By Lauren Lynn McGraw
Co-author of Merry Go Round in Oz and The Forbidden Fountain of Oz.
This is the first publication of this excerpt from an unfinished mystery novel.
CHAPTER ONE
When I was a kid, I used to watch an old TV show called The Naked City.
At the end, they'd show a big-city skyline, and a portentous voice would
say, "There are a million stories in The . . . NAKED . . . CITY. And
this . . . was only one of them." I liked the idea that anybody's life
could turn into drama, but I felt different about it when it happened to
me.
The day the whole thing started, the city of Westbank seemed to be
keeping its clothes buttoned up to the neck. I sat in front of my
computer, staring alternately at my headline: Future Development: Who Pays?
and the information supplied by the City Engineer, and trying to think
of a way to lead into the story. I'd been stymied so long that the
screen saver came on, replacing my words with winged toasters and
floating toast.
Westbank is one of my best clients. It's a small city about ten miles
outside of Portland; a bedroom community, struggling with too much
growth and too little identity. I write, design and produce their
monthly newsletter, plus any miscellaneous brochures and flyers they
need.
Freelancing isn't the most secure way to make a living, but it gives me
time to paint. Rousseau may have worked full time at the Customs
office, but I don't care - I don't think you can develop as an artist if
you only paint on weekends. After I got out of art school, I tried to
find a well-paid part time job, but there weren't any. I worked full
time for several years, had some interesting jobs, but when I was making
enough money to rent studio space - Catch 22 - I hardly ever had time
to go there. So I finally decided to take the plunge into freelancing,
and so far it's worked pretty well. I do jobs for several small cities
in the metro area, none of them more than half an hour away from
northeast Portland, where I live.
Working at home has a few disadvantages, but mostly I love it. My
office is in the big front bedroom (I sleep in the back one) with
windows looking out into an old lilac tree that's scrubby in winter but
bursts into gorgeous dark-purple bloom in the spring.
My house is small - only two bedrooms - but the rooms are big and
square, with high ceilings and plenty of windows. It was built around
the turn of the century, probably as servants' quarters or a
mother-in-law cottage for the big house next door, and it has all kinds
of nice stuff, like a plate rail in the dining room, a bay window in the
living room, and a little upstairs porch. Best of all, the basement is
dry and well-lighted and big enough to use as a studio. It's the first
house I've ever owned all by myself.
Living alone still seems like heaven after the years I spent with Nick.
We never got married - once was enough, for me - but after seven years
of living together, the disentangling of emotions and property are as
difficult and painful as in a regular divorce. Worse, we'd had trouble
selling our house, and had to stay together for an extra year before we
could get our money out and split. The minute I got my share of the
equity, I went out to hunt down a place of my very own. The mortgage
payment takes most of my available cash, but I don't grudge a penny of
it.
I caught myself gazing vacantly out past the budding lilac at the gray
sky beyond. It was one of those gloomy March days that go from clouds to
rain and back again all day long, sometimes with a little hail thrown
in for variety. I dragged my attention back to Westbank's land use
problems. The City Engineer's words weren't inspiring: ". . . Westbank
has prepared service provision plans for the future development of lands
within the Urban Growth Boundary and the City of Westbank Boundaries. .
. . Approximately 800 acres of vacant buildable land are available for
future urban development, and have been activated by the City as
predominantly residential in use."
I groaned, then jumped as the phone shrieked suddenly from the desk behind me. I reached for it with relief.
"Angie Quinn, may I help you?" I said automatically.
"Hi, Angie, this is Joe, Rose City Typesetting. How are you, anyway?"
His big, generous voice seemed to balloon out of the receiver, and I
smiled. When you hear Joe Hannigan on the phone, you imagine a large,
florid man in his forties. When you see him in the flesh it's a shock,
like hearing tuba noises from a flute: he's slight and sixtyish, with
the bright blue eyes and wide, humorous mouth of an aging leprechaun.
"Hey, Joe! I'm doing fine. How about you?"
"Fine, fine. We miss you, though. Hardly ever see you since you got that fancy computer and started setting your own type."
"I know," I said. "It's lonely sometimes. Is that why you called? To cheer me up?"
"Nope, I've got something for you," he boomed. "Remember that old type
case I showed you? Well, we're finally getting rid of all our metal
type, so you can have a drawer if you still want one."
Worf, my cat, thundered up the stairs and landed on the desk in front
of me. He seems to think the phone is dangerous, and likes to keep an
eye on me while I use it.
"Oh, great! Sure, I still want it. You mean right away?" Worf nudged my arm, his green eyes huge. I stroked him reassuringly.
"Any time. I'm cleaning out the type now, but no hurry."
I looked at my watch. Almost three o'clock. I had to go out to Westbank
for a meeting at four, and I was still in my old blue sweats, but I
really wanted that type drawer. Its shallow compartments would make a
great display case for all my most precious little doodads. It was
destined for the bare spot on my living room wall.
