Berried, page 12
part #6 of Charlie Cooper Mystery Series
“Tomorrow I suggest we try connecting with that perky Tiffany from the reception desk,” Celeste said as Marge screeched off from the curb. “For now, let’s just call it a day.”
“I’m good with that,” I said. I couldn’t take much more. First had come the early morning wake up with a blast of awful music after only sleeping a couple of hours. Then our little stroll three stories up from a potential landing in a sea of speeding cars. Next had come the accidental peeping—into a men’s room of all places. Then Alex waving off our dinner date, and now a dressing-down by a lunatic.
“Works for me,” Marge sang out happily. “I already have plans, anyway.”
“What kind of plans?” I asked.
“I’m going to your house to help your mother paint the kitchen.”
Murderous mango cream tarts! If Marge got involved and threw out more ideas, this redecorating stuff will just go on forever.
Celeste inadvertently let out a honk of a laugh. She turned to me and grinned. “Have fun with that.”
I gave her a dirty look before refocusing on Marge. “Why would you do that? She’s never going to be done if you encourage her.”
Marge waved that thought away. “You’ve got this all wrong, hon. She’s going to be done faster. Besides, it’s so much fun to redecorate.”
I felt a headache coming on. Maybe I could just lock myself up in my room for the next six months and hope the sprucing up will be done by then.
We drove Celeste to her house, then Marge dropped me off at my car, and we both drove to my parents' house.
As soon as we entered the hall, my mom came running and gave Marge a huge hug. “Did you girls have a good day?” she asked. “I don’t know how you’re able to work in that boring world of technological this and that.”
Sometimes I forgot my pretend day job was in a field that involved consultation and computers.
“We did our best,” Marge said, “but my heart has always been in the world of design.” In truth, Marge had an endless list of interests, and each one would in turn surface to the top as her obsession of the moment.
“You have such a gift for color, Marge.” My mother grabbed her hand. “I feel like you just get me and the statement I want reflected on my walls. I feel we have a connection when it comes to design.”
What did that even mean?
“Where are Dad and Brad?” I asked.
“Your dad is at the diner, and Brad went into town to get something or another to do with his computer.”
Ah. The data storage stuff.
I studied the contents of the fridge and found some leftover chocolate cake. I sat down to eat a piece while my friend and my mother got to work, planning to turn the wall into a very bright and astonishing new color, the Bumblebee’s Gold Yellow, that Brad bought from the hardware store. Whoever picked that name must have been on drugs when they saw those bumblebees.
“Can I help?” I asked, hoping they’d say no.
“That’s okay, Charlie,” my mother said. “We’ve got this.” Then she and Marge high-fived and bumped fists.
I went up into my room before rolling my eyes became too obvious. I cleaned up a little, researched private detective stuff on my laptop, then I came back downstairs. I sat down at the kitchen table to visit with my mom and Marge and see what they were up to. Marge was up on a ladder while my mother worked on the bottom portion of the wall. I tilted my head and studied the new color. Hmph. What do you know? It was growing on me. It looked bright and happy.
“Nice work,” I said to them.
“Thanks,” Marge called out. “I need some more paint.”
“Wait, I’ll get that for you,” I said and stood.
“That’s okay, I got it,” Marge said.
She started coming down the ladder before I could reach her. In a very Charlie Cooper kind of way, she slipped on a top rung, losing her balance.
“Oooh,” I heard her squeak. It was the kind of tumble that wasn’t a problem with her. She landed on her feet, as she always did in situations far more dire than this.
The problem was my mother. Her arms flew into the air as she rushed to help, a paint can in her hand. The result of that was a very yellow Marge.
“Are you okay?” I asked Marge, leaping in her direction.
“OMG, did you get hurt?” My mother almost bumped into Marge.
“I’m fine,” Marge said. “I just slipped, but it’s not that bad.” She looked down in dismay. “I hope you have enough paint, because half of it is on me.”
