Death Loves a Messy Desk (5 page)

I froze. The vehicle was weaving wildly, leaving me no place to go. The white-faced woman driving seemed totally unaware of me. Seconds from a head-on collision, I unfroze long enough to whip the steering wheel to the right. As the Miata skidded toward the SUV, I yanked the wheel left and slid around. I managed to gun the engine and propel the car onto the grassy median. I slammed on my brakes, and my beloved Miata repaid me by jumping the low concrete planter in the middle. I heard the crunch as the undercarriage met the concrete. I scrambled out of the car and dashed across the median to the other lane to get the license plate number before the SUV was out of sight. But it had already rocketed around the corner.

As I stood openmouthed, a black-and-silver eighteen-wheeler shuddered to a stop in back of me with a loud whoosh of air brakes. That was something: first, being driven off the road and now standing in the path of a truck. Big rigs have always made me nervous. Stupid, I know, but my heart just hammers if I get too close to one. I dashed quickly to the side of the road. To add to the moment, it started to rain.

A burly middle-aged man with a baseball cap and an oversize mustache jumped down from the cab and stomped toward me, gesticulating. He was followed shortly by a younger guy with white-blond hair buzzed almost to the scalp. He was also tan. And very buff. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the Celtic tattoos decorating both his arms.

The first guy said, “Are you nuts? Do you know how long it takes to stop one of these rigs?”

The young guy pointed to the Miata. “What the hell? How did you get a freakin’ license?”

I react badly to that kind of comment. “I’m sorry, but you should ask the idiot who just shot down the wrong side of the road.” I pointed to the other side before I snapped open my cell phone to call Tony’s Towing. I’d sorted out Tony’s office and he’s always been grateful.

The older guy got the point. “How did you get stuck on that?”

“Not my fault,” I said.

“No, miss. Ah’m sure,” he said, dropping the grin, or maybe just hiding it behind that seventies mustache.

The second one still glowered.

I looked up at them from my full height of four foot eleven and said, “The wild woman I mentioned? That speeding SUV forced me off the road.”

The first man scratched his baseball cap and opened his mouth. He said, “I think that was . . .”

The second one shook his head slightly. Some secret trucker code perhaps.

“Well, hell, I’m Mel,” the mustache man said. “And he’s Del. And you must be?”

Were they yanking my chain? I narrowed my eyes at them. “Just swell.”

He snorted. “Can’t help our names, now, can we? Let’s get you off that bit of concrete, little lady,” Mel, if that was really his name, said. “Get back behind the wheel of that rice-burning toy and we’ll get you on the road. Won’t we, Del?”

“That Miss Swell or Mrs. Swell?” Del said.

“I’ll just call my towing company,” I said snootily.

“Now, now, little lady, don’t mind Del. He can’t help flirting with pretty gals. But he’s harmless. Save your money.”

With every bit of dignity I had, considering that my so-called toy car was practically impaled, I got behind the wheel and revved the engine. A bit of strained muscle from Del and Mel and the Miata shot forward onto the road, spewing grass. I waved good-bye as I headed for the building and the semi slowly rumbled off toward the highway.

I would have been suitably impressed when I pulled into the parking lot at Quovadicon if my knees hadn’t been like jelly after my two near misses. Not only was the building on the end of a scenic drive, but the grounds were gorgeous. I hadn’t really expected grounds, let alone this lovely wooded site. Whoever had done the site plan had left the woods pristine, and the building was set into the surroundings looking like it belonged there, the trees reflected on the glass cladding, a riot of fall flowers spilling out of cement planters near the front. I tucked the Miata in between a yellow Volkswagen “Bug” convertible and a shiny red Ford Focus and hustled up the front stairs to the wide glass entrance, set in tawny granite panels. I noticed that the wheelchair ramp had been nicely integrated into the building’s approach and lent it a lovely curved flow. Definitely not an afterthought.

If Fredelle Newhouse hadn’t told me the company was logistics, shipping, and storage, I wouldn’t have picked up a single clue from the surroundings.

Fredelle was waiting for me by the door as I stepped through and snapped my umbrella closed. I always carry a clear plastic bag in my briefcase to keep damp umbrellas from ruining my papers. I smiled at her.

This time her sweater was candy pink and had a tiny black Scottie dog appliquéd over her heart. I hoped that the drizzle hadn’t entirely wrecked my hairdo. If so, it was too late to do anything about it.

“I’m so glad you made it,” she gushed. Her small hands fluttered, in a blur of matching pink nail polish. “Shame about the rain.”

I couldn’t think of a single reason why I wouldn’t have made it under normal circumstances. No point in talking about the rain or even less about the weird events on my drive in. If you tell people you got stuck on a planter, they might be less inclined to take your advice.

She burbled on, “And right on time, too. Let’s go ahead.”

I smiled and glanced around the entrance. Elegant and classy. Silver-gray Berber carpet. Deep aubergine accent wall. For some reason I was expecting a wall-sized photo of the founder or at the very least a framed portrait, but there was only the crisp aluminum lettering of the company name mounted on the wall.
Proud to be in Woodbridge
was painted under it in flowing script.

Fredelle led. I followed. The espresso wood reception desk was discreetly set back and angled away from the door. As we passed it, she stopped to introduce me to a young woman who was gazing at her computer screen with an uncomprehending expression.

Fredelle cleared her throat. “Autumn?” she said.

“Mmm?” Autumn answered without actually turning. She had glowing skin and rich chestnut hair cascading in a shiny waterfall down her back.

