Death Loves a Messy Desk (16 page)

“He didn’t do anything. I didn’t mean that. He’s so vulnerable, that boy. He’s always had such a hard time making friends, meeting women. I was just afraid . . .”

“What? That things didn’t go well and he lost it? Or worse?”

“No!”

“And you want me to keep quiet about that so his feelings don’t get injured?”

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. The sweet and gentle Fredelle was displaced by a much tougher version. “Maybe he’ll hurt himself. I’m trying to tell you, he’s sweet and fragile and I think he’s in love for the first time in his life. I intend to protect him and so now I’m making it clear that you’re not welcome here anymore. You are not involved in anything to do with Quovadicon or Barb Douglas or Robbie Van Zandt. I think the police will believe me and Reg Van Zandt before they believe you. After all, neither of
us
has ever been hauled into the police station for questioning. And I think they’ll agree that you have no business making trouble.”

I resisted the urge to stamp my feet. I felt furious at Fredelle for creating the situation, angry at Robbie for holding back on whatever, but most of all, royally ticked off at myself for getting overly involved in yet another bizarre and emotionally laden situation and failing to mind my own business.

As I drove away, Fredelle was still leaning against the Ford Focus, her arms crossed over her chest. She was partly blocking the vanity plates, but I did catch a glimpse of
FRED
as I left. I picked up speed. Quovadicon was a toxic volcano. Everyone in it seemed ready to blow at any minute.

There are times when nothing does the trick like the public library. I got the last parking spot and strode through the doors, hoping to catch Ramona. She waved to me across the reference desk, where she was helping out a gangly teenager. I waited and paced until she finished her job. Ramona is not one to hurry. She gives new meaning to the word
thorough
.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Charlotte,” she said.

“No problem. I can see that you’re up to your—”

“I have bad news.”

“What?”

“Those file materials on Quovadicon never showed up. I’ve searched everywhere, and I’ve had the rest of the staff on alert. They’re gone. Pilfered. Pinched. Purloined. Ripped off,” she added. “Because not everything in life is alliterative.”

“Who would pilfer something like that?”

She shrugged her indigo shoulders. Her silver earrings danced. “Who knows? Files go walkabout from time to time. Kids doing projects, practical jokers, distracted staff. I’ll let you know if they do turn up, and I’ll see if I can pull together some new info in the meantime.”

“Thanks. And I have something else I want to know.”

“Go for it, Charlotte. We aim to please. Even when we are up to our patooties in whatever.”

“Reg Van Zandt’s son Robbie. Do you have any information about him?”

“Like what? Business information? That would probably be in the missing files, but I’ll check anyway.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of personal information. I’m asking you as a friend. Controversies, that kind of thing. Any problems with women?”

Oops. I should have known better than to ask Ramona for gossip when she was in her full professional mode.

She snorted. “You must be kidding. I can’t imagine what kind of controversy Robbie would get into.”

“What?”

“It’s Robbie, for heaven’s sake. Maybe jaywalking. Feeding the pigeons against city regulations. On a really bad day, wearing mismatched socks.”

Aha. Mismatched socks. “You know him?”

“Well, sure.”

“But you didn’t mention anything about him when I asked about Quovadicon and Reg Van Zandt.”

“I said I knew the family. Robbie’s Robbie. He’s nothing like his father. And to tell the truth, I didn’t even think about him when you mentioned Quovadicon. I suppose he must work there, but he sure wouldn’t be running the place.”

“But how do you know him?”

“Charlotte, this is Woodbridge, population less than twenty-five thousand. Not New York City.”

I bit my tongue so as not to say that Robbie must have been nearly ten years younger than Ramona. She must have read the expression on my face. “I remember him as a kid. He used to come to the pool when I was lifeguarding. Worked my way through school doing that.”

“And you remember him after all these years?”

“Absolutely. He was one of my favorite kids.”

“Really?”

“Sure. He was so nervous. Scared of everything. Shy. Awkward. It was painful to watch. And he was terrified of the water. His father insisted he learn how to swim. No choice in the matter. Poor little guy.”

“And what happened?”

“It took until the end of August to get him used to the water and then another summer until he really caught on, but in the end, he was one of my successes. Got his medals and even swam a bit in college, I think. I learned a lot from working with him.”