“I’m so sorry, Marge,” my mom wailed.
“Don’t worry, this is nothing compared to…other things,” Marge said and discreetly gave me a wink.
She was right about that.
“You can take a shower upstairs, if you like,” I offered to Marge.
“Absolutely,” my mother said. “A shower. That’s perfect. Charlie, why don’t you rustle up a change of clothes for Marge while I get the towels?”
She rushed upstairs to gather the nice towels she put aside for guests.
Marge shuffled up the stairs, leaving the occasional drip of yellow paint behind her. With her settled in the upstairs bathroom, my mother and I turned our attention to the bright yellow mess. I guessed this was not the “statement” she’d had in mind.
We were on our knees, sopping up the paint when Brad walked into the kitchen, stopping short.
“What happened here?” he asked.
“Just a little mishap,” my mother said wearily.
With his one-track mind, my brother had no further questions about why a good portion of our kitchen was covered up in yellow. There was also no offer from him to grab a rag and help. There must have been aliens that needed to be zapped, evil kings to vanquish, or whatever silly things he did in the world of his computer.
“I’m going upstairs to change and then get on with my games.” He had a way of speaking with an air of importance as if he were heading off to do something less ridiculous, some grown-up kind of thing.
One minute later, I stopped scrubbing at that stubborn yellow spot in the corner.
“Did Brad say he wants to change clothes?” I asked my mom, frowning.
“I think he did.”
“So that means he wants to take a shower?” I asked.
My mom gasped and stared at me wide-eyed.
In that very second, we heard Marge yelp loudly from upstairs, followed by Brad wailing, “OMG, OMG, OMG!”
Chapter Thirteen
I sprinted upstairs as the bathroom door slammed shut.
Brad stood in the hall, covering his eyes. He was breathing hard. “Yellow…naked…woman! Why is there a yellow naked woman in the bathroom?”
“Brad, it’s only Marge. I’m so sorry, it’s my fault. I should have warned you.”
“Why is she yellow?” Confusion seemed to replace his dismay.
“It’s paint,” I said. “Didn’t you just see it in the kitchen?”
Brad looked at me puzzled.
“You bought the yellow paint, remember?”
Brad tilted his head.
I sighed. “Never mind. She’s spilled some paint, and it’s all just a mess.”
He shook his head hard as if to get rid of the image in his mind. Then he simply ambled down the hall to his room as if there was nothing more to say.
I tapped lightly on the bathroom door. “Hey, Marge, are you okay?”
I heard her snicker. “Your brother got a show, all right. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“So you’re good?” I asked.
“I’m always good, hon.”
Sheesh, I thought as I walked down the hall. What was this anyway? Walk in on People Naked Month? Sponsored, I supposed, by some manufacturer of locks.
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen was cleaned up, and Marge and my mother continued with the painting, this time with my help. Very quietly, we worked, concentrating hard on not falling, dripping paint, or bumping into one another. Tonight’s spaghetti sauce was simmering on the stove, and the smell of tomatoes, garlic, and oregano made me wish it was time to eat already.
A calm silence filled the room until we heard a small crash in the foyer and a shout. “Barbara,” my father called, “could we please clear some pathways, so a man can navigate from the front door to his kitchen? I am a simple man. I only ask for simple things.”
He came stumbling in, rubbing his left knee. He glanced up at the one wall we’d managed to complete. “Looking fine,” he said. “I think I’ll like the change.” Then he noticed Marge. “Well, hello there, Marge. You’ve been helping around?”
“Sure did,” Marge said proudly. ““It’s good to see you, Jack.”
“Thanks for helping out.” He crossed his arms and seemed to contemplate the yellow. “You are artists and visionaries. Great work.”
“I’m liking your new kitchen,” Marge said. “Very bright and cheery!” She wiped the excess paint from her brush into the can. “I wish I could stay longer, but I need to dash and check in on things at home.”
