Coming Unclued (9 page)

“No I don’t have an ice pick. I don’t even know what an ice pick is. Why the hell would anyone need to pick ice?” My voice was getting screechy.

“Okay. Relax. I’m just trying to help.”

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

“I picked up some cranberry muffins for us. Andrew, why don’t you have some cereal?” Julie nodded toward the bathroom door. “Something with some fiber in it.”

I so missed my condo. I dearly loved Andrew but I really didn’t want to be this conversant with his need for fiber.

Julie and I debated the work quandary over coffee and very tasty muffins, while Andrew slurped and crunched and dribbled his way through a bowl of cereal. My hostility must have been obvious, because as soon as Andrew left for work Julie decided to give me a class in staying married 101. “It’s an accommodation you have to make. The longer you’re married the more you want to take their face and shove it in the cereal bowl. Or the plate of spaghetti. But you don’t. You grit your teeth and soldier on. And that’s why I’m still married. Quite happily for the most part.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I said. “I’m probably going to be alone forever.”

“Maybe.”

“What do mean maybe? You think I’ll never find someone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you will. But any man is going to have habits that annoy you. And let’s face it, you’re not a tolerant person.”

“I’m plenty tolerant. I would just prefer that people eat quietly.”

Julie gave me a blank look as she sipped her coffee. Slurped her coffee if you want to be accurate.

“So what’s the verdict? You going to work? The police will want to speak to you again today. I’m surprised they haven’t called yet.”

“If I’m at work it will be easy for them to find me.” I thought about it for a moment. “I’m going to go. I need to face these people. And don’t you think it looks kind of suspicious if I don’t go in? Like I have something to hide.”

“You’d better get dressed then,” said Julie. “You’re going to be late. You’ll have to wear something of mine.”

“It won’t matter if I’m late. Mr. Potter was the only one who ever noticed. He used to tap his watch and shake his head and give me his surly, ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ look.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m going to miss him.”

“You did nothing but complain about him when he was alive.” She patted my hand. “I mean, I know you’re upset, but…”

“Of course I complained about him. He was a nit picky, snide, pain in the ass. But I’m sad that he’s dead.” I took a last bite of muffin. “Mostly I’m sad that he was murdered in my bed,” I admitted.

“If truth be told.”

“It’s so unfair. Why me?”

“It is unfair. All the vile people out there. Why couldn’t he have died in one of their beds?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk. Go get dressed.” Julie was into tough love, but even for her that was pretty callous.

“Are you calling my poor dead boss spilt milk? That’s pretty cold.”

And then we were both laughing. Hysterical laugher. Milk. Cold. We were beside ourselves. “No, no,” wheezed Julie. “The situation is spilt milk. You’ve got to get on with it. Spit spot.”

Spit spot. Onwards and upwards. This is the first day of the rest of your life. I put my head down on the kitchen table and switched gears into a good sob.

“Oh for crying out loud,” said Julie. “Pull yourself together. Think. What would Mary Poppins do?”

“Are you kidding me?” I said with a sniff. “My life is in the balance and you want me to look to a Disney character for inspiration?”

“Mary Poppins was a much loved literary figure long before Disney got their hands on her you illiterate. And my point is, she wouldn’t have slobbed around feeling sorry for herself. She’d be taking charge of the situation.”

“I had no idea you found Mary Poppins so inspirational,” I said with a sniff.

Rather than responding, Julie got up and busied herself loading the dishwasher. What would Mary Poppins do? She’d march right into that office with a smile on her face and win everyone over to her side. That was it. That’s what I had to do. I’d be an inspiration to downtrodden women everywhere. An Erin Brockovich. A Norma Rae. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m going to grab this mess by the balls.”

“There you go,” said Julie cheerfully. “Exactly what Mary would do.”