“Like what?”

“Like how not to raise your kid. I still can’t stand the sight of that father. Everyone thinks he’s such a hero, but with Robbie, I thought it was all about control.”

“Where was the mother?”

“Died young. One of the father’s staff used to bring him, take him home. Busybody mother hen type. Sad, really. Oops, got a line forming back at the desk. I’ll let you know when I get anything worthwhile on Quovadicon, but I’m not going to dig around for Robbie. Not personally and not professionally. It’s not my business to do that, and it’s not yours, either.”

After a quick trip to Hannaford’s for replacement vegetables and ice cream, I headed to Old Pine Street, where I caught Pepper getting out of the car. No sign of Nick the Stick’s big honking truck, I noted quite happily.

Pepper waved. That was good.

“Hey,” she said. “Want to see my latest ultrasound printout?”

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Pepper interpreted that as an enthusiastic yes. “Come on in,” she called over her shoulder as she lumbered up the walkway to the front door.

I followed.

Pepper pointed to the sofa and I plunked myself down. She sat beside me, rested her hand on the bump, and said, “I’ll get you a coffee or something in a second, but I want to show you this first.”

I stared at a black-and-white wavy image on grayish paper. Words failed me, which doesn’t happen that often. “That is
so
interesting,” I finally managed. “And so you can tell—”

“Yup. It’s a boy,” she said. “But we already knew that from the previous one. His name’s going to be Garrett.”

“Nice.”

“He’s really developing.”

She stood up and reached for another sheet of paper, much like the first, and passed that to me, too. Again, I groped for the right thing to say.
He’s pretty wavy
didn’t seem right.
How bloblike
also struck out. I could have said either to Sally at any time during her four pregnancies. She would have just laughed. But I knew there’d be no joking with Pepper about this baby.

“Gonna be a big boy,” I said, hoping that would do the trick.

“I think so. Like his daddy.”

Crap. I reminded myself not to blunder onto the daddy topic. That was a minefield for Pepper and me.

“And your brothers,” I said. “Big guys.”

“It’s in the genes, I guess. I just love looking at him. But never mind, you want a coffee? Or a glass of wine or something? I can’t have one, but it’s no trouble.”

I shook my head. “Just one thing, and please don’t get mad at me. I’m really worried about this. I know you said you didn’t know anything about Barb Douglas, but I’ve also been your friend for a thousand years, give or take a few. I’m familiar with your reactions.”

Pepper scowled. “I don’t know anything about her.”

I said, “Save it. I can tell when you’re lying. We used to practice telling whoppers together to get out of school. Remember?”

She glared at me, our lovely if weird little ultrasound moment ruined. “Leave it, Charlotte.”

“I’d be happy to leave it, but there are a couple of bits of information to share. Remember I told you I saw a brief clip of Barb Douglas at the crime scene? You know, the one with the guy in the trunk, in case you get coy. I now know that she got a call on her cell just before she tore out of Quovadicon. Robbie Van Zandt described her reaction as anguished. He doesn’t know who she was talking to and claims he doesn’t have her number. But most likely, she was in a panic over some personal disaster when she ran me off the road. Nothing to do with me at all, which would make sense.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pepper said. “Sometimes I feel like running you off the road. Like now, for instance.”

“Very funny.”

“The truth hurts.”

“Hey, I’m almost finished. So, the other thing is that she was seeing Robbie Van Zandt. By the way, do you know him?”

“I am aware of who he is. Everybody knows the Van Zandts. They’re big Kahunas around here.”

“The father may be, but Robbie is very socially awkward and he is way over the top over Barb Douglas—the missing woman, in case you’ve forgotten her name. I think Fredelle Newhouse, the office manager at Quovadicon, is afraid he may have flipped out and done her some harm. Maybe Barb had another boyfriend and he found out and he . . . couldn’t deal with it. I don’t know if I’m right about this, and I realize I’m not in a position to find out, but the police should be aware. Did I mention her apartment was left unlocked and her car’s in the driveway, but her cat’s gone?”

“Her cat’s gone? That is a disaster! More a matter for the National Guard than the Woodbridge police, though.”

“Who do you think I should talk to? Or will you let the right person know?”

“Charlotte?”

“Yes?”

“Drop it.”