent unit in an older home that has been converted to multiple units. There are many throughout the city, and you just have to know someone to get one.

Barb Douglas had hit the jackpot with a place on Lilac Lane, a tree-lined cul-de-sac with just four houses. The white clapboard house looked well maintained, and the fresh green paint on the shutters and porch contributed to the cared-for look. A separate set of external stairs had been added on to the original building and ran up the side to the second floor. The mailbox indicated No. 4B. I recognized the dark-green RAV-4 parked in the driveway.

Whom had Barb known in town to rate this street and pretty house? I hurried up the stairs, smoothing my skirt. I was feeling anxious. Plus I wanted to get this situation over with, apologize to Barb, and assure her of Fredelle’s innocence as well as my own. Soon after that, with any luck, I would never have to set foot in Quovadicon and see any of its employees again, especially the toxic and tarty Dyan.

The door to 4B stood wide open.

I braced myself for the conversation that would follow, knocked, and called out. “Ms. Douglas? Are you there?” I waited. I told myself the shiver down my spine was just because of a nasty memory of another open door and had nothing to do with this visit.

But if she wasn’t answering, why was the door wide open? A mischievous wind lifted my flirty skirt and answered the question. The wind must have blown it open. After another two minutes, I whipped out my small notebook and wrote my name and phone number and a short message asking her to call me to discuss a misunderstanding. I was debating whether to drop it on the floor, where it might get blown away, or in the mailbox, where it might not be seen, when I heard feet thudding behind me on the stairs. As happened all too often lately, I jumped.

“Sorry,” a cheerful male voice bellowed. “Guess I sound like a bull in a china shop.” A white-haired man somewhere in his sixties puffed up the rest of the stairs, grinned, and held out his hand. “I’m Jim Poplawski, Barb’s landlord, or as my wife calls me sometimes, the lardlord.” He patted his substantial paunch, threw back his head, and shook with laughter.

I laughed, too, couldn’t help myself.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just jumpy lately. I was just about to leave Ms. Douglas a note. Would you be able to give it to her?”

“Barb must be home. Her car’s here.”

I shrugged. “But she doesn’t answer.”

“Gee, that door’s wide open. I gotta get around to fixin’ the latch. Sure, I’ll give her the note. But why don’t I just show you the thing?”

“What?”

“Seems a shame for you to have to come back again. You can save yourself a trip if it doesn’t suit. Don’t worry. I won’t make you carry it down the stairs yourself.” The staircase seemed to shake with each guffaw.

I knew the honest approach at that moment would be to say there’d been a misunderstanding. No one’s perfect. I followed Jim “the lardlord” through the open door and into a bright and airy apartment.

“One minute. Just in case.” He boomed, “Barb, honey, you better not be in the shower ’cause I’m here with a bunch of sailors droppin’ by to say hello.”

I blinked.

“Well, guess she must be out on the town.” He chuckled. “Normally, that’d get a rise out of her.”

“I’ll bet,” I muttered.

“So what do you think?” He stood watching me and obviously waiting for a response.

“It’s beautiful,” I answered truthfully.

“Not so bad.” He smiled, apparently pleased with my response.

Of course, I just had to blunder on. “I love the windows.”

It was his turn to blink. “It doesn’t have windows.”

Had everyone in Woodbridge lost their mind? I said, “Of course, it does. Are you kidding me . . . Jim?”

He frowned, puzzled. “No ma’am.”

I said, “But . . .”

He cut me off. “Never saw a piano with windows. And I bet you never did, either.”

“A piano?”

“Well, what did you think we were talking about?”

“The apartment. It’s beautiful. So bright and open and all those lovely trees you see through all those windows that are definitely here.”

He went back to booming. “That’s pretty funny. The apartment. Yup, I think I made not too bad a job of it. Should have seen upstairs before we bought the place. Thirty-year-old wall-to-wall carpet with all the original dirt still in it.”

I shuddered.

Jim just kept talking. “I resanded all this hardwood myself. And the wife picked the colors for the walls. This one’s called Butter Pecan, although it looks like Taffy to me. The trim’s called Vanilla White.”

Butter Pecan? “It’s lovely. The name makes me hungry actually, so I really should head out.”

“Not so fast. Don’t forget your piano.”

“Oh, I don’t . . .”

“That is really why you came, no?”

“Sure. Sure it is, but now that I see it . . .” I squinted at the apartment-sized piano tucked into a charming nook by the far wall. It looked as though it had been lovingly cared for.

“We can negotiate on the price. It’s not like we’re using it now that the family’s gone. No shortage of hobbies to keep us busy. And we’ve got to keep it tuned and everything. Darn thing’s nothing but trouble. The wife had to ride herd on those kids to keep ’em practicing. They don’t want it and we don’t have room for it now that we’ve downsized. Anyway, Barb needs the space for a desk. She’s stuck working on the table.”

