Death of the Office Witch (11 page)

“My name's Charlie.”

He was a large man with lots of hair and eyebrows and muscle and belly, maybe in his mid-fifties. Hair bristled in his ears and over the top of a V-neck T-shirt and on the back of his arms and hands. He wore tan work pants and hiking boots. Charlie had expected the person in charge of the séance would be a woman in, say, a long skirt, sandals, beads, graying hair dyed to pink—an old granola girl. This guy looked more like an ill-used stunt man.

“Won't you join our circle, Charlie?” His color was calming down, but his breath still came in gasps. “Gloria needs help.”

“Talk about your understatement.” Charlie grunted when Keegan Monroe stabbed an elbow in her ribs.

They all stared at her now, and the circle of aluminum chair bottoms were scooted apart to include her.

The man under the bees and blossoms curled a stick of chewing gum into his mouth and, cranking up one cheek and both eyebrows, grinned at her discomfort. Keegan gave her back a gentle prod. David Dalrymple, from across the circle pleaded, “Please, Miss Greene?”

Charlie plugged into the hands on either side, but she'd be damned if she'd kneel in the dirt or close her eyes.

Roger Tuschman didn't close his eyes, either. They were puffy with exhaustion. It was obvious he had not expected her to be here, and interesting that no one at the agency had been notified of this ceremony. Charlie had met him maybe four or five times, once at a Christmas office party Richard Morse swore he would never throw again. It had been at his house, and Gloria had soaked up some mood-altering substance and pushed Roger in the pool. Which was a boring and passé thing to do, but Roger had felt the loss of dignity out of all proportion and left without Gloria.

The sun hammered on Charlie's head, setting up her own buzz to match the bees and the wires. It made her slightly dizzy. The man on her one hand was young, his grip hurt as he got back into the spirit of things. The lady on her other was past middle age and into early seniordom. Her clasp trembled. She looked more like a medium than the big guy in charge. Both hands were sweaty. Charlie's stomach was not a bit happy with this whole scene and her feet hurt. Damn it, Gloria, speak up and let's get this over with. I haven't got all day.

“I think that's a great idea,” the big hairy leader said and stood. Everyone dropped hands and began to gather themselves and assorted seating.

“Charlie, are you okay?” Keegan put an arm around her waist and started walking her back down the dirt road.

“What's a great idea?” she asked him and Dalrymple, who came to flank her other side.

“Don't you remember?” the lieutenant stopped, and the other cop left the shade to join them, really leering now.

“You don't remember, do you?” Dalrymple turned her to face him. “Or are you just toying with us?”

Keegan said quietly behind her, “You told the medium what to do, Charlie.”

“I just told Gloria to hurry up so I could get out of here.” But Charlie could swear she hadn't said that aloud. “What did I tell the medium?”

“You said, ‘touch my things,'” Keegan answered. “I can't believe you don't know.”

“Oh my God. Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Touch my—”

“No, no,” Dalrymple hurried her along now, and the other cop guffawed, “not you. Gloria. She spoke through you.”

11

A set of Gloria's acrylic fingernails, complete with jewel strips, and a red dress, much like the one she'd worn to die in, lay spread across the dining room table in Number 568. Lieutenant Dalrymple added a ladies' wristwatch, a pair of white earrings with red polka dots, and the red stiletto-heeled shoes.

Marvin Grunion, the spiritualist, sat, and everyone else stood. He placed all the bright red acrylics on the dress, and they blended so well that if you didn't look closely all you saw were the tiny fake jewels. He hummed a soft monotone like he missed having the bees as backup and added the earrings and watch, then the shoes. He bunched the dress around the assortment. A stiff white shoulder pad popped out of the neckline so suddenly someone squeaked a choked-off scream. More people were arriving, but fell silent once they entered the room.

Charlie had a low tolerance for weird people. Too many at one time was threatening. After all, she had never been that comfortable around even just Gloria, and this was a real assortment of all ages and dress and styles. But no one in particular you'd look twice at walking down the street. Then again, it was southern California.