"I'd love to come and get it tonight, Joe, but I don't think I'd be
able to get there before five-thirty - maybe quarter to six if the
traffic's bad."
"No problem, I'll be here. Just ignore the Closed sign and come on up; I'll leave the door unlocked."
"Are you sure? I don't want to put you to any extra trouble."
"No, no, glad to do it!"
I hung up, glanced at my watch again and abandoned Westbank's land use
problems with relief. Maybe I'll be more inspired tomorrow, I thought,
as I yanked off my sweatshirt and headed for the bedroom. I don't meet
my clients face to face very often, so I don't keep much of a business
wardrobe. I get a lot of mileage out of an oversized black knit blazer,
paired with black knit pants or a skirt. It was pants today, with my
favorite coral sweater and some big copper earrings. I stepped back from
the mirror to get a full-length view: yes, the black was still doing a
great job of hiding my extra pounds. I flashed a smile at myself,
showing both dimples.
"Smart, businesslike, and slightly dashing, don't you think?" I asked
Worf, who had transferred himself to my dressing table. He stared, then
suddenly pressed the top of his head against my stomach. I can't resist
him when he does that, so of course I petted him and said various silly
and adoring things. His fur is beautifully soft and thick, black tabby
stripes over a warm ginger-brown almost the same shade as my hair. I've
had him since he was four weeks old, and he thinks I'm his mother; quite
different from my other cat, Sheba, who seems to think she's my mother -
or maybe my employer. Her attitude toward Worf is unambiguous: she
can't stand him.
It took me about twenty-five minutes to drive to Westbank on I-205, and
I spent most of it dodging trucks and commuters and wondering why
Jonathan had asked to meet with me. He's the city finance director, but
he's also in charge of the newsletter, by some inscrutable twist of
municipal logic. We get along fine, but we usually do our business via
phone, FAX, and email, and only see each other once a month when he
delivers the raw material to my office. He'd said something about
wanting me to edit his budget document, but I'd done that before without
a meeting and couldn't see why it required one this time. I zipped in
front of a ponderous fuel truck and turned off at the Westbank exit.
Westbank doesn't maintain a lot of formality. When I arrived at the
Finance Department, there was no one at the front desk, so I leaned over
the counter and waved at Kelly, the nearest clerk. She looked up from a
pile of purchase orders and grinned, showing the slight gap between her
two front teeth. With her freckled nose and blond ponytail she looked
about twelve years old.
"Hi, Angie! Haven't seen you in a long time! You here to see Jonathan?"
I admitted that I was.
"Just a second, I'll make sure he's there. . . ." She punched a few
buttons on her phone and spoke briefly. "He'll be right out. Hey, I
liked that article you wrote about the Police Department. You know, the
one where Officer Weinmann caught the duck? I really got a kick out of
it."
"Oh, yeah," I said, "Hill Street Blues Meets Wild Kingdom. I liked it too. Thanks, Kelly, it's nice to know somebody actually reads the things."
Jonathan appeared, dapper as ever in gray pants and a blue Oxford cloth
shirt, thick black hair neatly combed. With his narrow, bony face and
heavy brows, he looks intense and slightly intimidating - at least until
he smiles.
He escorted me politely back to his office: probably all of eight feet
away. As usual, every available surface was covered with papers; bulging
file folders, scribbled notes on yellow legal pads, vast bound stacks
of green-and-white striped computer paper. An unsteady pile of books
included catchy titles like Westbank Municipal Codes, and Statement of Taxes Levied in Clackamas County. Yellow post-it notes clung to the wall, telephone and desk blotter in random groups, like a flock of migratory butterflies.
I accepted a paper cup of coffee, then looked around for some place to
set it down, but the computer keyboard and the calculator were the only
bare spots in the office. My fingers were getting hot. I transferred the
cup to my left hand and smiled at Jonathan, who was leafing through
some papers, his heavy brows pulled together. "Is this a test? If I
figure out what to do with the cup, it proves my fitness to be employed
by the City of Westbank?"
He started, the eyebrows shooting halfway up to his hairline. "I'm
sorry," he said, swiftly clearing a small spot on the desk. "Here, how's
this? Would you like some sugar or something? Sorry everything's in
such a mess, but I'm coming down to the wire on this year's budget, and.
. . ."
"I'm fine," I said, staring at him. It's not like Jonathan to fuss and babble; not like him to miss a joke, either.
"Okay." He took a breath, then reached for a thick document held
together with two black metal clamps. "Here's this year's budget
document. The narrative's mostly the same as last year, but I've got
some new stuff stapled in there, and you'll need to rewrite those parts
and make sure the whole thing fits together. You did a great job last
year; just do it again and we'll probably win another GFOA award. You
still have the text from last year on disk?"
