Death Loves a Messy Desk (3 page)

Todd Tyrell’s gelled hair and supersize ultrawhite chompers filled the television screen. He babbled on about a threat to our community and the public’s need to know. I’ve learned from personal experience how easily WINY can get things wrong. I thought the public had a right to peace and quiet.

The camera caught the fluttering yellow crime scene tape that marked off the spot. A close shot of a blue car filled the screen. A slender man with red hair and pale skin juggled his keys as he surveyed the scene and narrowed his eyes at Todd. Even though he wore that suit well, I decided he had to be a detective. Maybe it was his air of natural authority. He turned icy blue eyes toward the camera and gestured to the operator to move away. The scene switched back to Todd’s teeth where it belonged.

My slice of double-cheese and anchovy pizza paused halfway to my mouth. “Do we absolutely have to watch this, Sally? It’s horrible. Aren’t we just trying to relax and have a bit of fun? And why is Todd the Tooth on during the weekend anyway? Is he their twenty-four-seven guy or something? Now that’s scary. I definitely think the viewers could use a break.”

Sally didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “He’s covering this because it’s big news. Come on. I find Todd’s program relaxing. Remember, I’m stuck here in the house with this adorable pack of rugrats. It’s like being marooned on a wonderful desert island where you go slightly crazy. I have to stay in touch with what’s going on in the world. Do you want my brain to shrivel?”

I glanced around at Sally’s three curly-haired toddlers. After bath, jammies, and story, they wanted to join the party. Sally and I had made them a tent from a blanket spread over the dining room table. Now they were sleeping soundly, smelling of apple juice and baby shampoo. Sally had the baby, Shenandoah, snoozing on her lap. Until she’d clicked on the news, we’d been indulging in girl talk. Such a lovely moment.

I said, “Speaking of shriveled brains, it’s unseemly for a mother of four to have a crush for fifteen years on a man with such a big head and so little in it.”

Sally said, “Unseemly? What are you, my grandmother?”

“Allow me to point out that we’re not still in ninth grade at St. Jude’s when Todd was hot stuff. I mean look at him. All that fake tan. Ew.”

“My grandmother’s grandmother? I think Todd looks hot. Always has. Always will.”

“Well, I think he looks like some kind of . . . carrot. Plus I’m pretty sure he gets his eyebrows plucked and shaped. That’s just plain creepy. And since it’s a ‘back to high school’ moment, doesn’t his voice remind you of fingernails on a chalkboard?”

“Don’t mute the sound, Charlotte. Give me that remote.”

I hung on to the remote and clicked off the television. “Sorry, Sally. I don’t want to hear about someone being killed.”

“But it’s the news. We have to stay on top of things. And we don’t know this person. It’s sad, but anonymous.”

“Doesn’t matter. What a terrible way to end your life. Imagine his family when they learn about this. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it.”

Sally said, gently, with no hint of her usual carefree grin, “It’s not about you, Charlotte. It’s not like those awful things could ever happen again. You don’t need to worry.”

I grumbled, “I know it’s not about me. But I still wake up in a panic almost every night.”

“I thought you’d decided on volunteer work to take your mind off all that.”

“Yes. That’s the great news. I’m signing on for the Woodbridge League of Therapy Dogs with Truffle and Sweet Marie. The orientation is Friday. But don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not actually changing—”

“Read my lips: My new policy is: no more murder.”

Sally conked out early for some reason. So there was plenty of evening left when I arrived home. I enjoyed padding around my own apartment in my frog pajamas and bunny slippers. Add the dogs to the mix and I was a one-woman petting zoo. I set up a new file for the Therapy Dogs project. I read the background material and finished filling out my forms.

It wasn’t hard for people to get in: You needed two personal references and a clear police check. I hoped I’d pass that, as I had never actually been charged with anything despite a few high-profile trips to the slammer. Then I ruined the mood by studying the tasks for the evaluation. Truffle and Sweet Marie were going to present a challenge. Perhaps I should have read the criteria before getting quite so excited. Of the eighteen tasks on the list, there was one I was confident my dogs would manage. And only if there was a food reward. I bit my lip. Was it even worth going to the orientation session?

SIT?

Only when it’s their idea.

STAY?

Hardly.

DOWN?

Out of the question unless they wanted to sleep on a cashmere sweater freshly retrieved from the cleaners.

LEAVE IT?

You must be joking.

Loose leash walking?

In a parallel universe.