Marvin Grunion rearranged the dress and stuffed the shoulder pad out of sight. He circled the earrings and the watch with the acrylics and looked puzzled about what to do with the shoes. The wall behind him was covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of different heights and widths, some small enough to feature pewter miniatures, two large enough to hold ornate candle holders, and all sizes in-between. One of the candle holders was empty, the other held four white candles with a red one in the middle.

One shelf sported what appeared to be a lemon with nails driven through it at odd angles. Another held the sort of thick chalice actors in medieval movies spilled wine from while gnawing turkey drumsticks and leering at actresses' cleavage. A metal cross sat upright with a chain dangling from a ring at its top like a necklace for a giant. An assortment of bells, the statue of a unicorn, strung beads falling out of a little treasure chest. None of the odds and ends looked valuable. Some looked like what you'd use to decorate the bottom of a fish tank.

The reason Charlie paid so much attention to these knickknacks was her embarrassment at the antics of old bristle-haired Marvin. He was passing his hands over Gloria's things in slow-motion swishing gestures as if he were treading water, all the while murmuring in tongues. She stood right across the table from him like the guest of honor (or the main sacrifice), unable to back away or move to either side because of the press of bodies.

The sweet smell of orange blossoms couldn't get through the crowd, either. Charlie could smell herself and other overheated, excited bodies. And maybe she could smell a hint of something else. Something that suggested these weren't just clothes yanked from Gloria's closet for the memorial séance and dance in her dead honor, but the exact same clothes Gloria had lain in in the bush tops for a sunny day and then a whole night.…

If I don't beat rush hour getting Keegan back to Coldwater Canyon and me back to the office, this is another day blown to hell, and me with deals happening.

Charlie, a woman has been murdered.

And I can't help her now. That's work for the police and Marvin the Shaman here. If I'd been murdered I wouldn't expect Gloria to turn off the phones and door buzzer and quit work.

Marvin picked up Gloria's skirt and wept into it.

Oh Jesus.

“What's happening, Mr. Grunion?” Lieutenant David Dalrymple whispered as if they were in church.

“I'm Gloria Tuschman and I'm dead,” Grunion answered.

“What's happening, Gloria?” Dalrymple asked with a straight face. He might have been ordering pizza with mushrooms. He was definitely some kind of nut who had infiltrated the Beverly Hills Police Department. “Gloria, it's important. Tell me what you're doing right now.”

“I'm talkingeh to Charlie Greene. She's caught in traffic on the 405, she says. But she's got this kid she can't really handle, and she's not always reliable.”

“Where are you?”

“In the office. I usually am first thing in the morningeh. But she's always late. I don't know why Mr. Morse puts up with it. I mean, she knows she's got a kid when she takes the job. The agency shouldn't be responsible.” This all coming from a weepy middle-aged man with sweat stains spreading all over his shirt. But the inflection, the nasal whine, the wheedling, the irritation sure did bring to mind Gloria Tuschman. “I am much more important around here than most people think, know what I mean?” There was a sly threat to this last pronouncement. That was like Gloria, too.

“Gloria, is that really you?” Poor Roger Tuschman looked near collapse. He was short and slightly beefy, wore a striped shirt open at the neck and lots of jewelry. A gold chain, a small loop earring in one ear, a lavish watch band, and three rings. And one sideburn was much longer than the other. Perhaps he'd accidentally shaved one off this morning. “What can I do?”

“You, I'll talk to later,” the shaman snapped back at the poor man, but in Gloria's accent.

“Why are you dead, Gloria?” Dalrymple persisted.

“Because that Charlie won't help me. I'm in the trash can.”

That did it. Charlie, who had promised herself not to validate this charade by speaking up, lost it right there. “You are not. You're in the morgue. How can you be a ghost if you don't even know where you are?”

“You never did like me, did you Charlie?”

“Did Charlie Greene murder you, Gloria?” Roger Tuschman started pushing at people to get around the table to Charlie. The other cop, Detective Gordon, stepped in to stop him before he got there.

David Dalrymple said calmly, “Tell us who came in the office after everyone left, Gloria, came in while you were alone. Tell us who did this to you.”