The offices of
Secure Your Future
are located on a busy street in midtown Toronto. It’s the kind of neighborhood that when we were married Jack always aspired to live in, and now that we’re not married actually does, in a beautiful four bedroom house on a tree-lined street. The pre-divorce Jack worked in insurance, as a claims adjuster, but about a year before we split up he decided he was going to try real estate. I wasn’t supportive. The first time I heard him telling a client that a kitchen was “to die for” I practically keeled over with laughter. Sylvia, who worked with him, didn’t laugh. She “nourished his talent” and Jack is now the Kondo King, enjoying a level of success he never dreamt of when we were together. People now actually say they bought a Kondo from the King and you can tell they mean condo with a K. He and Sylvia live only five blocks north of my office, though I’ve never dropped by for coffee. I do get to look at his face, however, as there is a giant billboard of the two of them smiling down at me as I exit the subway every morning. The first time I saw it I barely recognized Jack, his face looked so puffy and new, but I’ve grown accustomed to it and to give him his due; he’s been a good father to Evan.

Angie was sitting at the reception desk leafing through the paper and drinking a coffee when I came in. Angie is a glamorous woman a few years younger than me, with hair dyed a sexy red and a vavoom figure. She’s never been married, likely because of her total contempt for men. She isn’t overly fond of most women either, though she’s always been quite friendly to me. Angie is possibly the smartest person at
Future
, but her bad attitude has kept her from moving beyond reception. Not that she cares. She’s been picking up investment knowledge and putting it to good use for close to twenty years and now has what she refers to as a “healthy portfolio — very healthy”. She’s told me she doesn’t even need to work anymore but she’d be bored staying home all day. Instead she comes to work and entertains herself by misrouting calls, not writing down messages, and neglecting to send out packages.

Angie looked quite horrified when she saw me. “What are you doing here?”

“Coming to work, like I usually do on a Monday morning.” I lowered my voice. “Why — has anybody said anything?”

“Are you cracked? What do ya think? Mr. Potter is dead and you’re on the front page of the
Sun
. No — no one’s mentioned a thing. Just business as usual around here.” She held up the front page of the paper and practically shoved it in my face.

Oh shit. The headline read
Santa Slain
.
Blood-soaked Businessman Found Dead in Secretary’s Bed.
And there I was, bleary eyed, hair blowing everywhere and it did look like I was kicking that damn cat. There was a smaller picture of Mr. Potter, who clearly didn’t warrant as much attention as me, seeing as he was only the deceased. He was wearing a Santa suit. A Santa suit from the one time he participated in a charitable event. I remember it well. The whole office delivered presents to Sick Kids Hospital and to add to the merriment Mr. Potter decided to dress up as Santa. One of the children was near inconsolable when she saw the five foot five inch 135 pound Santa Ho Ho Hoing at the end of her bed.

Angie looked at me and shook her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“What the hell was he doing in your bed? How desperate are you? Harry Potter! You must have had to wear a gas mask.”

“I don’t know why he was in my bed. That’s one of the reasons I came in today. I need to talk to people and find out what went on at the party. What do you remember?”

“I, the woman who wasn’t doing shooters, remembers everything.”

Shooters. A forty-seven year old woman doing shooters. I deserve all of this. “Thank God. You have to tell me. I have no memory.”

“I’m not surprised.”

The front door swung open and Douglas Gimble strode in, a look of revulsion on his face at the sight of me. Douglas was the company’s second in command and Mr. Potter’s heir apparent. He was a decent enough guy but I wasn’t sure I entirely trusted him. Greasy, my mother would have called him. He was great looking though. Tall, fair and handsome with a big, shiny botoxed forehead so smooth you could use it for a movie screen in a pinch. He goes to the gym every day before work and was so disciplined it’s unlikely anything unhealthy had passed his lips in years. When it’s his turn to bring in Friday treat he buys a fruit tray from the grocery store. When Douglas went on vacation last summer he came back with those really white teeth that look like they’re made out of the same material as a bathtub. A little disconcerting at first, but I’m used to them now and hardly notice. Except when he smiles, which is hardly ever.

“What’s the door doing unlocked?” he demanded. “We’re closed today.”

“I forgot to lock it,” said Angie, in a bored voice. She picked up an emery board and started filing her nails. It must be quite relaxing to have so much money that you really don’t give a shit.

“You forgot? And what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded of me.

