Death Loves a Messy Desk (22 page)

Margaret said, “You checked the warehouse? Unbelievable.”

“Do you know why the staff came back? They all seemed to be in the parking lot when the paramedics took me.”

“The manager got a call. Everyone was summoned to Mr. Reg Van Zandt’s home on an urgent matter. They all showed up, expecting to hear some dire news. The rumor was that the company was being shut down. The receptionist had a meltdown, and some of the drivers were pretty vocal. And before you ask, the police have interviewed everybody, and everyone seems to check out. People were in view of the security cameras at Van Zandt’s place, too. Looks like none of the staff did it.”

“Well, Dyan wasn’t at Van Zandt’s. Did anyone notice that?”

“Apparently, she volunteered to stay and lock up.”

“Of course. She would have loved being in charge, too. Probably moved everyone’s stuff around.” I caught myself with a frisson of guilt. After all, Dyan was dead. I changed the subject. “At least that call explains a lot, and it definitely vindicates me.”

“I wish. There are two other problems.”

“And they are?”

“Mr. Van Zandt didn’t plan to make an announcement. He was quite surprised when all those vehicles pulled up at his home.”

“Oh. So was it some kind of a prank call?”

“Hard to say. It seemed real to Miss Newhouse.”

“Okay, what’s the second problem?”

“Well, it’s the really big one.”

“Spit it out then.”

Margaret said, “Apparently, that phone call came from you.”

“What? I thought you said—”

Margaret repeated, “The police claim the phone call came from you.”

“But I didn’t make that call.”

“No need to yell, Charlotte. I believe you, because I know you. But the police say they have proof.”

I raised my voice. “It’s perfectly ridiculous. Why would I do that?”

Margaret shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger, who is also in this case the lawyer. The police seem to think you wanted to get Dyan alone.”

“This is crazy-making. And by the way, even if I had made such a call, which I didn’t, why would anybody follow such a ridiculous instruction from me?”

“Keep in mind I’m just telling you what the police are saying. They think you didn’t say you were you.”

“Well, I wasn’t me.”

“They confirmed the source of the call as your cell phone.”

“That’s not . . . wait a minute. My cell phone was lost. I reported it.” I felt a tingle as odd events fell into place. My voice rose. “Obviously someone took it to frame me. You know what’s weird? This time last week, I hadn’t met any of these people and now one of them is missing, another one is dead, and I’m the fall guy.”

“Stick to your story. Don’t deviate. Don’t talk about this other missing woman. Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t badger them for information. Just answer the questions truthfully and don’t allow yourself to be questioned without me present. They’re stirred up enough already.”

“I’d be stirred up too if the first cop on the scene was Nick the Stick. I mean really, he had his hands all over everything—”

Margaret said, “Ew! How could you stand that?”

“Not me,” I yelped, “but the evidence. The stapler and who knows what else he contaminated. He has the brains of an acorn, you know that.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “I’ve told them you’re not in any shape to be questioned yet. Maybe it’s making them cranky.”

“I don’t blame them for being cranky. But why should I suffer for it?” For some reason, when Margaret left the examining room, no doubt to wring some more information out of Detective Tall, Dark, and Granite, the doctor seemed just a little bit, oh, I don’t know, on edge?

I lay there with my head still throbbing and wondered about what I might have forgotten in the shock of Dyan’s murder. Did I have appointments? I sat up, causing my head to spin. Therapy Dogs orientation. No, that was Friday. At least someone had retrieved my handbag. I was glad it wasn’t Exhibit B. I had promised to drop off brochures and design ideas to my latest closet client that evening. I didn’t like to let her down and I wanted her to keep her enthusiasm for the project. After all, I only had a headache and a bit of dizzyness. I’ve worked through worse. And I’d been really looking forward to this project. But the shadow of the police guard on the white curtain surrounding my emergency room bed brought me back to reality. I staggered out of bed and tapped the officer on the shoulder. She was a stocky young woman of the keener type.

“I have a meeting tonight at seven. It’s very important. I feel well enough to go home and get over there. I might take a taxi. So I wonder if you could just keep an eye on me there, instead of here.” I smiled brightly to defuse any suggestion that I was an unreliable character.

“You’re kidding, right?” the officer said.

“No.”

She rubbed her nose.