His manner returned to normal as we discussed computers, deadlines and
the progress of the current newsletter, and I was getting ready to leave
when he suddenly said, "Angie. One more thing."
He leaned forward, his voice quiet. "This may not affect you at all,
and certainly not for some time, but I think it's only right to let you
know. City Council has approved Phil's - the City Manager's - request
for a full time Public Information Officer position. The ad will appear
in the Oregonian next Sunday."
It took me a second, then I said, "You're saying Phil will want this
new person to do the newsletter." No wonder he'd jumped when I joked
about my fitness to be employed by the City. My stomach began quietly
tying itself in knots.
"I don't know what his plans are," - his voice was carefully neutral -
"he hasn't confided in me; but it's possible he'll want to do it that
way."
"Yes," I said, "it would be logical." My voice sounded calm, even casual, but I guess Jonathan wasn't fooled.
"If it were up to me, Angie, you'd be doing it forever! You've done a
great job; everybody likes it." He smiled warmly and gave me an
encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Maybe this new person will have sense
enough to know that you don't fix something that isn't broken."
I gathered purse and papers and got up. "Maybe so, Jonathan. I hope so."
I was on my way out when Kelly called to me. "Angie! If you can wait a
second, we'll have a check for you; Gail's just running them through the
protector."
"Sure, I can wait." I went over to stand beside her and watch Gail feed
checks through a small machine that buzzed like an angry wasp as it
stamped each one with an amount and a signature.
Kelly nodded at the thick document in my hand. "Jonathan keeping you busy?"
"Yeah, for now, anyway." I hesitated, then went on. "Maybe there won't
be so much for me to do when Phil hires this new PR person, though."
She snorted. "Yeah, right. Like a PR person is just what we need, when
we're all jammed into this little building, bursting at the seams, and
the cops are working double shifts and the library's cutting their
hours. And that position wasn't in the budget, either. You know why I
think he wants a PR person?"
"Why?"
She lowered her voice. "Damage control. He's already done a lot of
stuff people don't like, and he's sucking up to the big developers, and
then there was that awful thing with Pat, in the Planning Department. . .
. of course, that wasn't his fault. . . ."
I nodded. Nine months before, Pat Glazer, the City Planner, had arrived
at work on a Tuesday morning, locked her office door and shot herself
in the head.
"And they still don't know why she did it?"
Kelly shook her head, her pert face sober. "I guess her son was really
broken up; he'd just graduated from some big ivy-league college. Like,
'Look, Mom, I made it,' and then boom, she shoots herself."
Gail turned from the machine then, holding out my check. "There you go, Angie; you just saved us a stamp."
The familiar pale-green oblong seemed suddenly precious and significant, as I realized there might not be many more.
I drove back to Portland with my head in a whirl. The Westbank
newsletter doesn't bring in a lot of money, but it's steady: a few
hundred dollars every month, regular as clockwork. When you're
self-employed, a job like that can mean the difference between sink and
swim. I do newsletters for Braddock and Canyon City, too, but they're
both quarterlies. All my other projects are sporadic, subject to
bureaucratic whims and sudden budget cuts. So far, it's always evened
out by the end of the year, but without Westbank's steady trickle to get
me through the lean months, I could be in real trouble.
I thought of my house payment and cursed Phil Blashfield and his
as-yet-nameless Public Information Officer. Ever since Phil had taken
over as City Manager, things had been changing at Westbank, and not for
the better, as far as I could tell. But why did he have to mess up my life?
It was drizzling again as I crossed the Fremont Bridge, and the
combination of cloud cover and fading light made the trees and grass
look vividly green, almost fluorescent, as I threaded my way through the
network of narrow residential streets that edge the northwest
industrial area. It was five-thirty-five when I pulled up in front of
the Joe's building on Seventeenth. The Closed sign was up, but the heavy
front door opened to my habitual hearty shove, and at the top of the
stairs a faint light filtered through the frosted glass panel in Rose
City's door. I started up the dark stairs, calling "Joe?"
I thought I heard footsteps, but no one answered. When I got to the
top, I knocked perfunctorily, then went in. The lights were on in the
front room, and big manila envelopes were neatly arranged on the high
counter, each labeled with a client's name. Where was Joe? I moved
forward, peering toward the glassed-in workroom at the back, but why
would he be in there with the lights off?
A stab of pain in the sole of my foot told me I'd stepped on something
small and hard. Swearing under my breath, I picked up a tiny block of
metal carved with a pointing hand.
"A dingbat," I said to myself, then jumped as I heard a harsh gargling breath.
I rounded the end of the counter with one giant step and froze. The
type case stood a few feet away, empty slots where its shallow drawers
had been. A few empty drawers leaned against the wall; one, still
spilling metal type, lay smashed at my feet. Behind the counter, Joe
Hannigan sprawled on the floor, face down, his white hair matted with
blood.
