Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Page 3

  I looked up to see mat the mail cart was again chugging around the corner into the reception area, with Ted still on board.

  “Oh, Lord,“ I said.

  “What's wrong?“ Michael asked.

  “Here comes the mail cart again. Are you sure you didn't bribe Ted to do this? So anywhere would seem better than staying here?“

  He chuckled.

  “No, but it's a thought,“ he said. “Who is Ted, and how do I reach him to bribe him?“

  If I were Rob, I thought, I'd crack down on Ted – speak to him about cutting out all these practical jokes. Not because of how disruptive they were; Ted would counter that by accusing the complainer of having no sense of humor. But clearly, if he spent this much time on practical jokes, Ted couldn't possibly be putting in a full day on his job. And we were on a tight deadline to release Lawyers from Hell II, weren't we?

  Of course, if I asked Rob to crack down on Ted, he'd probably tell me to take care of it. Me or Liz, and part of my assignment as temporary office manager was to take over a lot of the nonlegal responsibilities Rob had dumped on Liz.

  So maybe I'd put off speaking to Rob until I had time to deal with Ted myself. Or maybe I shouldn't even bother speaking to Rob. Just pretend I already had Rob's authority and put the fear of God into Ted. I rather liked the idea.

  The mail cart had stopped at my elbow, but I planned to ignore it until I had time to tackle Ted. I focused on Michael.

  “I should go now,“ he was saying. “But one more thing – “

  I heard a scratching noise by my feet. I glanced down and saw that the cat had emerged from her hiding place and was batting at something hanging down from the mail cart. It was an off-white computer cord, the thin kind that attaches a mouse to the computer.

  Why was Ted riding around trailing mouse cords?

  My eyes followed the cord up to Ted's throat. The mouse cord was wrapped around it, tightly, and the mouse lay neatly in the middle of his chest.

  I glanced at his face and then pulled my eyes away quickly, wishing I hadn't. He wasn't just playing dead. He really was dead.

  I sat there, watching the cat bat at the trailing end of the mouse cord for a few moments, until I realized that several lines on the switchboard were blinking. And George was getting restless.

  “Dream on,“ I told George.

  “What?“ Michael said. I'd forgotten I was still holding the cell phone.

  “Oh, Michael, I'm sorry; I have to go now; I think he's really dead this time,“ I said, and hung up.

  By now, all the switchboard lines were bunking. No free lines. No problem, I thought; I'll use the panic button.

  No, I thought, as common sense began to return. The only people who would answer the panic button were any employees still quivering from my earlier rant about not abandoning the switchboard operator in an emergency. Probably the last people I wanted around in a real emergency.

  So I began waving frantically, hoping Liz would look up from her law book soon and come to my aid.

  My cell phone rang. It was Michael. Of course; I couid use the cell phone to call out.

  “Meg, what do you mean? Who's really dead?“

  “Ted, the practical joker,“ I said. “Listen, right now I really need to call the police.“

  “Meg, can't I –?“

  “No. Stay out,“ I said. I was standing in the opening that separated the reception area from the rest of the office, arms folded, keeping people from leaving the premises or traipsing through the crime scene before the police arrived.

  Part of the crime scene, anyway. For all I knew, Ted could have been killed anywhere in the office. And any time during the last several hours. The few people I'd been able to ask had, like me, been ignoring him so successfully that we had absolutely no idea when we last noticed signs of life. But since there was no way I could cordon off the entire office, I settled for the reception area. Abandon hope, all ye who even think of entering here before I say so.

  “But I need to get some lunch,“ Frankie the Eager whined. I frowned more sternly while wondering if Frankie could possibly be old enough to have graduated from high school. Make that junior high. Did child labor laws apply to programmers?

  “Later,“ I said. “After the police get here. When the police say you can.“

  “Aw, c'mon,“ he began.

