Cafe Underground Presents
COMING UP ROSES
Book 2 -- Chapters 8
The Detective Andi Wicksham Series, by RL Bell
Copyright © 1997 RL BELL
MENU
....back to WRITING
....author RL Bell
Andi Wicksham's INVESTIGATORY SERVICES
Chapter 8
Andi called Mrs. Knowles and pled a need of privacy while discussing their audio dish. It won her a change of venue from Jock's Grill to the high-ceilinged den of her glass and vista-burdened home in the West Hills. Lena backed out, claiming too much work, so Andi was left to endure it alone.
With the boxed electronic ear tucked under an arm, Andi arrived three minutes early and was solicitously ushered by Mrs. Knowles into the bright, tastefully decorated room. A well dressed matron of the country club and board room variety offered a polite, but neutral smile from where she stood across the room beside one of the brocade upholstered couches.
Andi stood awkwardly a moment, unsure and a bit uneasy about the woman waiting with her host. Coffee waited on a silver tray with a plate of little crab sandwiches. Mrs. Knowles played hostess, pouring coffee and introducing the woman as "Janice Fineman...a friend."
"Is Ms. Fineman involved in this project?" asked Andi carefully. In her tailored business suit over a ruffled blouse, the woman had the presence of a professional. Just because she was present didn't mean she was privy to her client's plans or her client's husband's behavior.
"We've known each other thirty-five years." Mrs. Knowles laughed. "She's heard the story play by play and thought our technology fascinating..." She beamed a warm, gushing smile.
Andi withheld comment, pursed her lips and gave Mrs. Fineman a owlish blink of recognition. Then, sitting on the immaculate floral brocade couch, she opened the box and removed the components, one by one.
Mrs. Knowles hovered, gracious and eager as Andi reviewed the instructions and assembled wires. There was an intelligent intensity to her face, obviously expecting to understand everything and unwilling to miss a nuance. Her eyes rested a moment on the manual, apparently reading it upside down, then flicked up to Andi's face, then back to the table and equipment.
Ms. Fineman waited demurely, skirt straight, knees touching properly, hands together securing the cup of coffee in its saucer balanced on her knee. She sat at the forward edge of the couch, formal and more than a touch obsessively proper, offering a slightly doubtful smile as she listened politely to Andi's introduction to the world of electronic surveillance.
She made Andi uneasy. Could Mrs. Knowles' cultural cohort really dress and act this stuffy in their leisure time? Mrs. Fineman could easily be Mrs. Knowles' attorney--the thought made the hairs at on Andi's neck tingle and her mind churn over the possibility that she was being set up.
She felt herself acting stiff and wary; she carefully kept all her comments on the conservative side of legal. There was nothing threatening about her presence and nothing outright illegal about what they were doing, but Andi purposefully neglected to put in the cassette--she left the headphones on the table and flicked the switch for its built-in speaker.
By the time the equipment was ready and its batteries loaded, Ms. Fineman had receded into the background like a neutral witness. Stepping out to Mrs. Knowles' deck they listened to a squirrel scrabbling up a tree sixty or eighty yards away--they could hear the scratching claws and chirping clearer than if the furry creature was close enough to bite them. Sudden panning to the left brought in one side of a telephone conversation of a neighbor they couldn't even see. The reception was crystal-clear. Mrs. Knowles' face lit-up like a teenager finding fifty dollars under a Christmas sweater. She glanced over to Ms. Fineman and her friend nodded reserved approval.
Andi quickly snatched the eves-dropping disk from the rail and swept back into the living room to offer her standard lecture on reasonable presumption of privacy, the horror, anger and legal recourses of those intruded upon and the usual ratio of a few hundred hours of boredom for a single meaningful, three-second comment. She announced firmly that she'd keep control of the dish because her license was on the line--it probably wasn't, but the excuse was the best she could muster on the spur of the moment.
Mrs. Knowles allowed herself to be shunted toward planning their caper...the dramatic taping of a philandering husband. She would leave on a thursday as if flying off for a weekend trip, giving her husband plenty of warning. She would then sneak back to her friend's house to await word. Andi would follow her husband from his office Thursday evening ready to deploy the spy dish should there be opportunity, hoping he'd not put off his suspected debauchery.
Leaving the snooper dish in the living room, they toured the house, Mrs. Fineman following like a shadow through all three stories, then surveyed the house's windows from the hillside yard with an eye toward shadowed corners that might conceal a detective at her work.
Andi asked which rooms Mr. Knowles was likely to entertain in. Mrs. Knowles passively demurred, changing the subject and insisting assessment of even unlikely windows. She ushered Andi from point to point keeping up a running stream of chatter--would her husband have to be close to the window? Should they record telephone calls too?
After a glance at her watch and a moment's deliberation, Andi replied professionally that there were so many variables it might take a series of trials to work the bugs out of the scheme. The response mollified Mrs. Knowles; at least she stopped pushing for wire-tapping gear.
