Death Loves a Messy Desk (4 page)

Ramona headed for the Woodbridge Room, her silver earrings swaying as she walked.

“Nice cowboy boots,” I said, hurrying to keep up with her. “The blue is unusual.” In fact, I thought I liked them as much as my hot-pink and red suede wedge heels.

“Hand-tooled leather, because I’m worth it,” she said, reaching for a clipping file and passing it to me. “You said the company, too? That’s in a different place. Natch.”

“Before you go, Ramona. I thought I heard a little subtext when you mentioned this Reg Van Zandt. Was that my imagination?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Must have been, because it would have been extremely unprofessional of me to suggest, even in subtext, that our local hero was anything but perfect.”

“Oh.”

“Hang on, I’ll get you the info on Quovadicon.”

I made myself comfortable at one of the solid wooden tables in the Woodbridge Room. I love the mood in there: all dark wood, leaded glass, old leather bindings. Very lovely, and a gold mine for anyone seeking any info on anything to do with Woodbridge, its history, and its inhabitants.

As I flipped through clippings on Reg Van Zandt, I got a sense of a man who’d been an impulsive daredevil. Signed up at sixteen. Flew more than a hundred missions. Shot down twice, escaped from behind enemy lines. He’d been a local hero when he got back. Despite the brittle, yellowed paper, the face of a bright-eyed boy stared out triumphantly from the photos. Reg Van Zandt had been cocky and full of spirit, for sure. Full of the devil. Whatever had happened to him behind enemy lines hadn’t dimmed his mischievous spirit one bit.

I flipped pages and followed the career of a man who’d set up a small shipping business that seemed to grow and grow. From a tiny brick building in the now fashionable downtown area on the banks of the Hudson River, the business had bloomed. The most recent clippings had shots of the ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new building in the Patterson Business Park. Twelve acres in a wooded setting near rail, water, and highway. A forty-thousand-square-foot building with nearly one hundred employees. Impressive. Of course, in the sixty-plus years that had passed since Reg Van Zandt had returned from the war, a lot had changed. Including the bright-eyed boy. Now he gazed up at the mayor as he shook his hand in the photo. Reg Van Zandt was in a wheelchair and well into his eighties. But unless I was wrong, he was still very much in charge.

And speaking of
in charge
, Ramona rumbled through the door, looking mad as hell, or as mad as Ramona ever gets.

“Bizarre,” she said, “our file on Quovadicon is not where it should be in the business section. I hate it when people move things or reshelve them in the wrong place. I’ll have to get in touch with you when I figure out where it’s gone. And we’re up to our patooties in people who all seem to have information emergencies. So many drama queens, so little time. Is your request urgent, Charlotte?”

“No,” I said, not wishing to make the week’s list of drama queens in the Woodbridge Library.

“Good.”

“In fact, this file gave me quite a background. Thanks.” I smiled gratefully. “I might see you on Friday. There’s an orientation meeting for Therapy Dogs here in the library.”

“No dogs in the library, Charlotte. You know that. Try to stay out of trouble. Although it does give my colleagues quite a thrill when you make the evening news.”

“It’s just the owners at the session. It’s to fill us in on what’s expected. We’ll try not to bark or pee on the floor.”

“The mind boggles.” Ramona vanished with a click of the heels on her blue cowboy boots. I was hoping that she really was up to her patootie in information drama queens and not avoiding my question about her opinion of Reg Van Zandt, local hero.

My closet consultation gave me great pleasure. At a glance during my reconnaissance, I estimated that the client had more clothing than Macy’s, much of it with the tags still on. It was straightforward, easy, and she was eager to do whatever she needed to transform her jammed clothing storage areas into results that would be magazine quality.

“Anything you say,” she squealed.

You could practically spread the gratitude on a slice of bread. She had a check ready, too, and pressed it into my hand the second the contract was signed.

Afterward, I had my work plan agreed on and an appointment for the next week to set the stage for “the purge.” It’s important for the client to buy into this process, so I always block off enough time to make sure it gets off to a good start. It’s hard to believe I get paid to do this, but I do, and I get paid well, too. In fact, well enough to buy lunch for my friends.

I dashed by Ciao! Ciao! picked up three focaccia sandwiches, and had my thermos filled with coffee. I headed over to see Jack at his bike shop, CYCotics. For some reason, Jack had picked a tedious strip mall on Long March Road to set up his dream operation. I would have suggested something a bit more upscale or at least trendy, but I wasn’t asked when he took out a three-year lease.

He called it a destination business.

I called it empty.

Jack looked up and blinked at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. As usual, he was wearing baggy shorts with a million pockets. The Hawaiin shirt
du jour
featured perky pineapples, which had apparently made him extra hungry.

“Wow,” he said, peering at the sandwiches. “Four cheeses.”

I cleared my throat.

He said, “
And
prosciutto. I love that. This is great. You didn’t have to do this, Charlotte.”

“Two sandwiches for you, and tiramisu for after.”

Jack said, “Tiramisu? You’re a bud.” He frowned, concentrating. “But then I’m not sure, I might have to eat that first.”

