Death Loves a Messy Desk (28 page)

I called his bluff. “Go ahead, call them. They know I’m here.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, glowered, and thought about that.

I rattled on, “There’s no information about her. Nothing. No relatives, no next of kin. No work history.”

Missy snorted. “Of course there is. It’s all in the personnel files.”

“They’re missing. I just want to know how she came to work at Quovadicon.”

Luckily, Missy didn’t ask me why I didn’t approach Fredelle about this seemingly innocuous request. “No harm in it, I guess. It was sort of a secret, but no, with all this terrible stuff going on, perhaps you should talk to Mr. Van Zandt. I think I told you that he brought her in. He said he didn’t want everyone to know that he did.”

“But why the secrecy?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“Didn’t anyone ask?”

“He plays his cards close to his chest, as my grandpa would say.”

“Well, Robbie must have known. Maybe that’s why he wanted people to like her.”

“Boy, for a smart lady, you’re sure missing that point. Mr. Van Zandt didn’t think that Robbie could tie his own shoelaces. He wouldn’t consult him on bringing in a new hire.”

“Not consult perhaps, but surely Robbie would know.”

“Nope. Robbie never had the vaguest idea what his father’s plans were. He was kept right out of the loop on everything.”

“So he had no clue.”

“Right.”

“Fredelle would have known.”

Missy frowned, perhaps because the sound of an infant crying drifted through the screen door. A look of panic fluttered over her large husband’s face.

“I don’t think Fredelle did know. She had some surgery around that time. I handled the paperwork and filed it. It was just before I left to have the twins, a bit earlier than I planned. I never really filled her in. So unless Mr. Van Zandt told her, there wasn’t much in the files beyond a couple of references. I don’t even remember seeing her résumé.”

“But a new position, surely she’d be consulted on that as office manager. Was it a new position?”

“Consulted? Not so much. Mr. Van Zandt isn’t so big on consultation. I think she found out after she came back and Barb was there. She’d just accept that. And I would have, too.”

“Really.”

She grinned and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I can’t do anything with this mop since the twins came along.”

Her hubby said, “You still look good to me.”

I put in my two cents’ worth. “And twins would be worth a bit of extra styling products.”

“For sure.”

That was good. They’d both relaxed a bit.

Another wail wafted through the door, and hubby looked ready to panic. I said, “I should let you get back to them, but one more question. So you’re saying Fredelle wouldn’t get upset to be treated as if her opinion didn’t count?”

Missy shrugged. “I’ve been trying to explain. We were all used to it. It’s a one-man kingdom and Mr. Van Zandt is the ruler. Fredelle didn’t mind. Nobody else cared. Except Robbie and Dyan, of course.”

“One more thing, I need to talk to a couple of your drivers. I believe their names are Mel and Del?”

She shook her head. “I know all the drivers. No Mels or Dels.”

“They may have been kidding about their names. Mel’s middle-aged, oversize seventies-style mustache. Del’s younger, shaved head, Celtic tattoos. Big guys, both of them. Mel wears a baseball cap.”

A flicker of recognition showed in her eyes. It was replaced by a guarded expression. I wasn’t sure what I’d done. “I know who you mean. But they don’t work for us, I mean Quovadicon anymore. Oh boy. My husband panics when the twins cry. I have to go.”

“Wait, can you tell me their names?”

But I was talking to the air. Both of them had vanished into the interior.

Not so fast, lady
, I thought. I knocked on the door again. Politely, but firmly. I rang the doorbell for good measure.

The husband showed up at the door again. He was sweaty and on the verge of panic to my eye. For some reason, that made him seem even larger.

“Go away and stay away,” he said.

Lucky for me, I had a savings account, because I wasn’t going to make anywhere near my expenses on this particular week. If you work for yourself, you have to sock away extra during the good times. Savings account or not, I was happy to check out the teenage girl’s chaotic bedroom that evening. No office politics there, no missing women, but probably plenty of mother/daughter dramatics.

The day hadn’t yielded much, despite a chunk of time wasted cruising around Woodbridge to check out black Honda Civics. Eventually I drove home to drop off the dogs and try a few training tricks. They were not in the mood. “Not optional,” I told them.

I managed to eat a stir-fry instead of ice cream for dinner and to gather up some materials for the client visit. I find that having some fun photos and options available can make a difference with adolescents. Even so, sometimes nothing makes the difference.

I fixed my hair and makeup, switched into dark denim dress jeans and my fitted leather jacket with a scarf, and headed out. My headache had subsided. I wasn’t under arrest or under attack. Plus this client was one of the few people in Woodbridge who hadn’t seen me on television during my frequent crime sprees, and I loved her for it.

