Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (17 page)

We raced down the back stairway to the thirty-sixth floor. I carried the clipboard, and a fresh disposable camera was in the deep pocket set into the side seam on my skirt. Leaving
Strutter
at the foot of the stairs, I walked briskly past Karp’s office, noting with relief that it was unoccupied and that the agency temp, who was filling in until Karp hired a new assistant, had also gone to lunch. I signaled
Strutter
to come ahead.

While
Strutter
stood guard outside Karp’s office, flipping unseeingly through a file drawer full of numbered dividers that were used to prepare litigation binders, I eased into Karp’s office and snapped a few photos of everything on the walls, his bookcases and his credenza. I turned slowly between shots to be sure they would overlap when we put them together later. Then I nervously moved behind his desk, where his computer hummed quietly.

He had been gone long enough for his screensaver to kick in. I wondered what the elapsed time setting was. Even if I could find and delete my e-mail, would there be enough time left for the screensaver to kick back in before he returned to the office? If it didn’t, he would know that somebody had been using his computer. I clicked on the envelope at the bottom right of his screen that indicated he had a new message waiting. It was the one I had sent inadvertently. So far, so good. With my hands shaking, I carefully selected Delete, then closed his mailbox window. I was about to open the Recycle Bin on his computer desktop when
Strutter
said loudly, “Gretchen! Good to see you, girlfriend!”

Panicked, I bumped my shin on Karp’s wastebasket as I scrambled into a less incriminating position by his bookcase and returned the camera to my pocket. After a few seconds, I peeked outside the office and saw that
Strutter
had neatly trapped the clueless Gretchen by the water cooler down the hall.

I hurried back to Karp’s computer and double-clicked on the Recycle Bin. Careful now, I told myself, don’t screw this up. The message I had just deleted from his mailbox should be right at the top of the Recycle Bin. There it was. My fingers were so stiff with fear that I could hardly position the mouse, but I finally managed to highlight the message and click Delete. A pop-up message asked if I really wanted to delete the selected message permanently. I assured the machine that I did, and the message disappeared into cyberspace, never to be seen again, I fervently hoped.

I knew the IT people could retrieve it if they really wanted to, but since no one except
Strutter
and I knew it existed, and it was now buried among weeks, maybe months, of e-mails to every one of BGB’s hundred-plus employees, we should be okay. I closed the Recycle Bin, positioned the mouse exactly as Karp had left it, and backed away from his desk, praying the screensaver would take over very soon. I took one more look around and left the office, gave
Strutter
a quick thumbs-up and bolted back to the stairs. I discovered that my legs were too shaky with adrenaline and relief to climb them.

A moment later
Strutter
found me sitting on the bottom step with my head between my knees. She collapsed next to me, and I could feel her trembling. Through some miracle, nobody passed by or used the stairs, and a few minutes later, we managed to pull ourselves together and return to thirty-seven, vowing never to use e-mail again for anything but the most innocuous communications.

On my way home several hours later, I stopped at the one-hour film developer on Farmington Avenue, as promised, and dropped off the half-dozen disposable cameras
Strutter
and I had used. Then I headed toward Ingrid’s place. She didn’t answer her buzzer, so I sealed the receipts for the film in a plain white envelope with her name on it, put it in her mailbox and went home to feed my feline housemates and hope for a call from Armando. It had been days since I had heard from him. I didn’t know what to make of that.

Sorting through the usual stack of junk mail and bills later that evening, I was amused to find a notice of a special meeting of The Birches’ Condominium Association. It was to be held at 6:00 sharp on Monday evening, July 14. The purpose of the meeting was to ratify proposed amendments to The Birches’ parking regulations, the text of which was enclosed for review. I unfolded the enclosure and burst out laughing. The previous parking regulation had been about three sentences long. The proposed revision filled an entire page and was organized under subheadings and sub-subheadings. Many of the words were underlined.

From what I could make of all that language, no one was allowed to park anywhere at any time except in their garages. I shook my head, imagining the hot and heavy debate among The Birches’ residents that would continue well into the night, if my experience at the one Association meeting I had attended was any indication. Then I carefully folded the proposed revision into the pointy shape I remembered from my youth and sailed the little airplane across the room, much to Moses’ delight.

~

On Thursday the office was exceptionally quiet, since many of the lawyers, including
Bellanfonte
and
Bolasevich
, and the support staff had taken the day off to beat the July 4 holiday traffic and make a four-day weekend of it. Chastened by our near-miss the previous day,
Strutter
and I kept our heads down and our minds on our jobs for most of the day. At five o’clock, we walked out to the Main Street parking lot together. I promised to call her after the reading with a full report, and we trudged to our respective cars. At this hour of the day, when one’s car had been baking in the summer sun for a full nine hours with the windows tightly closed, it was necessary to open all four doors and allow the pent-up heat to escape for a few minutes before attempting to sit on the vinyl seats or touch the scalding steering wheel. After that one started the engine and put all the windows down, hoping the air conditioning would provide relief very soon.

As The Birches was right over the Connecticut River from Glastonbury, where
Esme
conducted her mysterious readings, Margo and I had agreed to meet at my place at 7:30. I fed the beasts and ate cold pasta salad, bought ready made from a local market, standing up at the sink. I wondered what the evening would bring. Then I took a quick shower and dressed in a sleeveless denim shift and sandals. At the last minute, I picked up a navy blue cardigan. Who knew? Even mystics might be partial to air conditioning.

At 7:20 my doorbell rang. I had left the garage door open for Margo, who had been instructed to come in that way and knock on the connecting door to my kitchen, so I was annoyed at the prospect of a visitor. I hoped it was Mary, who would understand when I explained that I had plans for the evening, but the dowdy woman on my front porch was unfamiliar to me. She wore a flowered sundress, and her short, mouse-brown hair was cut in unattractive bangs that touched the rim of her cheap sunglasses. Her face was devoid of make-up.