  “Never mind,“ said his much shorter companion, whom I recognized as Rico, one of the graphic designers. Actually, I recognized his RHODE ISLAND SCHOOL OF DESIGN T-shirt; without that distinctive wardrobe item, Rico would be yet another vaguely familiar new face. I still hadn't quite determined whether Rico owned only the one T-shirt or whether his alumnus zeal had inspired him to buy a wardrobe of them, though observation of distinctive pizza stains pointed to the former.

  “But I'm hungry!“ Frankie whined.

  Rico said something to him in a low voice.

  “Okay,“ Frankie said. “I guess I can eat later.“

  They turned and disappeared. Planning to sneak out, of course. At the back door, they'd find Liz. Fat chance getting past her. Dad, who happened to be in the office providing technical advice to the programmers working on a proposed new Doctors from Hell game, was guarding the side door to the hall. Having achieved what some mystery buffs only dream about – getting close to a real, live murder – he'd normally be wild with excitement and thus useless as a watchdog. But since I'd refused to let him examine Ted's body, he was sulking, and had apparently decided that if he couldn't have any fun, neither could anyone else. I did hope the police showed up before anyone figured out how to escape by rapelling down the side of the building, I heard a noise behind me – someone opening the front door. I turned and shouted.

  “Stop right there! I said no one comes in, and I meant it!“

  The door stopped about two inches open.

  “You didn't tell us this was a hostage situation,“ murmured an unfamiliar voice out in the hall.

  “It's not,“ I heard my brother, Rob, say. “That's just my sister, Meg, keeping people away from the crime scene. Meg? It's Rob. I have the police. Can we come in?“

  “Of course,“ I said. “You should have identified yourselves; I thought you were just more stupid sightseers.“

  “You can stay outside, Mr. Langslow,“ the unfamiliar voice said. “We'll take it from here.“

  I heard murmured conversation from the hall, and then the door opened, cautiously, and a head appeared.

  “Ms. Langslow? I'm Chief Burke.“

  Chief Burke was a balding, middle-aged African-American man whose laugh lines suggested that his face more often wore a smile than the current anxious frown.

  “Please come in, Chief,“ I said. “I'm just trying to keep all the rubberneckers out.“

  “We appreciate that,“ he said, stepping a little farther into the reception room. “Could you –? Oops!“

  I heard a thud, followed by the squeaking voice of the Affirmation Bear.

  “Whenever something makes me angry, I stop, take a deep breath, and try to see the humorous side of the situation.“

  “That's God-damned easy for you to say,“ the chief growled. And then he added, “Who the hell said that, anyway?“

  “I'm sorry,“ I said. “I guess you tripped over the bear.“

  By this time, he had fished the bear out from under him and was frowning at it. “It talks?“

  “Poke his stomach,“ I said.

  He did, tentatively.

  “Harder,“ I said. “Vent your frustration over being tripped.“

  The chief punched, harder, and I suspected, from his form, that he had boxed during his youth.

  “Don't keep anger and hurt feelings bottled up inside,“ the bear advised. “Find positive ways of expressing negative feelings.“

  “Mouthy little thing,“ the chief said, heaving himself up with the help of a worried-looking officer in uniform. “Sure hope the grandkids don't want one of them for Christmas. So – good Lord.“

  He'
d noticed George.

  “Office mascot,“ I said quickly.

  “Okay,“ the chief said. “Thought for a moment maybe you'd waited a little too long to call us.“

  We both laughed – nervously, and maybe a little more than the joke deserved. I found myself wondering if they saw many murders here in Caerphilly.

  “I'm going to have to clear people out of the crime scene while we investigate,“ he said.

  “I figured as much,“ I said. “Can we shoo everybody down to the parking lot?“

  “Well, by crime scene, all I meant was this room here, where he was killed.“

  “Yes, but he wasn't killed here. He was killed on the mail cart.“

  “Which is here in the reception area.“

  “Yes, now it is; but he certainly wasn't killed here. I've been sitting here at die switchboard all morning. I think I'd have noticed something as bizarre as one of my coworkers getting strangled with a mouse cord.“

  “Um… right,“ the chief said, glancing at George. “So someone moved the body?“

  “Not really. He was on the mail cart.“

  “You're not suggesting some lunatic wheeled the mail cart in here without even noticing there was a dead body on it?“

  I explained about the automated mail cart, Ted's obsession with it, and his annoying antics of the morning.