CHAPTER TWO
My first reaction was a sort of interior wail: "Oh, NO-O-O-O-O! Not Joe!
Not me - I don't know what to do!" Idiotically, I even looked around as
if hoping to see someone - my mother, my sister, the Marines - coming
to my rescue. Then Joe drew another ragged breath, and I yanked myself
back to adulthood and headed for the phone, dialing 9-1-1 with a finger
that shook only slightly.
The dispatcher was patience itself, and I managed to give her most of
the pertinent facts, at least who, what, and when. She already seemed to
know where, though she did ask me to confirm the street address. I was
so rattled, I had to look at one of the manila envelopes to make sure.
I described Joe's condition as well as I could, peering reluctantly at
his half-hidden face and bloody hair. No, I told her, I didn't think he
could have fallen; I thought he'd been hit. Well, because of the way he
was lying, and from the bump on his head. Yes, I told her, he was still
bleeding. Yes, quite a lot. No, not spurting.
The dispatcher suggested some things I could do - monitor his
breathing, apply direct pressure with a clean dry cloth (only where was I
supposed to find any such thing in a type shop?) - and suddenly her
calm, passionless tone was infuriating. Here's Joe lying on the floor,
hurt and bloody and maybe dying, and she's reading the First Aid manual.
When she asked if I wanted to stay on the phone until help arrived, I
almost shouted, "No!" then added hastily, "Thank you." Heaven forbid I
should be rude, even with the world collapsing.
The minute I hung up I was sorry. Without that link to another human
being, the room seemed bigger and emptier. I was on my own. What should I
do first? I thought of calling Joe's family, then realized I had no
idea how to reach them. I thought he had a wife, but I didn't know her
name or where they lived.
I could look for that clean cloth, I thought vaguely. Instead, I knelt
down by Joe. His head was still bleeding a little, though more slowly, I
thought. Blood had run into the deep creases that webbed the back of
his neck, and his breathing sounded awful. A bubble of emotion welled up
in my chest and burst out my mouth in a sort of dry sob. Oh god, I
thought, not now! I shut my mouth tight before anything else could
escape and strained my ears, hoping to hear sirens, but there was
nothing.
I drew a deep breath, willing myself to shut up, be calm, and gently
laid a hand on Joe's back. "Joe," I said, "I'm here. Don't worry, you'll
be okay. I'm going to try to find something to stop that bleeding now."
I got up. He looked small and frail, lying there on the green linoleum,
and I realized how much the personality I thought of as "Joe" depended
on his big voice and bright blue eyes. As I stared around the room,
looking for some cache that might conceal a clean dry cloth, I
remembered how nice he'd been to me, from the very first. Who could have
done this to him?
The back of my neck prickled as I remembered the footsteps I'd heard.
What if the person who had done it were still around? There was no place
to hide in the front room, but the darkened back room was another
story.
I've always despised those movies where the plucky heroine goes
charging right into the dark stairway or sinister laboratory where you
know something horrible is going to grab her. When I see them on TV I
tend to yell, "Don't go in there, Stupid!" but now I was beginning to
understand. I did not want to go into that back room, but I had to try to help Joe.
I approached the workroom doorway, the tightness between my shoulder
blades mounting at every step. Cautiously, I peered in. Some light from
the front room came through the glass, but the big machines and tall
worktables provided plenty of possible hiding places. Gritting my teeth,
I leaned forward and stretched my arm as far as it would go until one
finger touched the light switch. I flipped it on and froze. There was no
movement; no sound but Joe's harsh breathing. I let out my own breath,
eased cautiously into the room and looked around, but there was no one
there. The gray metal door in the far wall was locked; I rattled it to
make sure. A second door led to a small unisex bathroom. I checked it
out with the same arm-reaching/spine-tingling technique I'd used for the
workroom and was relieved to find it empty of head-bashers and well
supplied with paper towels: not the scratchy tan kind, but the white,
waffle-patterned kind. They weren't cloth, but they were clean and dry,
so I grabbed a handful and went back to Joe. I folded several towels
into a pad and pressed it against the wound, gingerly at first, then
harder. I murmured "Sorry, Joe," in case it was hurting him, and tried
to cushion his forehead from the floor with my other hand. His skin was
warm, and his forehead fitted neatly into my palm. The contact was oddly
intimate, and I felt a surge of protectiveness.
Where was the ambulance? Where were the cops? I craned my neck, trying
to see out the window. It seemed like I'd been waiting a long time, but
when I looked at the clock on the wall I saw it had only been a few
minutes. They had to be here soon.
Maintaining my pressure on the wound, I looked around, my eyes flitting
restlessly from the spilled type on the floor to the empty wooden
drawers against the wall to my left. Had one of those been meant for me?
Sure enough, there was a piece of paper taped to one, with "Angie" on
it in bold black letters. It looked like a good drawer: lots of little
compartments, different shapes and sizes. By stretching my neck and
squinting I could just read the yellowed label by the wrought iron
drawer pull: 16-72 pt Aurora, Alt. Char.