Truffle and Sweet Marie had people to do things like that for them. The commands they might recognize were
Drop that shoe! Where are my keys?!
And
Get out of the fridge!

These did not appear on the list.

I should have used more discipline with them in the early days, but it was tough to be tough with two tiny creatures who’d been through hell before they came to me. Well, now I had a new problem. What were the chances I could get them on an accelerated training program? How would I even go about it, as training dogs was obviously not my best thing?

Jack Reilly would know. My landlord and best friend since elementary school knew everything there was to know about dogs, including how to rescue them. Jack had talked me into taking on two scrawny, flea-bitten miniature dachshunds found on the median of the interstate. Did I mention this is a breed that’s known for being stubborn? My life had never been the same. He’d have to help, because he got me into it.

Luckily, Jack was born to help. In the year and a half since I’d moved back, he’d always been available. Sometimes annoyingly so. But tonight he was at a meeting to plan a fund-raising bike race for the local dog rescue group, Welcome All Good Dogs, better known as WAG’D. Never mind. How long could that last? Sooner or later, he’d bang open the outside door and then make a racket getting into his apartment and then find a pretext to thunder upstairs and eat all my Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. If there was one person in the world I could count on, it was Jack.

I contented myself with reading over some articles on office techniques to prepare for the next day and my visit to Quovadicon. I did a little research on the Web to see what was new in the world of messy desks. Of course, there are two schools of thought on this desk business. Some people think that not everyone benefits from the appearance of order. Others are horrified by that idea. I incline to the different-strokes-for-different-folks view, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t help.

Ten o’clock. Still no Jack.

The dogs and I worked on the SIT command. I learned that they were willing to sit on command provided suitable treats were offered, but only if they could sit on the carpeted area.

I set out an ambitious training schedule for us and tucked away the materials in the folder.

I tidied up the apartment so it would look serene in the morning. I tossed a load of laundry into my tiny stacking washer/dryer. I made my prioritized To Do list for the next day and laid out my clothes, shoes, and jewelry for the morning. I picked out a sleek charcoal pencil skirt, my favorite crisp white blouse, and a wide metallic belt. I jazzed that up with a pair of red and pink suede wedge heels that could stop traffic. I like to be businesslike, but not boring. I started a new file for the Quovadicon project and printed out a few relevant articles, plus directions and a map to Fredelle’s office. I stapled her card to the inside flap of the file and packed up my briefcase ready to go, with the files in the order I’d need them.

I woke up the dogs for their last walk of the day, and we practiced SIT a few more times. After that, I brushed my teeth and all that good stuff. I checked my watch and gave it a shake, but no, it matched the time on the clock radio. Eleven thirty.

Finally I dug into the New York Super Fudge Chunk and ate it in solitary splendor. That meant I also had to brush my teeth again. I stayed awake until one in the morning waiting for the door to squeak open to Jack’s apartment, but all I heard was silence.

On Monday, I had a client consultation before I hit Quovadicon to see the legendary desk in the early afternoon. We practiced SIT until I thought SCREAM might be more like it, but never mind. Before I left home, Fredelle called just to make sure I was still coming at two p.m. to see Barb’s desk. She asked me not to let on to anyone. As if I would.

After a quick consultation just past nine o’clock, I swung by the library before I met my second client at eleven. I enjoyed the drive through town on a crisp and sunny September morning. With a burst of undeserved optimism, I dropped my completed Therapy Dogs application form at the front desk. I did my best to look like the kind of person whose dogs would pass any evaluation.

I spotted my friend Ramona’s silver brush cut across the library in the reference department.

“Quovadicon?” she said in answer to my question. “Sure. I know the company and the family. Everyone does. They’re a serious deal locally. Good employers. Very community spirited and all that.”

One of Ramona’s many strengths is that she grew up in Woodbridge and she never forgets a face or a fact. “Great, because I didn’t find that much about them on the Web. Some kind of shipping and logistics company. I understand half the new streets in Woodbridge are named after the owner.”

“Quite a few for sure,” Ramona said.

“Was he some kind of war hero? Vietnam?”

“No, more like World War II. I think he flew spitfires or something. Survived a lot of dogfights.”

“World War II? He must be—”

“Getting on a bit? Early eighties. I think the story was that he lied about his age and enlisted at sixteen. Fudged his birth certificate. Every now and then, there’s an interview with him in the paper. Icon in the community, human interest, that kind of thing. But don’t rely on my memory; let’s find the facts.”