Death Loves a Messy Desk (2 page)

My heart fluttered. I skipped a couple of deserving booths and hustled closer. I waved back at the cheerful volunteer in a black T-shirt with a pair of huge white paws on it. She slid a brochure into my hand. “Hi there. Do you know about our wonderful program?”

“A bit,” I breathed.

“Do you have a dog?”

“Well, just these two,” I said pointing down.

“Ooh. Two. Then you know how much joy they bring you.”

Truffle chose that moment to bare his teeth.

I nipped that in the bud and nodded. Not always joy, but why muddy the waters? “He doesn’t mean that.”

She ignored Truffle’s behavior. “Then you can imagine the difference a dog visitor makes to a stroke victim or a lonely senior citizen or a . . .”

Perhaps she was nearsighted.

“Count me in,” I said.

“. . . troubled reader.”

“Where do I sign up?”

“Here’s our info package.” She reached for a folder. “There are registration forms and information inside. Pay close attention to the forms. We need ID for a police check and a health certificate from your vet. Vaccinations, all that. We’ll need a check to cover registration for the dog or dogs. All that’s in your kit.”

“This is great. We’ve been hoping to find something like this. When can we start?”

“We have an orientation session scheduled in the Woodbridge Library auditorium this coming Friday. Don’t miss it. The next one’s not until the spring.”

“An orientation session?” I liked the sound of that: well planned and organized.

“Oh sure, there’s lots to learn. We have to make sure you and your dogs are ready before you begin.” She raised an eyebrow at Truffle. “Especially you, young man.”

Obviously, she knew a challenge when she saw one. “We’ll be there.”

“Excellent. You can fill out the forms and drop them off here with your check today or at the front desk of the library before Thursday. And I almost forgot. No dogs at that session,” she said.

“No dogs? Because he barked? He’s just being—”

“They’ll get their turns. But the doggie evaluation will be scheduled later. First we get you owners up to speed.”

“Doggie evaluation?”

“It’s all in the kit. Training schedule. Evaluation criteria. Everything they have to know.” She glanced over my shoulder and said, “Oh boy.”

I turned and saw a glowering woman tapping her toes impatiently. Behind her, a man glanced at his watch. I never like to be the person holding up everyone else. I waved the folder and said, “Thanks. I don’t have my checkbook. I’ll fill out the form and drop it by the library.”

The frazzled volunteer wiped her hair out of her eyes. “I’m by myself. It was so quiet before my colleagues stepped away to snag some iced tea. We should have known.”

As she beckoned to the next person, a gentle voice behind me said, “Woodbridge Therapy Dogs is such a wonderful organization.”

I found myself facing a soft-faced woman with silver curls. A doggie pin sparkled on her pink sweater. The sweater matched her nail polish and her cheeks. Although she was wearing jeans and silver sneakers with pink stripes, she didn’t seem casual. Maybe it was the precise crease down each leg of the well-pressed jeans. If she’d had a bit more sparkle and been hovering in the air, I might have mistaken her for a fairy godmother.

I smiled back at her. “It does sound wonderful. I plan to sign up.”

I swear she sparkled more than her doggie pin. “You’ll bring something special to the group, and your sweet little dogs, too.”

“Sweet? Don’t be so sure.”

She produced a silvery laugh and pointed at them. “Of course they’re sweet. Everyone knows Truffle and Sweet Marie. They were all over the papers. They’re very photogenic.”

For sure,
they’re
photogenic. Unlike me. This woman had such a kind face that I knew she wouldn’t mention what I’d looked like being hauled into an ambulance after my last brush with death. Just as well, I’d heard enough about that.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have introduced myself. My name is Fredelle Newhouse, and I’m convinced they’ll be excellent therapy dogs.” She held out her small, perfectly manicured hand.

“Charlotte Adams,” I said, shaking it. She had a remarkably firm handshake for someone so soft and pillowy looking.

“Everyone knows you, too!” she warbled on. “I got one of your organizing brochures in my mailbox, then I saw you on television, oh, I don’t know how many times.”

That wasn’t such a good thing.

I said, “But . . .”