"The equipment will stay at our office..." Andi stated resolutely. Mrs. Knowles nodded knowingly, her lips set in a vindictive smile, she looked across to her friend and again exchanged the slightest of nods.
With her own smile of poetic justice, Andi offered to send Lena to check optimum recording levels. Since she'd been so instrumental in arranging this contract, it seemed appropriate that Lena should share encounters with Mrs. Knowles. How else could she gain a sensitivity to the nuances of work in the field?
Mrs. Knowles thought the idea splendid, she'd enjoyed her conversations with Lena. Andi said she'd ask Lena to call as she made a graceful exit with recorder and dish tucked securely under her arm.
Alison Simpson had called while Andi was out entertaining Mrs. Knowles. Lena passed over the note with a smile, a pencil was tucked behind her ear and piles of invoices lay stacked on either side of her computer.
"Did she say what she wanted?" asked Andi hopefully.
"Nope...but she seemed nervous..." returned Lena, her body twisting around elastically until she flash a full-faced smile.
Nervous wasn't out of character, Simpson was a nervous person. Andi settled at her desk and fumbled through her papers. "By the way...Mrs. Knowles wants you to give her a call..." She tossed the suggestion innocently as she glanced through the pile of opened mail.
"Sure..." suspecting nothing, Lena paused and made a note on the pad at her elbow.
"Anything else happen?" Andi asked hopefully.
"It's been quiet..." mumbled Lena without turning around, checking names of lists, folding invoices and stuffing envelopes.
Andi reached for her phone and punched in Simpson's number. "Hello...Andi Wicksham, returning your call."
Simpson gave a little cry of surprise, "Oh thank God you got back...I have a problem..."
Andi sat up in her chair, suddenly more interested. "...what is it?"
"I..." there was an awkward pause, "...well, you see..." Simpson fumbled for words.
"If you want help you have to talk..." Andi urged gently.
"Well..." started Simpson again, "...I was wondering what you thought of Rex Nimitz..." It was a weak change of topic, blurted out, rushed and unconvincingly.
Andi ground her teeth in frustration. "Rex Nimitz?" She looked up to the ceiling, impatiently wishing for greater vistas, wondering what would be safe to say. "I met him a few times...we've never had much chance to talk." Andi let a measure and a half beat by, but Simpson didn't respond. "But, I heard the two of you were friends..." The statement dangled pregnantly, like a question.
Simpson demurred, protesting, "...we weren't close friends...not really." A moment later she added, "We'd talk, sometimes...he was nice...at first."
"But not now?" Andi asked carefully.
Alison Simpson coughed a little selfconscious cough and skirted the issue. "He used to come across the hill three or four times a week...just to talk and drink coffee...he's really shy and awkward...I think he was trying to be romantic." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Two days before Uncle Darrel died he appeared with a big envelope, asking if I'd mail it to him in a little while. He was going to travel and would phone with an address...I'd only have to write on the front and pop it in the mail."
Andi chewed her lip and unconsciously nodded to herself as she reached for her notebook. "Did he call?"
"Just this afternoon." Her voice was apprehensive.
"...he gave you an address and asked you to send the package?" Andi led her in the obvious direction.
"Yes..." Simpson had fallen surprisingly quiet after starting this awkward confession.
"He did?" Andi prompted. "Good..." There was another awkward silence. "Alison...you need to fill in the holes of this story."
Another measure or two of silence beat by before she answered. "Well, the last time I saw him he said something insulting to me...and...and I scratched him..." Simpson sounded ashamed. "...really hard..."
"Did you dislike his attention?" Andi asked slowly. It was like pulling teeth.
"No, I liked him...but I hurt him. There was blood...he shouted and called me names and ran out."
Andi took a breath and rubbed her forehead. "And now you feel sorry?" she ventured hesitantly.
"Well...yes...and no, after what he said. But this afternoon he phoned all sweet, as if that never happened...wanting me to send his silly package..." Simpson snorted in derision.
Andi let a long moment pass in silence. "...and?" she queried.
"And I don't want to..." stated Simpson with sudden finality. "But if I don't he'll be angry..."
Andi remembered the gaunt intensity of Nimitz' eyes when he stood beside her with the gun--she could believe he could be brutal. "...and now you've called me..." Andi prompted, nervously tapping her pencil on her desk-top. What would it take to for Simpson to open up? "I'm not sure what you're asking, Alison..."
"Could you come and take the package...I don't want to even touch it." Alison Simpson asked it in a quiet, little-girl's voice. "...please...with Uncle Darrel dead I don't know who else to call..."
It took Andi no time at all to make her decision. "Of course...I'll come, but first give me the address he wants you to send the envelope to." Now here would be an interesting detail.
It sounded like Simpson started laughing or crying or both, but it turned into a bout of hick-ups. After another minute of prompting she retrieved the card with an address in Saint Johns and slowly, resignedly, recited it.
