Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

Of course, if I was going to inspire the chief to expand his investigation beyond Rob, first I had to find the chief. Two hours into Tuesday, and he still hadn't returned to our office. Or returned any of my calls. Meanwhile I was stuck at the switchboard again.

“We're so sorry,“ the lady from the temp agency said, when I called to report that the promised receptionist had not shown up. “It's just that – well, you had a murder there yesterday.“

“Yes, I know,“ I said. “If your employees are worried about their safety, please reassure them that there's still a strong police presence here.“

Of course, the last time I looked, the police presence was in one of the conference rooms playing Nude Lawyers from Hell and giggling, but the lady from the temp agency didn't need to know that.

“Oh, I'm sure it's perfectly safe,“ the woman replied. “But – well, the only person we had available mis morning was Muriel, and she's rather timid – she said the idea of trying to work in a place where they'd just had a murder made her blood run cold.“

“How long do you think it will take you to find a warm-blooded receptionist?“

“We're working on it,“ the woman said. There was a pause.

“Muriel did say that she might reconsider if we offered her double pay for hazardous duty.“

“We want a receptionist, not an extortionist,“ I answered. “See if you can't find someone who'd love to get a first-hand look at a real crime scene. I'd be happy to give her a guided tour.“

So I was punching the buttons on the console just a little harder than necessary and answering the phone in the very brittle, polite voice that any reasonable person would recognize as a red flag.

Of course, why would any reasonable person call Mutant Wizards? I thought as I punched another blinking button.

“And what did that poor switchboard ever do to you?“

I glanced up to see Jack leaning against the wall by my desk.

“Nothing,“ I said, smiling in spite of myself. “But I can't throttle the dozens of friends and relatives who keep calling to ask what's going on. The staff are another matter. If one more of them asks me what's going on…“

“I'm trying to keep them busy,“ he said. “I realize you don't know any more than the rest of us do.“

“Not quite true,“ I said. “I can make some deductions, based on reports from friends and relatives. The Caerphilly police are interrogating everyone who knows Rob. Probing them for any information they can get about his financial status, spending habits, college grades, sexual history and orientation, juvenile transgressions – everything.“

“Maybe they're doing that to everybody,“ Jack said, frowning.

“Caerphilly doesn't have that many police officers. There's only so much they can do. Of course, they did check on me; I gather it's not just in Dad's mystery books that the police are suspicious of the person who finds the body.“

“Yeah, but with your injured hand…“

“And what if I were faking an injury?“ I asked. “At least they did check with the hospital to make sure I was really injured. They looked at the X rays of my hand – Dad found that out from a radiologist he knows.“

“You're more like your Dad than you like to admit,“ Jack said with a chuckle. “You sound almost pleased to have been a suspect, however briefly.“

“That's not it,“ I said. “I just want to believe that they know what they're doing. And maybe enough of a feminist that I don't want to be overlooked just because I'm a woman. If it weren't for my hand, I could have strangled him just as easily as any man here. More easily than most, in fact. I'm pretty strong.“

“So the chief took you seriously and you're happy.“

“I'd be happier if Rob weren't the only one being investigated.“

“You're sure?“

“Except Ted, of course,“ I said. “They do seem to be paying a little attention to Ted.“

“But not a lot,“ Jack said. “Or they'd be spending a lot more time talking to my team.“

“At least they're not interfering with your team's work.“

“What work?“ he said, shaking his head. “Everyone just wants to stand around talking about the murder. I think what happened didn't really sink in for some of them till today.“

Jack returned to Cubeville. I noticed, when he left, that the place where he'd been leaning was showing signs of wear already, after only a week. Not so much from Jack leaning there, although he'd been doing that alarmingly often, but from everyone else imitating him. His other favorite leaning spots were also getting heavy use. Though why the wannabes bothered I didn't know. When Jack propped himself against a wall, tucked his chin in, and gazed at you from under his brow, he looked cool. And, yes, sexy. When the wannabes did it, they just looked as if they were imitating George. And large sections of the walls were starting to acquire that well-worn patina you usually see on the bottom foot or so of protruding corners in houses with large quantities of cats.

I went back to fielding calls. Including another call from Rob.

At least Rob wasn't hanging about waiting for me to reveal the murderer. He was home – if you could call the Pines home. And to judge by his tone of voice when he called, which he did about every five minutes or so, he was in a remarkably cheerful mood for someone around whom the net of a homicide investigation was slowly but inexorably closing.

