Paper Doll

chapter eight

TRIPP’S SECRETARY WAS named Ann Summers. It said so on a nice brass plate on her nice dark walnut desk. She was probably fortyfive, and elegant, with dark auburn hair worn short. Her large round eyes were hazel. And her big round glasses magnified the eyes very effectively. The glasses had green rims. She wore a short gray skirt and a long gray jacket. She was sitting, with her legs crossed, tilted back in a swivel chair, turned toward the door. Her legs were very good.

On her desk was an in-basket, empty, and an out-basket with a letter in it. There was also a phone, a lamp with a green glass shade, two manila file folders, and to one side a hardback copy of a novel by P. D. James.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was full of polished overtones. She sounded like she really thought it was a good morning, and hoped that I did too.

I told her who I was. She seemed thrilled to meet me.

“Mr. Tripp is at his club,” she said. “I’m sure he didn’t realize you were coming.”

She was wearing taupe hose that fitted her legs perfectly.

“Actually I’d just as soon talk with you,” I said.

She lowered her eyes for a moment, and smiled.

“Really?” she said.

I was probably not the first guy to say that to her, nor, in fact, the first guy to mean it. I hooked a red leather side chair over to her desk and sat down. She smiled again. Ready to help.

“You know I’m looking into Mrs. Tripp’s murder?”

“Yes,” she said. “How terrible for them all.”

“Yes,” I said. “How’s business?”

She shifted slightly in her chair. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

“How’s business here?” I said.

“I… I don’t see why you ask.”

“Don’t know what else to ask,” I said.

“I’ve talked with the police,” she said.

Her big eyes looked puzzled but hopeful. She’d like to help, but how?

“I know,” I said. “No point in saying all that again. So we’ll talk about other stuff. Like business. How is it, are you busy?”

She frowned. Conflicting emotional states were a breeze for her. A pretty frown, an understated hip wiggle, a slight shift in her eyes. It was beautiful to see.

“It… it’s not that kind of business.”

“What kind?”

“The kind where you can say how’s business?” she said and smiled so warmly that I almost asked her to dance.

“Are you busy?” I said.

“Well, no, not in a regular business sense.”

“What are your hours?”

“Nine to four,” she said.

“And Mr. Tripp?”

“Oh, he’s usually here when I arrive, and he frequently leaves after I do. I’ve offered to come earlier and stay longer, but Mr. Tripp says that is not necessary.”

“Is he busier than you are?”

“I… well, frankly, I don’t see why he would be.”

“And how busy are you?”

She shrugged and spread her hands. Her nails were beautifully manicured and painted a pale pink.

“There are some phone calls, there are some letters. Sometimes I make restaurant reservations, sometimes travel arrangements…” She paused. “I read a great deal.”

“Good for the mind,” I said. “They eat out a lot?”

“Mr. Tripp has lunch with people nearly every day.”

“Dinner?”

“I rarely make dinner reservations,” she said.

“They travel much?”

She uncrossed her legs, and crossed them the other way. When she had them recrossed, she smoothed her skirt along the tops of her thighs.

“Mostly I make arrangements for the children, during school vacations.”

“They do a lot of that?”

“Oh, yes, they’re very well traveled. Vail or Aspen usually, in the winter. Europe sometimes, during summer vacations. And they were always flying off to visit friends from college.”

“Family travel much together?” I said.

“Mr. Tripp and the children would sometimes go places, especially when the children were small.”

“Ms. Nelson?” I said.

“I don’t think Ms. Nelson liked to travel,” she said.

I sat for a while and chewed on that. Ann Summers sat quietly, pointing her stunning knees at me: alert, compliant, calm, and stunning.

“And Mr. Tripp comes here early, and leaves late, even though there’s not much work to do?”

She nodded.

“What do you think of that?” I said.

She paused for a moment, and bit her lower lip very gently, for a moment. Then she shook her head.

“I am Mr. Tripp’s employee. I like to think also that I am his friend. In either capacity I am entirely loyal to him,” she said. “I would not speculate about his personal life.”

“Not even to me,” I said, “after what we’ve meant to each other?”

Ann Summers shook her head slowly.

Her smile was warm. Her teeth were very white and even. Her eyes were lively, maybe even inviting. There was something about her that whispered inaudibly of silk sheets and lace negligees, some unarticulated hint of passion, motionless beneath the flawless tranquility of her appearance. I sat for a moment and inhaled it, admired it, contemplated the clear, unexpressed certainty that exotic carnal excess was mine for the asking.

We both knew the moment and understood it.

“Monogamy is not an unmixed blessing,” I said.

She nodded slightly, and smiled serenely. “Please feel free,” she said, “if you need anything else…” She made a little flutter with her hands.

I stood.

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for your help.” I was pleased that my voice didn’t rasp.

At the door I looked back at her, still motionless, legs crossed, smiling. The sunlight from the east window behind her caught the red highlights in her hair. Her hands rested motionless on her thighs. The promise of possibility shimmered in the room between us for another long moment. Then I took in a big breath of air and went out and closed the door.