“Oh right,” my mother said. “I guess congratulations are in order. I heard about the additions.”
Marge reached for her cell, which contained a million pictures of her three new kittens. “Come see, come see, come see!” My parents gathered round.
“This precious little one is Boom,” Marge said as she scrolled through the pictures, “and Crack is over there. Oh, and would you look at my sweet little Pop?” They were named in honor of her beloved gun.
“Those tiny little faces,” my mother cried.
My dad leaned in to look. “Very nice,” he said, “but I hope Barbara here isn’t getting big ideas.”
My mom jokingly elbowed him.
“I thought a lot about the names,” Marge said. “At first I thought I’d go with Venus and maybe Aphrodite—goddesses of love.” She gave me a wink. “Then I found out I had three boys, so that didn’t do.”
After Marge left, Brad dared to come out of his room for dinner, still looking kind of shell-shocked. My mom’s spaghetti, though, seemed to perk him up, and we enjoyed our dinner. My father always kept us entertained with stories from his customers. If there was news in town, my dad had probably heard it before it hit the Daily Press. I knew who needed hip surgery, which spouse is a cheater, and who misplaced his TV remote and couldn’t find it for two full days.
I went to bed early, barely able to keep my eyes open long enough to brush my teeth and get into my sleeping t-shirt.
When I woke up the next day, it was nearly nine. I stared at the clock and then out the window at the sun streaming into my room. I guessed the elderly exercisers had a break from class today.
Downstairs, I found Brad drinking coffee.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked.
“She went to run some errands, some new paint or whatever.”
I poured some coffee and grabbed an apple muffin from a plate my mom had left by the coffeepot. Wow. I was really late for work. This hardly ever happened. I counted on my mom’s dreadful eighties music to get me up on time, but maybe this way was good too. The sleep had felt magnificent, and after the other night, I needed to fill up my sleep tank.
After a quick shower and an equal quick blow-drying of my hair, I yelled goodbye to Brad—who was already back in his room, presumably hard at work—and got into my car. When I got to the office, Marge was filling Celeste in on how she had flashed my brother.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Marge called out to me, hopping onto the edge of her desk. “How’s Brad?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll survive.” I smiled sheepishly and sipped the coffee I’d brought with me.
“Was he really white as a sheet?” Celeste asked.
“Yup,” I said.
“I don’t get men,” Celeste deadpanned.
“Amen, sister.”
“I’m with you.”
Marge and I spoke at the same time.
I plumped on the couch. “So, what’s up for today?”
“Our client, Mr. Sunshine, wants an update,” Celeste reported.
“He wants to get together early in the evening.” Marge flipped through her phone. “I guess it’s good you slept in. It’s going to be a long one. The plan is that we’re going to pick him up.”
“He refused to come into the office.” Celeste tapped something on her laptop. “He wants us to drive there and chauffeur him around, probably.”
That should be fun, I thought: the slowest driver on the planet in Marge’s death machine. “Where are we going, once we pick him up?” I asked.
Celeste kept on typing. “That, he didn’t say, so we’ll be surprised, I guess.”
“Yay!” Normally, I’d be bummed. Tonight was supposed to be my dinner at Alex’s apartment. Since that was canceled, though, I might as well update our client and get it over with. I sighed as I drank the last bit of my coffee. Instead of candlelight and Alex, I’d get a grump, and most likely, a tirade about what I was doing wrong. Did life hate me or what?
“Here’s the plan.” Celeste was shoving some paper and supplies into her Louis Vuitton carry-all. “Before we pick up the client, we’ll try to have a word with the Bernhards while we’re on the street.”
“Hopefully, they’ll be more helpful than the other neighbors.” Marge hopped off the desk and began gathering her things. “I really liked that Melissa girl, but we need information.”
“I’m down with that,” I said. “And we still need to talk to the receptionist, Tiffany Rogers.”