I strolled toward the small dining table. It had two matching heart-shaped bright blue placemats placed across the table from each other, and two blue-and-white gingham napkins in white rings. A small vase with white garden lilies stood in between. Sweet.

“She keeps her computer here?”

“Just a laptop. She’s getting desperate for a better work space. She’s a real good tenant and I wouldn’t want to lose her. So make me an offer.”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave. “How about if I measure it and check to see if it will actually fit in my apartment?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You need to measure the piano?”

“My place is much smaller than this. I’ll need to know if it will go into my tiny corner. In fact, this is such a beautiful big space.” I turned to examine the living room. It was furnished simply in IKEA style: big comfy sofa in a bright blue denim slipcover, matching oversize chair, glossy white coffee table, cute little dining set for two, gingham cushions, and a couple of cheap and cheerful prints on the Butter Pecan walls. Pale yellow curtain panels fluttered at the open windows.

He glanced around. “Suppose so.”

“Barb did a nice job of decorating.” My eye was drawn to the open bedroom door. An inviting double bed was nicely done up in soft shades of taupe with crisp white touches. Lots of comfy cushions, soft puffy comforter, tailored bed skirt. Truffle and Sweet Marie would have loved that bed.

Jim said, “Barb rents it furnished. The wife did all this. She’s got the knack for it. These days she’d have made a career in interior decorating.” He beamed with obvious pride.

“Very nice. But I still need to measure. I’ll let you know.” I was twitching to get out of the place before Barb showed up and revealed that I was not a potential piano purchaser, but a nosy interloper with an inclination toward false pretenses and trespassing. That would be an awkward moment. Because. . . . I froze.

“Something wrong, ma’am?”

“Oh yes. I feel a bit faint. Could I have a glass of water, please?” Okay, I realize that the feeling-faint thing went out long before I was born, but, hey, something was very wrong in this place.

“Sure thing.” He rumbled toward the kitchen and whipped open a cupboard to get a glass.

I followed him, just to get a better look.

He glanced back at me nervously, perhaps imagining litigation of some sort. “Maybe you should sit down, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry.”

The small kitchen was also cheerful and neat. No dishes in the sink. Clean appliances and floor. A cookbook open on the counter, an imported coffeemaker, and a matching grinder were the only objects on the spotless countertop.

“Ma’am?”

“Hmm?”

“Wouldn’t want you to fall down.”

“You’re right. I’d better sit down.” I made my way to the comfy blue sofa and plunked myself down. On the lower tier of the white coffee table, current issues of
Computer-world
,
InformationWeek
, and
Wired
were stacked neatly. On the top, a copy of
Wedding Bells
sat next to
Brides
.

Strange companions for
Wired
.

The white rug was clean and lint free. I turned my eye to the cat-scratching post in the corner, next to a kitty litter tray with fresh litter. I sniffed. No cat scent in this apartment. In fact, everything was clean, fresh, and orderly. There was no sign of whatever cat used that equipment.

Jim lumbered out of the kitchen, glass of water in hand, ice cubes clinking. I said, “Does Barb usually take her cat with her when she goes out?”

As Jim handed me the glass of water, I could only nod in thanks. He stared at me with worry written across his weathered red face. “No, Diablo’s an inside cat. She never lets him out. And he never gets into the car without a fight. She has the scratches to prove it.”

“Sounds like a real handful.”

“For sure. Oh well, they probably just went off to the vet. Perhaps a friend gave them a lift.”

“Right. And if she had to wrestle him into the car, that would explain the open door.”

“You mean you didn’t open it?”

That took me by surprise. “Of course not. That would be . . .”
Good point
, my good angel said,
how about ‘nosy, intrusive, rude?’

“Oh. I thought you had knocked and then just . . .”

“Tried the handle and opened it? I wouldn’t do that. It’s not even legal. At any rate, if she rushed the cat to the vet she might have forgotten to lock the door behind her; it probably just blew open. Pet owners can get pretty emotional when something is wrong. I once ended up at the vet’s wearing mismatched shoes.”

He chuckled.

“A small mystery solved,” I said, before taking a sip.

“Sure, she would have had to wrestle Diablo into the cage, and her hands would have been full and that would be it. Got to admit, you had me worried for a minute, little lady. It’s sure not like Barb to forget to lock her door, but like you said, a pet can make a person emotional. Hope Diablo’s all right. Can’t stand the critter, but our Barb sure loves him to bits.”

I hesitated. “Um, did you say cage?”

“Well, sure. Not a cage, but you know those little carriers people use.”

“She always took him out in the carrier?” I pointed across the room. “Is that it? Or did she have an extra?”

“Just the one. She’s a restrained kind of person. Anyway, why would she need two? She’s only got one cat, even if he is mean enough for two.”

I got off the sofa and walked over to the carrier and peered in, hoping to see a mean cat.