  “Let me get this straight, then,“ the chief said. “We have no idea where he was killed, because he was riding the mail cart all over creation, and no idea when, because everyone was ignoring him all morning.“

  “You got it.“

  “You're not going to make this easy, are you?“ he said. I was startled, until I realized he was looking up, not at me. “Okay,“ he said, turning back in my direction. “I guess we have to move all these good people out into the parking lot after all. You got an accurate list of who's supposed to be here?“

  “On the reception desk,“ I said. “There's a copy of the phone list. I already marked the employees who aren't here today, earlier this morning, so I wouldn't put through calls to them; and the sign-in sheet shows the visitors.“

  Half a dozen police officers fanned through the suite to herd everybody out. Just then Liz appeared in the reception area.

  “Chief Burke?“ she said, extending her hand. “I'm Elizabeth Mitchell, the firm's general counsel.“

  The firm. I noticed that, as usual, she avoided uttering the words “Mutant Wizards.“ According to Rob, about every six weeks she'd send another earnest memo suggesting half a dozen logical reasons for changing the company's name. I could have told her this was useless – the only reason Rob had named his company Mutant Wizards was that he thought it sounded cool. If she wanted to change the name, she should forget logical reasons and try to think of an even cooler name.

  “Pleased to meet you,“ the chief said. He looked a little wary. Maybe he expected her to raise some objection to his investigation. Or maybe he just found her a little intimidating – many people did. Not physically – she was only about five feet four. But I'd seen some pretty tough characters, like the guys from the moving company, back down when she went toe to toe with them.

  She was dressed, as usual, in monochrome – a slim, tailored black skirt, an off-white silk blouse, a scarf in tones of gray, black hose, and sensible black pumps. Only her face and hands kept her from looking like a black-and-white movie; and come to think of it, they didn't look real – just badly colorized. But she oozed chic, and I could easily have hated her, except for one thing – she always had some tiny flaw in her outfit. The sort of thing only another woman would notice. One day she'd been wearing two similar but not identical shoes. Another day one of her earrings had been bent at an odd angle so it looked as if a tiny hand was giving the world the bird. Last Friday, all day, she'd walked around with a spent staple stuck to the back of her calf, inside the pantyhose.

  I wondered if this were deliberate, like the flaws oriental rug makers always included in their works. Since it wasn't the sort of thing I could ask without mortally embarrassing her, I'd probably never know.

  And had she broken the curse today? No, I finally spotted the flaw. Poking up out of her collar was a tag, giving the size, fabric content, and manufacturer of her blouse. It was, I noticed, from an inexpensive catalog I sometimes ordered from. On her, the blouse looked chic, sophisticated, and expensive, just as it would in the catalog. On me, clothes from the same source always looked as if I'd chosen them with only a vague idea what size and cut would suit me, and kept mem largely to avoid the trouble of a trip to the post office to return them.

  She and the chief had begun chatting in what I recognized as the polite, small southern-town version of declaring one's turf and sparring for advantage. I left them to it and took out my cell phone to call Michael.

  “Meg!“ he exclaimed. “Thank God! Hang on a second.“ And then I heard him shout, “Can we take five?“

  “Michael, you're on the set; I'll call back,“ I said.

  “No, it's fine; they need to glue the mermaid queen's tentacles back on anyway. What's going on?“

  I gave him the Cliff's Notes edition of what had happened, as I watched the chief and Liz talking – with the uniformed officer scribbling notes at the chief's elbow. Apparently, Liz was telling what she'd seen during the day. I saw her pointing up to her perch in the library, gesturing as if describing the mail cart. Then she made a face and1 stuck out her tongue at the chief. Since he only nodded calmly, I deduced she was describing something Ted had done while riding around on the cart, not actually opening hostilities with the local authorities.