“Coming to work. I didn’t realize we were closed.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” he raged. “You’re on the front page of the
Sun
. What if someone sees you here? Do you know how that looks for the company? Why the hell aren’t you in jail?”

Jerk. “I’m not in jail because I too am a victim.” I too am a victim? I sounded like an idiot. “And it won’t hurt the company. You know, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” I’d heard that before, though, upon reflection I could see where it might not apply in this case. “And I have every right to be here. This has all been a terrible mistake.”

“I can’t deal with this right now. I need a coffee. “You,” — he pointed to Angie. “You make a sign, a nice sign that says we’re closed out of respect to our founder Mr. Harold Potter.” He turned on me again. “I can not believe you showed up here today. What if Sophie comes in? Did you have a plan for that?”

No I didn’t, given I didn’t know who Sophie was.

Douglas must have deciphered my blank look. “Mrs. Potter. Harry’s widow. Wife of the deceased.”

Angie couldn’t take it anymore. “She gets it. His widow. And why would she come by?”

“Look — I have a ton of stuff to do. Just get out of sight until I figure this out,” Douglas snapped. “Angie, if anyone from the press calls put them through to me. Do not answer any questions. Do you understand?”

“No, why don’t you run through it again?” replied Angie. Nothing, not even the murder of her boss, threw her off her game.

“I’ll be in my office collecting my thoughts,” said Douglas as he stormed down the hall.

Angie rolled her eyes. “Our new fearless leader. And you thought Mr. Potter was bad.”

“I didn’t think Mr. Potter was so bad.” I was really beginning to regret having complained so much about the poor man.

“I believe you coined the phrase, ‘his breath smells like someone shit in his mouth.’”

“Well he had a little problem there. But as a boss I liked him all right.”

“You described him as Gomer Pile with an accounting degree.”

“I meant it in a nice way. He was folksy.”

“And you had some pretty choice comments after he called you a — what’d he call you on Friday — an ignorant imbecile?”

“Incompetent imbecile.” As if he would call me ignorant.

“I knew it was something about an imbecile. You told me he was a weaselly little jerk and someone should put him out of his misery.”

“I was referring to the fact that he kept griping non-stop about his acid reflux. You know —give him some antacids. Put him out of his misery.” Why did I have to be such a bitch? It looked so bad. If I’d been super sweet people would be more willing to give me the benefit of the doubt when someone was stabbed in my bed. There’s a lesson.

Angie’s phone rang but she let it ring four times before deigning to pick it up. “Yes?” She listened for a moment. “No I have not made the sign yet. I’m mentally composing it.” She tapped her nails on the desk as she listened again. “Look Douglas,” she said, “Don’t use that tone with me. I know where all the bodies are buried.” She slammed down the phone.

“I have to make a sign and put a message on the machine,” Angie said. “And you have been kindly requested to either leave or repair to the back of the office where passersby won’t get a glimpse of you.”

“You know where what bodies are buried?”

“It’s just an expression. You’d better get back to your hole. I’ll come back and chat as soon as I get a chance.”

“Okay. Thanks. Hurry because I have lots of questions.”

“As do I.”

“Is anyone else in?”

“Ben’s back there. But officially we’re closed. I’m just here to change the voicemail. And because I didn’t want to miss any of the drama.”

I went looking for Ben, weaving my way through the cubicles. With all the empty desks, the office seemed even gloomier than usual. I glanced out the window as I walked by the boardroom. There was a light snow falling.

Ben was a nice guy who spent as much time as he possibly could at the office. He and his wife, Melissa, had two sets of twins under the age of four, and she was pregnant again. They’d just found out it was only a singleton this time and Melissa was devastated. She’d been hoping for twins so maybe they could get their own reality show.

Ben was sitting at his desk reading the
Sun
. I’d never realized what a lowbrow bunch I worked with. Didn’t anybody read anything other than tabloid newspapers?

“Hi Ben.”

He looked up with a startled expression.

“Hi Val. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well. Yeah, I’m here. Managed to break out of jail.”

Ben looked quite taken aback. “You were arrested?”

“No. No. I’m kidding. It’s all a big mistake.”

“Mr. Potter wasn’t in your bed?”