She patted my arm. “Oh dear, I realize that this isn’t really the place to ask you about this when you’re enjoying your weekend, but I have an office organization problem. I hope you’ll be willing to find a solution. It won’t take long. Just a few hours at most. It really would help so much to have someone with your reputation and skills and perspective on the situation.”

“I don’t have a perspective on the situation.”

“My point exactly! You’re not involved with anyone in the office and that would be so useful.”

I was about to say that my organizing business was booked solid for three months, which was true, and in fact one of the unintended benefits of being all over the news. You win some, you lose some. For every client who canceled, another two were eager to get in line. At this rate, I’d soon know every closet in town. On the other hand, at lunchtime I’d received a call from the worried husband of a client who’d been rushed in for an emergency appendectomy. I’d scheduled most of the week for her downsizing project and would be rebooking her appointments.

“For once, I’m available. I can look at your office and estimate the time involved. I’ll see if I can take care of it this week. I do charge for consultations.”

“Of course you do! That’s just good business. I’m so happy that you’ll do it. I’d like to fill you in on the background to the project first. Shall we have iced tea? Or a latte?”

I glanced at my watch. My friend Sally and I had an excellent plan to spend the evening stuffing our faces with pizza and making big-girl talk once we’d read her children to sleep. I had a little time to kill before Sally got all four kids through bath time, a process not enhanced by Auntie Charlotte and dogs. My job was to arrive in time to mop up the puddles on the bathroom floor.

“Sounds good.”

Seconds later, Fredelle and I were seated in the hospitality area and another toothy volunteer was serving us iced lattes with chocolate sprinkles and making sure we knew that Woodbridge needed us. Fredelle and I chatted a bit about the event and the crowd and the wonderful weather. I thought what a good choice I’d made moving back to Woodbridge from New York City. What Woodbridge lacked in excitement, fashion, and vile cheating ex-fiancés, it made up for in ice cream, specialty coffee, and smiling community-minded people. Not to leave out childhood friends, in my case, the misfits who had stuck together with me for twenty of our thirty years: Sally, Margaret, and Jack.

So I was feeling well disposed when I asked, “So what kind of office organization problem?”

Fredelle said, “Messy desk.”

I grinned. I love a messy-desk challenge. “There are lots of those around. I’ve seen my share.”

“Not like this, I don’t think.”

I let a chuckle slip out, although perhaps I shouldn’t have. Fredelle didn’t seem to think there was anything funny about it. I reminded myself that she was probably quite embarrassed and might be hurt by my reaction. I straightened my face. “How bad is it?”

She took a deep breath. “Really, Charlotte, you’d have to see it to believe it. Could you come tomorrow?”

“I can check it out at least. I hope I can help. This is one problem that I always love dealing with. There are so many useful techniques that can help people feel less overwhelmed.”

I flinched at my own words. I try not to sound preachy when I talk, but I don’t always succeed. Apparently Fredelle didn’t mind.

“Thank you!” She got out of her chair and gave me a pillowy hug. I swear there were tears in her pale blue eyes. “What a relief. I’ll give you the background. That way, tomorrow, you’ll have a heads-up. I wouldn’t want her to feel offended. The atmosphere is poisoned enough as it is.”

I finally clued in that the messy desk was not Fredelle’s own. Of course, she looked quite well groomed and precise, but you couldn’t always go with that. Many people with messy work areas are quite careful about themselves and their grooming. “Sure. Tell me about it, including the strained atmosphere.”

“Not strained. Poisoned. I am the office manager of a company called Quovadicon, and the desk in question belongs to one of the IT people, a fairly new employee named Barb Douglas. She’s very good at what she does, but some people in the office are wasting a lot of time fussing about her work area. Fact is, Barb never has trouble finding anything that anyone asks for. She’s helpful and does lots of extra things for people.”

“Hmm.” I’d met enough brilliant and creative people to know that a neat desk didn’t necessarily mean a superior employee and vice versa. “Have you spoken to her about it?”

Her hand flew to her rosebud mouth. “I’d never humiliate her in front of everyone.”

“I meant privately.”