I remembered the little pointing hand I'd stepped on, and scrunched
down to look at the label on the smashed drawer. Sure enough, it read, Ornaments, Dingbats, 36-72 pt.
Joe had charmed me years ago by telling me that the little stars and
arrows and curlicues were called dingbats. Could he have been bashed on
the head with his own dingbat drawer? It seemed terribly wrong. I
listened to his labored breath and tried not to look at his blood-soaked
hair, and then, finally, I heard the sirens.
The door opened, and all at once the room was full of large, competent
people in uniform. Four police officers first, then paramedics and
firemen - six of them. This was rescue beyond my wildest dreams. I
leaned against the counter, watching as two paramedics knelt beside Joe,
checking his vital signs and muttering alternately into a radio and to
each other. Two police officers left the room, apparently to search the
rest of the building. Another, a tall black woman, crouched by the
broken type drawer and examined it carefully, then began to prowl
quietly, taking notes. Her partner, a heavyset man with graying sandy
hair and mustache, approached me.
"You made the call, Ma'am?" he asked. Up close, he looked huge and
intimidating; also extremely neat. His uniform shirt was freshly ironed;
his shoes were shiny; his badge said Parnell.
"Yes."
"I'll need to ask you a few questions," he said, flipping open a small notebook and giving me a mechanical half-smile.
The questions weren't hard; they started with my name and address and
went on to the events of the last half hour, which I'm sure I'll
remember till I'm ninety-five. All the firemen stood around and listened
intently. I tried to be coherent and cooperative, but I was distracted,
watching the paramedics as they worked over Joe, strapping him to a
board, fitting a band around his forehead and attaching an IV to his
arm. When they began moving him onto a gurney, I burst out, "What's
going to happen to him now?"
Parnell stopped in mid-question. "Well . . . they'll take him to the hospital."
"Yeah, but which one? And aren't you going to call his wife or somebody and let them know?"
He recovered his official manner. "This is currently an assault
situation. If there had been a fatality, the Medical Examiner would
contact the next of kin, but since the victim is alive. . . . no."
I stared. "But . . . you mean he'll be there all by himself, and nobody will even know where he is?"
Parnell looked slightly disconcerted, even defensive. "Well, I would
assume that the hospital would attempt to contact the family, but I
can't say for sure what their procedures would be," he said stiffly.
My backbone sagged. I was tired and hungry and longed for home, but I couldn't abandon Joe yet.
"Which hospital are they taking him to?" I asked.
When I pulled into my driveway several hours later, I felt as if I'd
been gone for days. Joe was still alive, still unconscious. I'd stayed
at the hospital, badgering nurses and Admissions clerks until they'd
assured me his wife was on her way. I switched off the headlights and
sat for a minute, feeling oddly squeamish about going into the dark
house, then gasped as small shape materialized on the hood in front of
me. Sheba peered in through the windshield.
Normally, I would have laughed, but in my wrung-out condition, it
didn't seem very funny. Wearily, I unfastened my seat belt and picked up
my purse. "Okay, your Serene Highness, I'm coming."
When I got out of the car she stared at me searchingly until I bent
down for a quick nose-to-nose inspection. Then, having apparently
satisfied herself that I was all right, she herded me efficiently into
the house, pausing impatiently when I stopped to lock and chain the
door, then headed straight to the kitchen, where we were met by Worf.
While he rubbed against my ankles and emitted throaty "rowls" of hunger
and encouragement, she perched on a tall stool and supervised, giving an
occasional lick to her tortoiseshell coat and graciously overlooking my
tired fumbles. I gave them tuna to apologize for my tardiness, and
leaving them hunched enthusiastically over their bowls, I grabbed a
handful of pretzels and went upstairs, turning on every light I passed.
One of the best things about my house is the bathtub. It's an
old-fashioned clawfoot, so long and deep I can stretch out and submerge
to the neck without any danger of overflow. I turned the hot water on
full blast and added a generous blob of my precious German bubble bath, a
gift from my niece, Dina. This was an occasion worthy of its healing
powers.
As soon as the bubbles had reached a reasonable level, I slid
cautiously into the tub, inhaling the herb-scented steam. I felt stiff
and old, every minute of my thirty-eight years and then some, and I
never wanted to see the inside of Rose City Typesetting - or any
hospital - ever again. I reached for a washcloth, and suddenly found
myself shaking, while all the fear and sadness I'd suppressed for the
past two hours swelled up into my throat in one giant lump. I pressed
the washcloth over my face, lay back in the comforting warmth, and let
myself cry.