I chirped. “What harm can it do? I have to make a living and—”

She held up her hand. “Let me explain this. The only reason you’re not at the station is that you are in the hospital, which usually means you’re not well enough to go to the station without some risk. I am not here to protect you. I’m here to make sure you don’t disappear to avoid being questioned in a murder.”

At least she didn’t roll her eyes.

“I’m not planning to disappear.”

“And I’m not planning to argue. For one thing, it’s already nine o’clock, so you’ve missed your meeting. Anyway, if you’re well enough to go, and they check you out, it’s the station for you.”

“Fine. Let’s get it over with. Where’s that doctor?”

Apparently wanting to be cleared to depart and actually being cleared to depart are two different things. Our original doctor had gone off shift. The new one was round, fresh, and cheerful.

“No way, José,” she said when I tugged on her sleeve. “Not until I see those X-rays. And even without seeing them, I’d say you’re not going anywhere for the next forty-eight hours. You won’t be able to stay alone.”

“Will I be able to drive?”

“In your dreams.” She chuckled.

Even at the best of times, I find it hard to make a telephone call to cancel an appointment. With a police officer looking over my shoulder, it was even worse. Eventually, I persuaded a nurse to transport me in a wheelchair to the pay phone in the nearest hallway. The officer came along. Luckily I had my client’s name written in my agenda next to the date, time, and address. I asked the officer to make the call as I seemed to have a bit of trouble focusing. When my client answered, I apologized for not being able to drop off the brochures as promised. I explained that I had run into an unexpected problem and had been unable to contact her earlier.

She said, “Well, I’ve been concerned about you. I saw them lift you into an ambulance on the news. I hope
you’re
all right.”

“I will be. And I’ll get in touch as soon as I know when I can get back to work.” I paused to give her time to wiggle out of the contract.

“Don’t worry about me. Anyway, you must be really shaken up. You weren’t even supposed to drop off the brochures until tomorrow night. Never mind that. The weekend would actually work better for me. You just take care of yourself.”

That was nice, if a bit embarrassing. Lots of clients drop you at the first sign of trouble with the police. I had a lump in my throat when I called to leave a message with the Therapy Dogs coordinator.

To my surprise a familiar human answered, although she did say “Woof! Woof! Woof!”

“Woof,” I answered automatically. “This is Charlotte Adams speaking and . . .”

“Oh Charlotte! We met at the booth on Sunday. Everyone’s looking forward to seeing you at the orientation session and we’re dying to meet Truffle and Sweet Marie, too, when the time comes. Of course, we’ve all seen you on television. I am sure those little cuties will make wonderful additions to the team.”

“The problem is that I’m in the hospital.”

“Oh no! Not surgery, I hope.”

“No no, just a small injury.” I was glad she hadn’t been watching the news that evening. “But I don’t know when I’ll be released, and I don’t know if I will be able to make the orientation session. I am wondering if there are any other options.”

I decided not to mention that the police might still be grilling me by then. That’s a seemingly endless process, a fact I’ve learned the hard way.

“Well, I sure hope you’re feeling better soon, otherwise we’ll have to send a therapy dog team to cheer you up.”

I chuckled. “I hope I’m not here that long, as much as I’d enjoy that visit.”

“The session is full. It’s probably too late to fill your place, so if you get a chance to come by, that would be great. Otherwise, we’ll fit you in the next time. Might not be until spring, though.”

“Thanks.” Such lovely people. So kindhearted. That reminded me. “Oh, by the way, there’s been a death at Fredelle’s workplace. She’s very upset. I don’t imagine she’ll make the event, either. I am sure she’ll contact you, but just in case . . .”

“Who?”

“Fredelle.”

“Fredelle?”

“Fredelle Newhouse. I met her at your booth the other day.”

What is known as an awkward silence drifted over the line.

“Hello?” I said, after a while.

“Um, was it a head injury?”

“What?”

“Did you have a head injury? Is that why you’re in the hospital?”

“Um . . . yes, sort of a head injury. But why are you asking?”

“Well, because we don’t have anyone named Fredelle who is part of the Woodbridge League of Therapy Dogs.”

“What?”

“I know every volunteer, and there’s no Fredelle.”

“But I saw her there, by your booth.”

“Sorry, but that doesn’t make her part of our organization.”