The disastrous bedroom was worth the trip. As I stood with my client at the open door, I estimated an even two feet of clothing strewn on the floor. The bed was unmade. Glasses and plates covered the surfaces. Curling posters of boy bands that I didn’t recognize covered the walls. School-books and papers and art supplies were strewn on top of the layer of clothing. The dominant scent was stale pizza with a hint of last week’s gym clothes. A Chihuahua in a pink jeweled collar moved through tunnels under the garments, appearing occasionally to bare tiny teeth and yip at us. I am always pleased when someone else owns a naughty dog.

My client bit her lip. “I can’t even catch the little monster. Sydney says we can’t go in her room because it’s private property and it would be a violation of her rights.”

“Really?” I said.

“I suppose that’s true, too.”

I let it slide. Not my relationship. “Is she around?”

“She’s taken over the basement and refuses to participate. I really don’t know what to do. I am sorry to have dragged you all this way. Of course, I’ll pay you for your time.”

Excellent. That saved me from making the point to her. I said, “Let’s be optimistic. I have some samples of rooms to show you. They’re fun. I see a lot of art supplies. Is she artistic?”

The mother shrugged. “How would I know? She never talks to me. Do you think this disaster is her way of keeping me out?”

“My guess is she’s just defining herself.”

“I worry about what’s she’s hiding. Marijuana plants or something. I don’t even know what. I’m not a snoop, but if I were, I’d never find it anyway.”

“Or she’s just growing up and wanting to make her own decisions.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I’ll leave the samples for you. And you can tell Sydney that if she’s interested that she and I can work together and you’ll—”

“Mind my own business?”

“I was going to say ‘pick your battles.’ ”

“That’s what my therapist tells me. Unlike some of my friends’ children, at least Sydney stays home long enough to create and maintain this . . .”

Turbulence
, I thought. “Did your therapist suggest that you stop doing her laundry?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” I said with a glance at the ocean of clothing in front of us. I kept a straight face, too, as we headed for neutral territory to check out the samples. I bet myself that Sydney would show up within fifteen minutes, sit sulkily with us, and sneer at everything I brought. I won that bet. I also figured that Sydney would want to meet with me on her own, but she’d never let herself look excited about it. Right again.

My new client’s mother stood waving from the front porch of the house as I left. It had been worth the long drive home on the interstate just to see the look on her face. Sydney and I now had an appointment booked for Monday evening. She had some fun prep work to do on the weekend, mainly identifying what she used her room for, such as studying, socializing, hobbies, music. I asked her to consider whether she wanted to see her clothing or keep it out of view. Although as most of it was on the floor, I thought I knew the answer. I waved back as I backed out and eased the Miata onto the street. I was grinning, too, as I headed for the highway. The project had taken my mind off recent events. It was positive and soothing, and there was a chance that everyone would be happy with the outcome. Now all I had to do was head home, walk the dogs again, and what? The grin faded.

Of course, being late September, it was already dark before eight. I had nothing much to do that evening, except envy my friends: Sally busy with her family, Margaret busy with her TDG man, Jack busy planning the bike race that ate the world and . . . but I didn’t want to think about that.

Unfortunately, dog training can chew up only so much time. Maybe tonight would be a good time to clean out the freezer. I could relabel all the frozen foods with fresh crisp date info. Maybe I could color-code them according to contents. That would be fun. Red for meat and chicken, yellow for soups, green for vegetables, and white for ice cream, although that didn’t last long enough for dates to be an issue.

Of course, labels could peel and curl. Or else be impossible to get off the tops of containers. What about color-coded containers? That would be even better than mere labels. I could get lovely square ones that would fit together and look nice and neat in the freezer. Perhaps a trip to the Container Store was in order.

These were pleasant and diverting thoughts as I motored along. And except for the number of trucks on the road, it would have been a relaxing drive back. But why are huge trucks so unnerving on the highway at night? Perhaps it’s their size, or the weird way their front views simulate menacing human faces. The semi behind me was driving too close for safety.
It’s just nerves
, I told myself,
they’re vehicles full of sacks of sugar and plastic soda bottles and disposable diapers. There’s nothing threatening about them.

Hold on. Who was I kidding? Except for a new stash of Ben & Jerry’s, two bags of stir-fry veggies, and a variety of fancy ice cubes, my freezer was a vast empty wasteland. I had absolutely no need for containers. Of course, that could change. Maybe I should make some soup, and that would allow me to label it. I could swing by Hannaford’s and pick up the soup ingredients and jump-start that project. After all, I already had the labels. Of course, I had no idea what was actually in homemade soup. Onions? Celery? Chickens? Magic spells? It wasn’t like my mother had ever whipped up a batch of savory stock. That’s what caterers were for.