  “So, anyway,“ I said to Michael, “we've got the police crawling all over the office looking for I'm not sure what, and a dead body here in the reception room. I'd feel a lot better if they took Ted away before Dad has a chance to barge in and annoy the chief by trying to horn in on his investigation. You know how he is.“

  Michael chuckled. He had, indeed, seen plenty of examples of Dad's burning desire to get involved in real-life crime. As a sleuth, of course, not an actual perp.

  “Just don't let your dad suck you in,“ Michael advised. “Chief Burke is okay. I doubt he's investigated that many homicides, but he's a realist. I'm sure if he has any trouble finding the killer, he won't hesitate to call in the state authorities or the FBI or whoever smalltown police chiefs call when they need backup.“

  “No problem,“ I said. “All I ever wanted to do was figure out if there's something fishy going on here, like Rob wanted.“

  “You think maybe Ted's murder just answered that question?“

  “Definitely,“ I said. “And with luck, the chief will solve it all while he's wrapping up the murder.“

  “And then maybe I can talk you into coming out here for the rest of the shoot,“ Michael suggested. Was he a little too blase about this? Easy for him, since he hadn't seen Ted's body. Then again, more likely he knew me well enough to realize that the last thing I needed was someone making a fuss about how I was holding up.

  “That's sounding better and better,“ I said. “As soon as I'm sure everything's under control here, I'll book a flight.“

  “Fantastic!“ Michael exclaimed, “listen, they're ready for me – keep me posted on what's happening and when you're coming out, okay?“

  “Will do,“ I said, and signed off.

  While I'd been on the phone, a technician in a lab coat had arrived – a skinny kid so young I'd have mistaken him for an undergraduate. He'd begun doing what I recognized as a forensic examination of the reception area.

  “There you are,“ the chief said when he saw I was off the phone. “As soon as we get the staff cleared out, I want you to show me around the place.“

  Clearing the staff out wasn't going quite so smoothly as the chief seemed to expect, partly due to the pressure created by corralling a lot of very young programmers and graphic artists in a confined space with a heavy deadline looming over them. I could hear voices coming from the cube jungle, complaining
loudly that they couldn't possibly leave their desks now or they wouldn't be ready for this afternoon's “build.“

  A build, I'd learned in the last two weeks, was an important recurring event in companies that developed software. As far as I could understand, it meant that Jack, as team leader, told everybody to stop messing around with their parts of the program – yes, right now, dammit, not in half an hour – and launched a two-hour semiautomated process that was as temperamental as cooking a souffle. On a good day, the result would be a new, improved version of Lawyers from Hell II, containing all the cool stuff everybody had added since the previous day's build. All too often, though, the build would be so badly flawed that you couldn't even get the game started, much less play it – at which point, Jack would convene an all-hands meeting, chew people out, and then send them off to fix everything that was broken in time for an evening build.

  Evening builds were supposed to be rare. In the time I'd been around, we'd had one every day, Saturday and Sunday included.

  So while I could understand the programmers' eagerness to keep on with their work, I realized that someone might have to break the news to them that this afternoon's build would probably be canceled, and if they didn't stop arguing with the increasingly red-faced young police officers, they'd probably miss tomorrow afternoon's build, too, unless the chief allowed them to telecommute from the county jail.

  Beneath the shrill protests of the enthusiastic youngsters, I could also hear the deceptively calm, reasonable voices of some of the older programmers. By older, I meant that they were in their thirties, like me, and had some vague recollection of what life was like before computers ruled the earth.

  I don't know whether this was true of more mature techies in general or just of the crew Mutant Wizards had attracted, but they were, almost without exception, stubborn, independent iconoclasts with a sneaking fondness for anarchy, entropy, and coloring way outside the lines. My kind of people, under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. I could hear them calmly and rationally questioning the cops' authority to be there, disputing the necessity for clearing the premises, and generally causing trouble.