Jack has always been a beanpole. He never puts on an ounce. Since I hit thirty, I have to work a bit to keep the waistbands of my pencil skirts fitting. I like him anyway. But sometimes at lunch, that’s a challenge.

“I have some news for you. You’ve been gone so early in the morning lately and you’re getting home so late, we have to catch up.”

I looked at him in the expectation that he might tell me why he hadn’t been home after one a.m. that morning. But that turned out to be a waste of a raised eyebrow.

Jack picked up his two sandwiches. “Yeah, I know. It’s crazy lately. I wish I could stop and socialize, Charlotte, but with business picking up so much, I’m so far behind on stuff for the bike race that I can’t slack off at all. In fact, I have to go. Can you lock up behind yourself? Gotta run.”

I glanced around. I had yet to see a customer in CYCotics, although Jack swears he has plenty. “I can see that you’re run off your feet.”

“If my mouth weren’t full,” Jack said, “I’d have a snappy comeback to that nasty crack.”

“Hey, just calling ’em as I don’t see ’em.”

I wasn’t worried about my digs. We’ve been ribbing each other since grade school. It was better to tease him than to whine about how much I missed his company lately. I didn’t want to seem needy and clinging, even in my need ier and clingier moments.

As a rule, Jack pays no attention to any remarks. But this time, he narrowed his eyes at me. I’d never seen that before.

“Very funny. I’m busy with planning the bike race. You know that. We have lots to do. Race weekend’s creeping up on us. The future of WAG’D depends on it. They need support.”

As long as Jack Reilly was breathing, WAG’D would never lack support.

I said, “I know what a great cause this is, and I’d really like to help you with the race.”

“Um, right. I do have to go. Thanks for the lunch. And, Charlotte? Please don’t touch anything on the desk. Drop the spare key off at my place.” A playful punch on the arm and he was halfway out the door.

“Wait a minute. I’m volunteering to help you with the race, Jack. And not for the first time.”

“Um.”

“What do you mean,
um
?”

Jack swallowed and paused, his hand on the front door. “You know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.”

It’s possible that I stamped my pink-and-red wedge heels at this point. “I do not. But one thing I do know is that people who are almost finished with their Ph.D. in philosophy should be able to express themselves better and not take refuge behind an
um
. That’s what I think.”

“Okay, fine. Bossy.”

“What?”

“Are you aware that when you get your teeth into other people’s business, you can be just the tiniest bit . . . ?”

“Helpful. I am a helpful person. I am not bossy. I make an effort not to be bossy. My job depends on it.”

“Well, under some circumstances, you can be a bit too intensely helpful. It gets on some people’s nerves. As your friend, I’m just saying.”

“That’s not true.” I sniffed.

He shrugged.

“Whose nerves?”

“Don’t push it, Charlotte. Just take the hint.”

“That’s not a hint. It’s a kick in the backside.”

“Sorry. Honest. But right now at this stage, there’s really nothing I can do about it. I’ve suggested that you help, and some people told me why that wouldn’t work. I’m used to you and I like you just the way you are, but maybe you should give some thought to how you are with other people.”

“What people?”

“No people in particular, just people in general.”

“People in general like me just fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Later.”

Jack was not just my friend; he’d been my best friend since we were kids. We shared banter and ice cream and even separate floors in his house. We shared dogs and jokes and political opinions. We shared so much of our lives. Something was happening to change that. This past month, I’d hardly seen him.

He fastened his helmet and wheeled his custom racing bike out the door. With one fluid movement he was on the road. As I watched, another long lean cyclist pulled up beside him, waved, and pulled out ahead of him, laughing.

Female, unless I was mistaken.

Alpha, apparently.

“Well, I never got on your nerves before,” I protested to the empty shop. I made a superhuman effort not to reach out and straighten up the random stacks of receipts, chewing gum wrappers, empty coffee cups, orders, and catalogs piled in front of Jack’s empty cash box.

Exactly which people was Jack listening to?

Woodbridge has a lot to recommend it, including being nestled in the Hudson Valley. The roads are good and swoop through lushly wooded areas. Despite the threat of rain, it was a lovely early fall day with the subtle switch to September gold in the trees. But I wasn’t really watching as I drove out to meet Fredelle. I tried to adjust my thoughts from Jack’s weird behavior to Fredelle’s messy-desk problem.

It’s always important to concentrate on the client you’re meeting. You have to be totally present or you can miss a lot of cues and anxieties. Who knows why I was still stewing about Jack as I steered my Miata off Valley Drive and onto the long driveway leading to the Quovadicon head-quarters. The two lanes were separated by a manicured median, with low concrete planters set into the grass at intervals. The war hero had invested heavily in the driveway leading to his business, I thought. He’d sunk a ton of money into the landscaping. I could imagine that a messy desk might send a bad message to the kind of man who cared so deeply about appearances. No wonder Fredelle didn’t want her heroic boss to know about Barb Douglas’s problem.

I wanted to do the best I could for this kindly silvery woman who cared so much about the well-being of her staff. I suppose I should have been thinking less about her and paying more attention to the road.

An image filled my view. A vehicle? Wasn’t it supposed to be on the other side of the median? Had I made a mistake? I squeaked in alarm as I realized that the speeding green SUV was aiming straight for me on the wrong side of the road.