Half an hour later, boiled, shriveled, pink-eyed and somewhat restored,
I sat on my living room couch eating scrambled eggs and toast with a
large glass of pinot grigio. It was good wine; too good to drink with
scrambled eggs, some might say, but to them I say Phooey. This might not
have been the worst day of my life, but it was probably in the top
three - and I needed some pampering. It was almost enough to make me
homesick for Nick. The thing about living with a partner, even an
indifferent one, is that there's usually someone there to listen to your
tale of woe and offer sympathy, or at least distract you.
For the first time, my beloved house felt empty and lonely. There were
too many windows, and too many dark corners. I decided that when I could
afford it, I'd replace the lace curtains with something more
substantial. I had a book open on my lap, but I kept seeing Joe's limp
body and bloody hair instead of the words on the page. I shook my head
hard enough to make the brains rattle and considered calling my sister.
She'd offer sympathy, all right - but did I want it badly enough to pay
the price? Rosemary's a good person and I love her; it's just that I've
spent so many years trying to struggle out from under her sisterly wing
that I hate to take a step back for any reason. I stared at the phone
and debated.
The whump of the cat door startled me. There was a wild
scrabble of claws on the hardwood floor, and Worf and Sheba sped by in a
demented blur, her nose an inch from his tail. They made a flying
circuit of the room, barely missing my shoulder as they levitated over
the couch, then launched themselves up the stairs, leaving the hall rug
askew and me clutching my plate. A minute later Sheba descended
unhurriedly, leaped gracefully to the coffee table in front of me and
began to wash her left hip.
"Come on, Baby," I coaxed, "come keep me company." I put down my plate and patted my lap invitingly.
She drew her fragile body up to its full height and stared regally down
her brindled nose - Helen Hayes as the dowager Tsarina - then jumped
down from the table. Obviously she had other plans. I sighed. I was
halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell clanged, making me jump a foot.
"Who could that be?" I muttered, glancing at my watch. Almost nine
o'clock.
Cautiously, I peered out one of leaded glass panels that flank my front
door. The porch light illuminated a smallish dark-haired woman,
standing half-turned toward the street. She carried a clipboard and
looked non-threatening, so I put the chain on and opened the door.
"Hi," I said tentatively.
She swung around, showing beautiful teeth in a wide, pleased smile.
"Hi! Oh, you are here! I'm sorry to stop by so late; I was
here earlier, but you weren't home, so when I got back from talking to
everybody else and saw your light on, I thought I'd just see. . . . I'm
your neighbor; from the big yellow house up the block? I've seen you
around, but I don't think we've ever been introduced. I'm Clio
Richardson."
I took a step back, opening the door a little wider. I liked her smile
and slight southern accent, and she didn't look like an ax-murderer or a
magazine salesperson, but you never know. I kept my hand on the knob.
"I'm Angie Quinn," I answered cautiously. "It's nice to meet you."
"So Angie, do you have a minute to talk?"
"Uh, well, it's late, and I've had kind of a bad day. . . . What's it about?"
The smile disappeared and the black-fringed eyes grew earnest. The
accent intensified. "I wouldn't bother you, but it really is important
for the neighborhood. It's going to affect all of us, and we've got to
do something right away. Did you know they're trying to tear down six
big old houses - good houses, not a thing wrong with them! - and
bulldoze the lots, and put up a whole lot of fancy, tacky row houses,
right here on our street? Just so some slimy developer can make a
profit? I'm really worried about what's going to happen to the people
who live in those houses, and what's going to happen to all the big
trees, and to our street. This is a great neighborhood, but if we don't
do something, it's never going to be the same!"
I unhooked the door chain. "Come on in," I said.
CHAPTER THREE
By the time Clio left, I knew a lot more about neighborhood politics,
"slimy developers" and high-density housing than I had before, and as I
shut the door behind her I discovered that I'd also found the
distraction - and even, indirectly, the support - I'd been wanting.
Somehow, the horrible events of the day had receded to manageable
proportions, and the idea of pouring out my woes to Rosemary seemed
strange and quirky.
As I got ready for bed, I deliberately kept my mind on neighborhood
politics, the "strategy meeting" I'd agreed to attend, and Clio herself.
Something about her appealed to me, and I toyed with the thought that
we might eventually be friends as well as neighbors.
I got into bed and prepared to read myself to sleep with The Greek Myths,
by Robert Graves, my standard soporific. It's interesting enough to
keep me from getting up and finding something else, and boring enough to
make me sleepy fairly soon. As I opened Volume One to Chapter 35, "The
Giants' Revolt," Worf leaped onto the bed and settled down for a
vigorous bath, leaning heavily against my hip. I was grateful for the
company, but it was like being in bed with a minor earthquake.