“This is Charlotte Adams. Charlotte, this is Autumn Halliday. Autumn, Charlotte is going to be helping me find some more efficient ways to lay out our office.” Fredelle twisted her hands as she introduced me. She might as well have been wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that screamed I AM A BIG FAT LIAR in glossy black letters. Not that it mattered, as Autumn had continued staring at the screen and fiddling with a lock of her hair.

She did however manage to say, “Awesome,” but I was pretty sure she didn’t mean it.

Fredelle cleared her throat, and Autumn tore her attention from the screen.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand to Autumn, who swiveled to stare at it before reaching out to give it a boneless shake.

“Autumn Halliday,” she said, in case I had missed that before. “Nice to meet you too, Caroline.”

She was back at the screen before we moved past the reception area. Fredelle said in a low voice, “Autumn’s father is a very good friend of Mr. Van Zandt’s. She’s just finished first year college. I think she found it really difficult and she’s taking a year off, and she asked Mr. Van Zee if she could have a job. Her father’s not too happy that she’s taking time off from her education, but he agreed to let her work here. Autumn and her father both chat with Mr. Van Zee, so I don’t want her to catch on to what we’re really doing.”

Not much chance of that
, I thought, as we hurried through a door and into a large square office area.

“Boardroom’s over there,” Fredelle said, pointing a pink fingernail at a glass double door leading into a glass-walled room with an impressive rosewood conference table. “There’s a smaller meeting room here. And this is our main office area. We have salespeople, too, but most of them are out of the office today. Of course, most of the building is given over to warehousing and fulfillment. If you want you can get a tour there, too, but this is where the problem is.”

“Perhaps another time,” I said. I suspected there might be forklifts and pallets and trucks and other machinery that was not my thing there.

A cluster of a half-dozen desks filled the central area. “My office is over here.”

“I see you have a door,” I said. “And walls, even if they are glass.”

Fredelle stiffened. “But I keep the door open and the blinds up. We have to be available to our employees. Mr. Van Zandt believes in an open-door policy.”

Hmm. Defensive.

I glanced around but saw no sign of the legendary leader. I did spot a middle-aged woman in towering heels who turned to sneer at us from the photocopier. I mention those heels not only because I am a shoe lover, but also because she would have been six feet tall even without them. She didn’t really need the shoes to attract attention. Her leopard-print miniskirt would have done that on its own, or perhaps the tank top barely containing a surgically enhanced bosom could have carried the day. I wouldn’t have wanted to foot the bill for her tanning sessions, let alone those hair extensions. She’d definitely dug herself a trench to stop the march of time.

She checked out my outfit and seemed to barely suppress a snicker.

As we stood there for an awkward moment, a slight, pale-haired man with vintage eyeglasses skittered past us, carefully avoiding eye contact. Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. Not usually what people do before being introduced, especially if a few of those spiky eyelashes might get dislodged. Never mind, I was secure in my opinion that the tanning, the hair extensions, and even the unlikely jauntiness of her breasts wouldn’t make her a day less than fifty.

“Now what?” she said.

Her name was Dyan George, it seemed. Fredelle introduced me, and as I held out my hand, Dyan regarded it the way you’d look at gum under a movie seat.

“Charlotte is going to help us find some, um, more efficient ways to set up the office.”

Dyan raised a precisely penciled eyebrow. “Start with the receptionist. I hear that in other offices they actually greet visitors and answer the phone.”

Fredelle snapped back, “Autumn is coming along just fine. She’s young and she’s pleasant and she’s willing to learn.”

Dyan managed an exaggerated and insulting shrug. “Anything to hang on to your job, I suppose. Good luck with that.”

Whoa. Usually it takes more than two minutes before the knives come out in a visit to an office. But even I could see that Dyan George was special.

Fredelle said, “I don’t have to worry about
my
job.”

I liked the fact that a steely edge crept in under the sweet worried tones. No one loves a pushover, not even me.

“I’ll show you around, Charlotte,” Fredelle continued as we abandoned the photocopier to Dyan. “Let’s start with my office.”

A pair of peace lilies on stands flanked the door to Fredelle’s office. Somehow I wasn’t surprised that Fredelle’s workspace had a row of African violets in the large east-facing window that looked over the parking lot. I turned to the motivational posters over the filing cabinet (
Follow Your Dream
,
Climb Every Mountain
, and
Believe in Yourself
). Underneath the posters, a collection of porcelain puppies nudged a framed photo of Fredelle and what had to be Quovadicon employees taken at a staff picnic. Reg Van Zandt was front and center in his wheelchair. Fredelle beamed behind him. To the right Dyan had simpered at the camera. There was no sign of Autumn, but she was new. A very pregnant lady, blond and beaming, stood waving. A few dozen men in shorts and baseball caps grinned sheepishly in the background. I didn’t see Mel or Del, but the girl seemed familiar.

“Who’s this?”

“Oh dear, that’s our Missy,” Fredelle said. “Missy Manderly. She was on staff for ten years, ever since she finished high school. She knew everyone and everything about Quovadicon. She married one of the office supply sales reps who used to drop in a bit more often than was absolutely necessary. This was taken the week before she went on maternity leave. She’s just had twins.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“If anybody could ever manage twins with ease, it’s Missy.”

“I’ve seen her before.”

“Well, Woodbridge isn’t all that big, as you know. They bought an old house off Long March Road and fixed it up.”

“My friend Jack has a business in that area. Perhaps I’ve seen her around there. Some people are more memorable than others. That smile makes a real impression.”

“It hasn’t been the same since she left. Dyan George may think she’s efficient, but she can’t hold a candle to Missy. Missy was perfectly organized and sensible and levelheaded.” Fredelle lowered her voice. “Dyan’s all about control, not really about how to get the job done. I’m just lucky that the whole office hasn’t quit since she came on.”