Fredelle leaned over to give Truffle a little scratch behind the ears. Sweet Marie got the same. “Of course, silly me. It’s just that I’m under a lot of pressure about this touchy situation. But I feel for her. She’s started a new job and people seem to have it in for her. Believe me, it’s costing me peace in the office.”

I bet. “Is that awkward with your other direct reports?”

“Oh. Barb doesn’t report to me. I do rely on her for lots of equipment troubleshooting and that kind of thing. She’s very good at explaining things and showing people what to do. Our regular guy is . . .”

“A techie.”

“Exactly. Even though I’ve known him all his life, he’s sweet, but incomprehensible.” Truffle and Sweet Marie rolled on their backs for belly rubs. Fredelle didn’t miss a beat as we chatted.

“Is he bothered by the desk? Is he the source of the discord?”

“Oh no. He thinks Barb is, well, magnificent. Anyway, he would never worry about something like her desk. He’s just a bit socially awkward and he gets upset easily. He’ll hate having us in his office and he’ll probably be defensive about his new friend, Barb. That’s another reason I wanted to be so careful about this.”

“We’ll do a walk-through and we won’t make a big deal out of it. Unless you want me to go after work hours, you could tell your staff you want me to recommend efficiencies. Everyone can improve work with a few small changes. That way Barb doesn’t feel targeted, and your techie doesn’t need to get upset. Of course, you should be prepared for fallout from one side or the other.”

“I suppose. But I have plenty of fallout anyway.”

“I’ll do my best. No guarantees.”

She sighed deeply. “Thank you so much. You know, I almost didn’t approach you. I understand that you are very good at this type of thing, but you look much more, um, oh I don’t know, on television. But in person you seem so kind and friendly. Of course, I should have realized you were a nice person when you decided to sign up for Therapy Dogs.”

I let the second television reference slide without a comment. I didn’t want to speculate as to what
um, oh I don’t know
might mean. Our local station, WINY, has a hate-on for me—one look at the stock footage of me would convince you I was a serial killer. Sally says there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but I’m not so sure.

“Where can I find you?”

“Oh, of course! Quovadicon is in the Patterson Business Park out near the I-87. We’re at 120 Valley Drive. We have a beautiful new building. State of the art. We’re very proud of it.” She fished into her small pink leather handbag. “Here’s a business card.”

Fredelle was very pleased, and I was happy for her. I would have liked to stay and get some background on the company, but it was time to head out to Sally’s.

Two o’clock on Monday afternoon turned out to be good for Fredelle and for me, too, as it would be my last appointment of the day and I’d be able to avoid what passes for rush hour in Woodbridge.

“Quovadicon sounds familiar.”

Fredelle said, “Because of the owner.”

I must have looked blank because she added, “Reg Van Zandt.”

“Van Zandt. Isn’t there a Van Zandt Avenue?”

“Yes, and a Van Zandt Crescent and a Van Zandt Circle.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and they’re all named after him!” A slight red flush bloomed just above the Peter Pan collar. “Reg Van Zandt? War hero? Entrepreneur?” The flush headed rapidly toward her ears.

“Oh, right. So he’s the owner?” Sometimes you just have to fake it.

“You haven’t met?”

I shook my head.

“I wondered because you’re both heroes in a way. But if you do meet him when you’re there . . .” She hesitated. “Please don’t mention it’s because of Barb’s desk. I wouldn’t want him to think ill of her. She’s new so it would be a shame if he got the wrong impression.”

Ah, office politics. Something I didn’t miss.

Out of nowhere Fredelle said, “I suspect Barb is getting over a bad relationship and that’s why she’s starting over in a new town at her age. She needs kindness and support, not—”

“Bitchy carping complainers?” I suggested.

Fredelle clasped her small white hands together prayer-fully. “Oh Charlotte, you’ll be perfect for this job. You’ll fix everything in no time. It will be a piece of cake for you.”

I smiled. “Hope so.”

It did sound like a piece of cake. Much as I love making over a disastrous closet, you can have too much of a good thing. An office situation would make a nice change. And if we could avoid the office politics, harmless, too.