"Hey, buddy," I said, "lie still and I'll read you a story. Listen:
'Enraged because Zeus had confined their brothers, the Titans, in
Tartarus, certain tall and terrible giants, with long locks and beards,
and serpent-tails for feet . . .' Sounds sort of like Officer Parnell,
doesn't it?" He stared at me over the furry bulge of his stomach, hind
leg at half-mast, for approximately two seconds before resuming his
ablutions. Hoping the bath would be short, I went on reading - silently
- and by the time I'd gotten to Chapter 38, "Deucalion's Flood," Worf
was stretched warm and purring against my side, and I could hardly keep
my eyes open. In spite of the horrible day I'd had, I fell asleep almost
instantly.
I woke at 7:30 the next morning to find that the millennium had apparently come; both
the cats were on my bed, peacefully sleeping less than a yard apart. I
was astounded; also a little uneasy, because the only thing separating
them was my body, and I didn't think their détente would
outlast their awakening. I lay still, sleepily pondering the hazards of
being in the middle of a hiss-and-swat session, and waited for the rest
of my brain to wake up. When it did, I was sorry. Yesterday came back
full force, looking even worse in retrospect.
I groaned, waking both cats. Worf thudded hastily to the floor, where
he was immediately seized by a series of waking-up sneezes. Sheba
stretched thoroughly, then jumped down and sauntered past him with a
contemptuous glance.
I felt like pulling the pillow over my head and staying where I was,
but instead I threw back the covers and headed for the shower. I still
had a newsletter to write - though it might be the last one - and
besides, now that the cats were awake, they'd pester me until I fed
them.
As soon as I was dressed, I called the hospital and asked for news. Joe
was still alive, the nurse told me, and still unconscious. If she knew
any more than that, she wasn't telling. I hung up, feeling depressed and
frustrated, and went downstairs to get fresh water and a can of Beef
Banquet (for them) and corn flakes and coffee (for me).
Breakfast is a wonderful thing. By the time I'd finished my coffee, I
was feeling more cheerful. After all, I told myself, he's still alive;
he's just as likely to get better as to get worse. And surely Westbank
won't fire me after all these years.
I'd been working for over an hour, and had the land-use article almost whipped, when the phone rang.
"Uh, Angie? This is Mel Springer, Rose City Typesetting."
My stomach gave a slight lurch. "Oh, hi, Mel. What's happening? Is Joe. . . ."
"No, no," he said quickly, "Joe's still the same. We're just trying to
keep things going here . . . everybody's kind of in shock. Ellie was
with him all night, I guess, but she was so upset she didn't think to
call me until this morning. She says you're the one who found him, is
that right?"
"Yeah. Gosh, I'm sorry . . . I guess I should have tried to call you,
but things were so confused. . . ." I felt a twinge of guilt; I hadn't
even given Mel a thought last night. I was vaguely aware that Joe had a
partner, but our paths hadn't crossed much. I hadn't even known his last
name until now.
"That's okay; you did fine. No, the reason I called is . . . well, the
cops told me what happened last night, but it was sort of bare-bones. I
was hoping you'd tell me your version; maybe fill in the details. And
there's a type drawer here with your name on it; maybe we could get
together?"
"I probably can't tell you much more than the police did, Mel," I said
slowly, "but I can tell you what I saw, of course. Uh . . . I suppose
you want me to come over there?"
"I'm sorry to ask," he said apologetically, "but things are pretty crazy here today, and I don't feel like I can leave."
We arranged to meet in half an hour; might as well get it over with, I
thought. I abandoned my article in mid-sentence, put on some lipstick,
added a leopard-print scarf to my taupe pants and yellow sweater, and
was on my way. I made a brief detour to Coffee People, and fortified by
a double Cappuccino, arrived at the type shop right on time.
I climbed the stairs in slow motion, then paused with my hand on the
door. "Come on, Quinn," I told myself bracingly, "that was last night.
This is now."
I pushed open the door and was confronted with a scene so reassuringly
normal and familiar that the events of last night seemed like a dream.
The broken drawer and spilled type were gone; there was no trace of
blood on the green linoleum, and the pale sun shone through the windows.
Machinery clicked and hummed, papers rattled, people moved purposefully
back and forth. The only incongruous note was Mel, who sat at Joe's
desk behind the high counter, making corrections on a pile of type
galleys. Seeing me, he tossed the pencil down and heaved himself to his
feet, making the battered old swivel chair squeak protestingly. He came
toward me, automatically passing a palm over his bald spot.
"Angie! Thanks for coming." He was smiling, but his round face was pale
and creased with anxious lines. "Come on back to my office; it's
quieter."
He led me to a glassed-in cubicle sparsely furnished with a desk, file
cabinets, and a gray metal bookcase full of ledgers. I took the chair he
offered and looked around curiously while he settled himself behind the
desk. There wasn't much to see; three of the walls were glass from
waist-height on up; the fourth held a bulletin board plastered with
notes and type samples, and a wall calendar with a beautiful four-color
photograph of Mt. Hood. Probably a freebie from some printer. I
squinted, trying to read the logo at the bottom of the page: Adlard
Properties. No, not a printer. Mel cleared his throat and I forgot the
calendar as I turned to face him.