Marge gave me a thumbs-up. “Gonna do that now during the day. First stop, though, is Jack’s. Are you good with that?”
“I’m always good with food,” I said, “but do we have a plan for getting Tiffany to talk?”
“We’re winging it.” Celeste zipped up her bag.
“That’s the plan?” I asked.
Celeste smiled. “We’ll be approachable, nonthreatening. We’ll walk in there like three women you’d want to have as friends.”
“She could use a friend,” Marge said. “The way she bawled when hearing the news about Gossard’s death…”
It could work, I guessed. Part of the work we did was morphing into characters for the sake of getting sources to tell us what they knew. Marge, especially, had the kind of sympathetic face that made people want to spill out all their sorrows and tell her their life stories. All in all, we were getting better at extracting information from our subjects.
***
After a large breakfast, we pulled into the garage at Gossard and Gossard LLP where we had parked before. I kept my eye out for Alex. The fates seemed to pull him toward me like a magnet when I was doing something I’d rather he not know. However, when it was time for a romantic dinner, the fates said, no, no, no.
Once again, we took the elevator to the third floor and the spacious lobby. Unfortunately, someone else was sitting at the reception desk. A blonde in a neat blazer sat behind it. She studied us as we approached.
“Hello! We’re here to see Tiffany Rogers, please.” Celeste gave her a smile.
“I’m afraid Ms. Rogers is out sick today. Do you have an appointment?”
I had no idea how to answer. We should have thought this out. Was that something that one did—make an appointment with a receptionist? Somehow, I thought not. Thinking fast, I kept in mind our modus operandi: I would be approachable and pleasant.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, my name is Jennifer Smith,” I said, “and we’ve known Tiffany for years. We met back in college through our…um…sorority.” Okay, that was good. A sorority could work. That Tiffany person looked like someone who was once part of a sorority. “We had such a bond through Kappa Delta…um…Lambada.” I hoped that was a thing. “Sadly, we lost touch after college, but then we saw her at the mall just the other day. I was absolutely thrilled. We should have never ever let so much time go by—and with all four of us living here in Springston! Anyway, she told us we should absolutely stop by here and have a nice lunch. She made us promise we’d keep in touch. We told her at the mall, ‘Tiffany, you should come with us shopping!’ We were having our nails done, and then we planned to hit the shoe racks, but unfortunately, she had to do some work.” I pouted like some of the sorority girls I’d seen in the movies.
This was not a world I knew. I myself had been terrified of the whole idea of rush. I’d tried a few activities in college—intramural volleyball and chorus, for example—but mostly I watched movies with a group of three best friends. The Awkward Introverted Besties was the club for me.
The blonde receptionist frowned, but she seemed to buy my act. “Sorry,” she said apologetically. “Tiffany’s not here.”
“Oh, I know.” I clasped my hands together. “We should surprise her at her house. Wouldn’t that cheer her up?” I paused. “Do you know the silly girl didn’t even tell us where she lived? We don’t have her cell either. If you could just write down her address for us, we’ll be on our way. We’ll take her a nice lunch and some magazines and stuff. The nurses from—” Sheesh. What was that name again? "Kappa Delta Lambada will take such good care of her.”
The blonde receptionist frowned again, deep in thought. “Well, I really shouldn’t, but the truth is, Tiffany is having a tough time.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “This might be what she needs.” She sighed and wrote something down on a piece of paper, which she shoved in our direction. “Please give her our best.”
I flashed her a smile, and we turned and headed for the elevator.
“You go, girl,” Marge whispered in my ear once the doors were closed.
Celeste was refreshing her lipstick. “Yeah, good job.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure where that came from.” I looked down at the piece of paper. “Okay, where we’re going is 14 Mill Street.”
“Interesting,” Marge said.
Mill Street was located in one of the not-so-prosperous areas of town. I would have thought a law-firm salary, even for a receptionist, would have allowed Tiffany to live in a neighborhood that was more middle-class.