Probably because he was the center of a whirlwind of attention. Apparently, Mother had put the word out on the Hollingworth grapevine that her baby boy was in dire legal peril, and every attorney in the family had called him once or twice already. The criminal attorneys, of course, wanted to drop everything and fly to Rob's aid, while the prosecutors offered sage advice about how best to deal with their colleagues in Caerphilly. The far more numerous civil attorneys, frustrated at being denied a major role in the ongoing drama, all offered to come down and take Rob out to dinner. I foresaw good times ahead for Caerphilly's more expensive eateries.

I wondered how long the local defense attorney I'd found would put up with the family interference. But I'd let Rob worry about that. Coping with the avalanche of attention seemed to occupy Rob's time rather fully, but it looked as if Mutant Wizards was carrying on just fine. In fact, did Jack look a little relieved not to have Rob underfoot?

Ah well. As long as Rob was happy. And he was happy. Deliriously, relentlessly happy, which struck me as odd; usually the only time he was this happy was when he thought he'd fallen in love again. Strange that he would react this way to falling under suspicion.

Or maybe not so strange, I realized, the fifth or sixth time he called to have me hunt down Liz. It dawned on me that he probably didn't realize that Liz's appearance at the police station had been motivated by her sense of corporate responsibility combined with my arm-twisting. He seemed to think she had rushed to his side for personal reasons. Well, he could do much worse. And often had. It had been a long time since Rob had fallen for anyone sane and likeable.

I wondered what Dad was up to now. Probably still looking for evidence somewhere. When I arrived, he'd already been doing his best Sherlock Holmes imitation. Mainly examining every floor, wall, and desktop in the place from a distance of about four or five inches, with or without his trusty magnifying glass. He was probably still doing the same thing, someplace. When Sherlock Holmes went through this routine, he would usually produce a clue at some point. So far all Dad had managed was a couple of sneezing fits. At least he wasn't wearing his deerstalker hat. Though since he wasn't expecting to encounter a murder when he came up to Caerphilly, he had probably left the hat at home. And had probably called last night to ask Mother to mail it to him. With luck, the chief would have arrested the killer before the hat arrived.

Dad also assumed what he called my “secret mission“ to find out anything fishy going on at Mutant Wizards gave me a head start over the police in finding the killer. He didn't seem to understand that to date, my so-called sleuthing efforts had been completely useless.

“Now, now,“ he said. “You're too modest. Just let me know if you think it's time to gather all the suspects so you can reveal the solution.“

I was about to explain how unlikely it was that I would be revealing the solution anytime this century when the switchboard blinked again. Another reporter. We'd been getting quite a few calls from reporters – who seemed to think, from the questions they asked me, that anyone whose job included answering the phone must automatically be an idiot.

“No, I will not give you Mr. Langslow's home number,“ I was telling the latest Woodward-and-Bernstein wannabe when I noticed that Roger was once again lurking beside the reception desk. “I can take a message, and if you rephrase that last remark a little more politely, I just might remember to give it to him. What was that? Thank you – the feeling is mutual.“

I hung up, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. When I opened them again, Roger the Stalker was leaning against the wall by my desk. He wasn't a relaxed leaner. The way he hunched his shoulders forward made it look as if he had been ordered to lean and found touching the wall vaguely distasteful.

“Yes?“ I said. “Anything I can do for you?“

He frowned as if this were a trick question.

“While you're thinking, do you want to make yourself useful?“

He shrugged. Was that a yes or a no?

“It's almost time to feed George; you want to take care of that?“

He glanced at George, pried himself awkwardly off the wall, and left.

Good riddance.

Of course, that meant I still had to feed George myself, eventually.

Later, I thought, answering another line.

“Meg! What's going on?“ shrieked a voice. I winced as I recognized the caller – Dahlia Waterston, Michael's mother.

“What in the world are you doing with my poor baby?“

“Michael's fine,“ I said. “He's out in California, remember? In fact, I just talked to him a few minutes ago, and he says the filming's going very well.“

“Of course Michael's fine,“ she said. “I meant Spike.“

“Spike's fine, too,“ I said. “He had a nice breakfast and a long walk, and he's sitting right here at my feet.“

“I knew it – you're still bringing him into that death trap!“

“It's not a death trap. It's a perfectly ordinary office,“ I said, and then winced at how inaccurate that was. “Anyway, you can relax. We iiaven't had any dogs killed. Just humans. Just one human, actually. So you don't have to worry.“

She didn't seem to be worried about my presence in the office, of course. I put her on hold, answered another call, and then returned.