But Marvin Grunion rolled his eyes up under his eyelids and passed out.

When Charlie finally made it back to the agency, it was closed for the weekend and dark except for her office, where the cleaning lady was getting an early start. No one had left any exciting word on the
Alpine Tunnel
deal. If there had been any, Charlie had missed out on it. Thanks to Gloria. How could anybody be even more irritating dead than alive?

You always think of yourself as a decent person. How can you be so callous?

Charlie
was
beginning to feel guilty, and when she reached home to find a note that Libby was spending the night at Lori's, she decided to emulate the office janitorial service and get a head start on a grueling weekend. Maybe she could clear time to do some reading on Sunday.

By eleven that night Charlie collapsed in the breakfast nook with a peanut butter sandwich, a glass of milk, and the
L.A. Times
. But the house was pretty clean, and the week's wash had a good start. She'd always insisted Libby help with the household chores, but her daughter increasingly arranged to be gone when they needed doing. And if Charlie wasn't there to crack the whip and work alongside, Libby was useless. Which is exactly what Charlie had done to her own mother at this age. But that did not make it right.

Libby's cat landed square in the middle of the world news, narrowly missing the half-empty glass of milk. When Charlie looked up startled, Tuxedo met her nose to nose. Then he meowed. Then he stared.

“Do you want to go out?” I've been talking to ghosts, might as well talk to animals. Charlie got up and walked to the door. Tuxedo got up and walked to his food dish. “Did she not feed you? I thought you'd eaten before I got home.” Tuxedo wound himself in and out and between and around Charlie's ankles, rubbing his neck and his jaws on her legs.

“I told the two of you the deal was that she feed you and change the litter box and all that, or you couldn't stay. I'm planning on getting rid of you anyway.”

The cat had been a starving stray kitten Libby brought home once when Charlie was out of town and which she'd been unable to dislodge on her return. Now he was a large, sleek houseplant eater who delighted in keeping Charlie up nights. Charlie looked in the cupboards but could find no cat food. She finally dumped some Cheerios and pieces of bread crust in his dish and poured the rest of her milk over them, he set to, able to carry on a rattling purr and slurping noises at the same time.

The house full of fleas all summer, kitty immunizations that cost more than Libby's, stinky litter box—Charlie let him out when he went to the door. Maybe he'd get run over tonight, and she wouldn't have to deal with getting rid of him tomorrow.

Charlie could remember Edwina complaining about having to care for Bowzer the Schnauzer, a stray dog that followed Charlie home from school one day and stayed to die of old age after she'd left home. Charlie had promised to care for Bowzer if her parents would let him stay, just as Libby had.

“Don't let Libby be like me,” she told the goddamned cat when she found him out in the alley and brought him in where it was safe before she went to bed. “We both know she might not be at Lori's tonight. She might be out doing something we don't even want to think about.” The animal had moaned warning and hissed when she picked him up in the alley, but let himself be carried inside without biting her. He was all black except for his chest and stomach and four white paws.

“If we call and she's there, she'll never forgive us for not trusting her. She could be out riding in a car with some drunk teenager and we could get a telephone call that she was horribly killed in a wreck. No, they'd come and knock at the door.”

If Tuxedo wrapped himself around her head that night, she didn't know it. She woke up feeling guilty that she hadn't lain awake to worry.

But at least no one had come to the door to inform her of a death in the family. Charlie put another load in the washer and drove to Von's for groceries. When she got back, Libby was still not home, so she grabbed some garden gloves, a rake, and clippers and headed for the front yard.

It was immaculate.

Charlie stood stupidly holding open the security grate that guarded the front door with her heel so it wouldn't close on her. She'd meant to prop it with something, but she stood there surveying her domain, tools in hand. Her domain was probably twelve feet square if you didn't count the parking. And now it looked just like her neighbors'.

Charlie heard the music before she heard the gunning motor, but not by much. She knew Libby was home even before she saw the shiny new Jetta pull up to the curb, where it disgorged the girls and then squealed off again. Charlie counted three boys and a surfboard still inside.