“Yes?” I said, frowning a little and glancing at my watch to indicate that I was in a hurry.

Margo pulled off her sunglasses and grinned at me. “Gotcha!” she said. “I told you nobody would recognize me. So are we ready to dabble in the occult, Sugar?”

Half an hour later, I exited the highway and wound my way through the streets of Glastonbury with the help of Margo, who read from the directions to the Center for Universal Truth that I had printed out earlier in the week. With every turn the neighborhoods grew a little older and had more substantial houses set farther back on their lots, sheltered by ancient elms and pines. The Dutch elm disease that had destroyed so many of the old trees in the 1950s had apparently been kinder to Glastonbury than it had been to so many other Connecticut towns.

At a few minutes before 8:00, I parked my car at the end of the block on which
Esme’s
house, a.k.a. the Center for Universal Truth, was located. It wasn’t difficult to identify, since a steady stream of pedestrians made their way by ones and twos up the cement walkway of a three-story Victorian structure that was partially hidden from view by two enormous trees.

“Well, it sure looks the part,” Margo commented, removing her sunglasses in the dusk after ascertaining that nobody she knew was in the vicinity. We joined the dwindling ranks on the sidewalk, hanging back a little to be sure we would be able to slip into seats at the rear as unobtrusively as possible.

I had to agree. “All it needs is a big hoot owl calling from that tree over there. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find the Hound of the Baskervilles chained in the back yard.”

Despite my joking tone I was only half-kidding. No doubt about it, the house had a presence. The heavy, wooden front door stood open, and I looked around curiously as we waited our turn to go in. No one was behind us, so apparently, we were the last to arrive.

When it was our turn to enter, we were greeted by a pleasant-faced, older woman who asked us if this was our first reading. We said yes, and she handed each of us a brochure and requested twenty dollars. I wondered if this was the clairvoyant herself collecting admission fees as I handed over my twenty. We followed the crowd and turned right into a large front parlor. The overstuffed sofa and chairs that normally occupied the room were pushed against the walls to make room for as much additional seating as possible. Rows of mismatched chairs, taken from the kitchen and dining room or brought by the regular attendees, were crammed into every available square inch.

Margo and I eased ourselves into the last two folding chairs at the end of the back row and tried to adjust our eyes to the dim lighting. The early arrivals sat with their eyes closed, hands turned palm upward in their laps, the tips of their thumbs and index fingers pressed together. I spotted Suzanne Southerland in the third row and poked Margo, pointing her out. I didn’t recognize anyone else.

A single straight-backed chair faced the other seats. The young woman who sat in it seemed to be leading the others in a meditation session.

“Walk slowly through your meadow. Notice how soft the grass feels under your feet, how perfectly the temperature of the air suits you. Enjoy the sunlight, and feel the wonderful, cool breeze.”

In light of the fact that the temperature in this room had to be well over eighty degrees, I hoped that those around me had been successfully transported. Margo and I exchanged glances and fanned ourselves discreetly with our brochures.

“Follow the sound of the little waterfall to your special healing pool,” the leader continued. “Drop your clothes on the grass, and walk to the edge of the pool. Notice that the water at the rear of the pool is a deeper blue. Step in and enjoy the sensation of the cool water on your skin. The temperature is perfect for you. Swim out into the darker water and immerse yourself completely in it. Let it remove all of your tension, all of your aches and pains. Direct it to any special problems you may be facing, and allow it to work its healing upon them. Spend as long as you need to here.”

The leader remained silent for a full two minutes. I was beginning to wonder if she would ever speak again when she continued. “Now it’s time to leave your pool refreshed and dry off on the fluffy towel that is waiting for you by your clothes. Put them on again and walk slowly back through your meadow. Notice the gnarled beauty of the ancient birch trees. Notice the spotted owl high up in the tallest tree.”

I looked at Margo, puzzled. As far as I knew, birch trees weren’t gnarled, and owls, spotted or otherwise, were nocturnal creatures. She stopped fanning herself long enough to make a “who knows?” gesture.

“Now, relaxed and ready to re-enter the world, step out of your meadow and awaken.” The leader opened her eyes and waited. After another minute the
meditators
started to stir and open their eyes. They blinked in the dim light and settled back into their chairs, murmuring expectantly to each other. The leader of the group vacated the straight-backed chair and reseated herself at the edge of the room. It must be time for the main event. I clutched at Margo’s arm, not knowing what to expect next and excited in spite of my skepticism.

Without ceremony or introduction, a small, sixtyish woman with short gray hair entered the room from the rear. Other than the rather dramatic, flowing robe she wore, she looked every inch the suburban grandma. She seated herself in the chair facing the group, both feet flat on the floor, and all conversation ceased as she closed her eyes. In a few seconds she raised both arms and began scooping air toward her chest in a circular motion. She appeared to be muttering some kind of incantation to herself, but I couldn’t hear her words.

After a minute or two of this, she lowered her hands to her lap, opened her eyes, and addressed the group in an affected falsetto that was at once coy and imperious, as if she were flirting with us and chastising us simultaneously. “Well, well, who do we have with us tonight, and what do you all expect of me? Many of you have come here expecting to see miracles, but you will not get any. My name is Ishmael, and I am visiting you from another dimension within the universe. Oh, I lived among you many years ago. I lived many, many lifetimes on earth, but when I mastered my lessons there, I moved on, as those of you who have chosen to do the work will do also. Because of the special powers we have granted to your teacher,
Esme
is channeling me. It is physically demanding work, so we must not tarry. I will call upon each of you in turn, and you may ask one question, but first, you must state your first name and your date of birth.”