“Sorry,“ I said. “Busy day.“

“I want to talk to him,“ she said.

“Talk to whom?“

“Spike. I want to talk to Spike. Put the phone near his face so he can hear me.“

Okay. I leaned down and put the phone to the wire at the front of Spike's crate.

“It's for you,“ I said.

He opened one eye, saw that I wasn't holding out food, and closed it again.

I could hear Mrs. Waterston's voice chirping out endearments. He ignored her, too. I gave it a couple of minutes and then took the receiver back.

“Is that okay?“ I said.

“He's not speaking to me,“ she said. “Is he ill?“

“Just asleep.“

“Are you sure he's really asleep? What if he's being slowly poisoned by carbon monoxide fumes?“

“We have a bird in the room,“ I said. “Remember how they used to keep little canaries in the mines, to detect gases before they affected the miners? I'm sure if we had any toxic fumes, it would affect the bird before Spike.“

Actually, George was as big as Spike, and I'd bet he was more impervious to toxic fumes than most humans, but it sounded good.

“I still don't understand why he won't speak to me.“

“Let me see if i can wake him up a moment.“

I put her on hold and fished out a doggie treat. Slowly, because several other lines interrupted me by ringing while I was doing it. I could see Spike perk up when the treat box rattled. Then I reached down with the treat and scraped it against the wire of the crate.

As I suspected, this set him off. I balanced the receiver on my bandage, punched the phone button, and let him bark for thirty seconds or so before lifting the receiver back to my ear again.

“Okay?“ I said.

“Hello?“ came a voice. Not, alas, Mrs. Waterston's voice. I glanced at the switchboard – damn, I'd punched the wrong line.

“I was trying to reach the accounting department of Mutant Wizards,“ the voice continued. “Do I have the wrong number?“

“I'm so sorry,“ I began.

“What was that?“ the voice asked. “That barking.“

“That? Oh, that was the Vets from Hell development team,“ I improvised. “What a bunch of cutups – but you know what those game developers are like. Let me connect you with Accounting.“

Then, of course, I had to apologize to Mrs. Waterston for keeping her on hold, and repeat the trick on Spike.

“He sounds healthy,“ Mrs. Waterston said when I finally let Spike have the treat and put the phone back to my ear.

“If you're really worried, I could send him back,“ I offered. “Dad's up here doing some consulting on the new game; he'll be going back Friday at the latest – I could send Spike back with him.“

“No, no,“ she said. “I think we need to follow the allergist's instructions to the letter, or it won't be a valid experiment.“

“And how are your allergies?“ I asked. The allergies were the reason she'd saddled Michael and me – well, for the moment, just me – with taking care of Spike for the summer. Spike had been accused of causing, or at least exacerbating, her allergies, and the allergist wanted to supplement the skin tests with a trial separation from her beloved fur ball, to see if her symptoms improved.

“A little better, I think,“ she said. “Of course we'll have to see once the ragweed starts.“

I sighed. I had a sinking feeling the verdict on Spike as an allergen would be guilty, and Michael and I would be stuck with him permanently.

“Give him a big kiss for me,“ she said. “And please keep an eye on him; I'm not sure what I'd do if anything happened to him!“

With that, she hung up.

Big kiss, my eye. Spike had finished his treat and was gazing up with an air of wide-eyed innocence that might have fooled someone who didn't already have scars from his teeth on several of her extremities. No way I was going to let her saddle us with Spike permanently. If she decided she was allergic, I was going to have to find another home for him.

Of course, the only person I thought might possibly be gullible enough was Rob. And I doubted if Mrs. Waterston would even consider allowing Spike to relocate to any institution run by the Virginia Department of Corrections. So if I wanted to pawn the little monster off on Rob… yet another reason to concentrate on finding out who really killed Ted.

But first I had to figure out a way of getting away from the damned switchboard. I needed a patsy, someone gullible enough to take over the switchboard while I strolled around sleuthing.

Was there anyone here that gullible?

Dad strolled in.