Now that he had my attention, he seemed reluctant to start. He moved a
pile of invoices, picked up a letter opener and put it down again, and
finally spoke. "This is a terrible thing." The words came out slowly,
separately, as if each weighed ten pounds. He paused, then added, "Joe
and I have been partners for twenty years." He put his finger carefully
down on the very tip of the silver letter opener and began twirling it
in precise half-circles: 180 degrees to the right, 180 degrees to the
left. He shook his head, let the knife drop, leaned forward. "Well.
Would you mind just . . . going through it from the beginning?"
I told the story the same way I'd told it to Officer Parnell - just the
facts, Ma'am - soft-pedaling the gore and leaving out my own fears and
general wimpiness. He didn't interrupt, though he drew in his breath
sharply when I mentioned hearing the footsteps. As soon as I finished,
he asked, "You say you didn't see anyone? You're sure?"
"No, nobody."
His eyes probed mine. "No impressions, who it might have been?"
I shook my head. "No, sorry."
He leaned back, sighing explosively. "The cops seem to think someone
came in to try to rob the place, but I can't buy it. We don't keep cash
around, and most of our equipment is too big to steal. It just doesn't
make sense."
"Maybe when Joe wakes up. . . ." I said hopefully.
"Yeah." He sighed again, passed his hand over his bald spot, and stood
up abruptly. "Well, Angie, I sure appreciate your coming down here, and
of course everything you did for Joe."
I muttered some kind of confused disclaimer, but his voice went on,
topping mine as he turned and reached into the space between his desk
and the wall, pulling out a type drawer. "Anyway, here's your drawer;
least we can do is make sure you get that. You parked close? Want me to
carry it out for you?"
I assured him I was perfectly capable of hoisting a whole fifteen
pounds or so, asked him to keep me posted on Joe's condition, and before
you could say "dingbat," I was out on the sidewalk, awkwardly clutching
the drawer to my bosom while the tag that said "Angie" fluttered in my
face.
I cast a puzzled glance up at the typeshop windows. "Here's your hat,
what's your hurry," I muttered. Was it my imagination, or had I just
been given the bum's rush?
I was still trying to decide as I drove back across the Broadway
Bridge, sparing an automatic snarl for the still-under-construction
Blazer Dome that was blighting the edge of my neighborhood. I'm not a
basketball fan, though you can practically be lynched for admitting it
in this town, and I resent having my tax money used to tie up traffic
and rake in more money for a bunch of bloated sports gods.
My mood improved as soon as I turned into my own tree-lined street, and
I decided I'd misinterpreted Mel's behavior. After all, he was busy; he
was worried; what did I expect?
I wrestled the type drawer into the house and decided to clean it up a
little before I went back to work. Those cute little compartments had
collected a lot of dust over the years, and it took me a good twenty
minutes with a damp rag. I should have stopped there, but I spent
another fifteen minutes hunting for screw eyes and picture wire and
rigging it all up, and by the time I actually hung it on the living room
wall, I'd invested almost an hour that would have been better spent
meeting my deadline. I did a fast pickup of tools, hardware and wire
snippets, then stopped halfway to the wastebasket with Joe's tag in my
hand. I turned it over: just a beat-up sheet of scrap paper, with some
crossed-out typing on the back. Joe's bold black capitals had bled
through; you could read my name from either side. I knew I was being
silly, but somehow I couldn't throw it out - not yet. I opened the door
of my grandmother's steeple clock, and stuck it in behind the pendulum
along with a shriveled horse chestnut and Worf and Sheba's old ID tags.
Since the clock stopped working five years ago I've gotten in the habit
of using it to store oddball things that don't seem to belong anywhere
else. I shut the little pointed door and looked at my watch. Time for a
quick lunch, then back to work. With any luck, I could get the
newsletter finished and off to Jonathan before the end of the day. Then I
could go to Clio's "strategy meeting" with a clear conscience.
Copyright © 2003 Lauren Lynn McGraw. All rights reserved.
THE FORGETFUL POET
By Ruth Plumly Thompson
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, February 25, 1917.
The Puzzle Corner
"Why does the letter B in the word jubilee resemble a secret known only
to us two?" Because it is between you and I. Yes, that is the answer to
the first of last week's puzzles and WAR is the answer to the other.
Now, what animal fond of climbing ends in a flower?
Mr. G. Ography says that three places are hiding in this sentence: Can
Ada rush a bell fast? and three more in this: Carl's bad and 'es chilly.
There are two here: Cal cut a turkey! There are four here: Have Anna
Glass go grease china.
Send your answers to Mr. G. Ography, care of the Boys' and Girls' Department, Public Ledger.
[Answers next time. Please do not send answers to Hungry Tiger Press.]
Copyright © 2003 Eric Shanower and David Maxine. All rights reserved.