Andi copied it into her notebook and quietly thanked her, repeating that she'd come right over. Without even putting down the receiver she thumbed the off button and made an call to Ramirez. She impatiently pushed zero when his message came on, then waited on hold as the duty officer paged him. Her pencil tapped on her desk like Buddy Rich driving his big band.
Three minutes later his monotone came on the line. "Ramirez here..."
"Ramirez, it's Andi...I got something you want..."
"Yo Wicksham, give me a moment to get to my desk, OK? I'm going to put you on hold..."
The line went dead and Andi waited impatiently another minute for him to come back on.
There was an electronic click and Ramirez' voice returned. "I'm back...what is this about?"
"Did you ever get out to see Rex Nimitz? I left word that he was at Tyson's..."
"The West Linn Lieutenant..."
"...Allen, Sergeant Talbert..." Andi filled in impatiently.
"...Allen..." growled Ramirez, matching impatience with impatience, "...visited the residence...no response, no cars outside, no lights on..."
"The BMW was in the first garage and it was daytime..." complained Andi irritably.
"Well, she didn't see it parked in front...so she got bored and went back to the barn."
"Do you still want to find him?" Andi asked sweetly.
"Do you have a special way of doing that?" Ramirez asked skeptically.
"I got an address in Saint Johns he's expecting a package to come to..."
"OK...shoot..." Ramirez jotted down the address. "...that it? I got a zillion things going...I'll pass this on..."
"Did the uniforms question Simpson about her Uncle's revolver?" Andi asked hurriedly.
"Yeah, sure...she said he and Tyson were always trading guns back and forth." Ramirez was getting impatient.
"Nothing else?" Andi pushed. "OK if I ask?" She would anyway, but asking permission was good public relations.
"Word is she's closed-mouthed...good luck grilling her. The uniforms sniveled that she'd all but kicked them off her porch. Now...is that all?" Ramirez was getting grouchy.
"Yeah...that's all." Andi replied, miffed at the short shrift that her news of Rex's package and address had gotten.
"Then I'll see you later..." That was it, he hung up, the line went dead, finito.
Her receiver dropped as if by itself to her desk. "Sure Sergeant Ramirez...no trouble...it was my pleasure...pleased to be of help..." Andi directed her acidic sing-song at the silent phone.
"Some days are like that..." observed Lena sagely from her keyboard.
Andi favored the phone with another evil glare. "I'm driving to West Linn again..." she complained.
"Oh poor baby..." Lena whispered, "...you poor overworked thing...all the way to West Linn? By car?" She looked across, sad-eyed and with quivering lip, whatever scrap of genuine consolation she offered drowning under a fifty-gallon barrel of syrup. Then, smiling sweetly, her point made, Lena turned back to her computer.
Andi crumpled the nearest piece of scratch paper and directed the missile at Lena's head. Without looking, Lena leaned to a side at the critical moment and the paper sailed harmlessly over her shoulder.
Grumbling to herself, Andi slipped out and pounded down the stairs--some days, evidently, nothing at all went right.
The package in Alison Simpson's hand when she met Andi at the door was a flattish, padded manila mailing-envelope. Simpson didn't welcome Andi in, she just stood behind the partially-opened door and handed out the envelope and a three by five card, mumbling "Thanks..." with downcast eyes before starting to swing the door closed.
"Alison...wait..." Andi protested, she stuck her foot in the door to keep it open, "...hold up a second. Do you want me to send this or not?" She'd drove Portland making a list of questions--starting with the pistol that killed Tyson, then whether Simpson had driven her uncle's truck the morning her died. She wanted to know where she'd gone that afternoon and about Nimitz leaving the package and whether she'd seen him the afternoon her uncle died.
"I don't care..." Simpson dismissed the issue sullenly and pushed ineffectually against the door.
"If I don't send it, you said he'd get angry..." Andi argued, frustrated and irritable at Simpson's manipulatory rudeness.
"I don't care...If he asks, I'll tell him I gave it to you." she tried to close the door again.
"Alison...you need to explain. There's more going on than you're telling..." Andi beseeched her. This could be important...please...talk to me..."
"No." she whined loudly, then quickly, "...thank's for taking it...goodbye..." It came out with a bitter, hiss. Then, a sudden vicious kick connected with Andi's ankle followed by a second kick that encouraged her foot's removal from the threshold. Simpson leaned her shoulder against the heavy door and quickly fixed the lock.
Shocked at Simpson's reaction and dismayed at its effectiveness, Andi hobbled about the porch cursing, one hand holding the envelope, the other rubbing her twice abused ankle.
"Well then...goodbye..." she called out to the closed door, contenting herself with a strategic, limping retreat to her car to examine her ankle and rail over the injustice in the investigatory field.
The entire way back to the office she nursed sour feelings, reviewing the day's frustrations--by the time she sank down at her desk she was seething. Simpson's envelope slapped her desk with a satisfying thud as she dropped into her chair. She swiveled so she could stare out the window--directing a flood of psychic spleen at unsuspecting innocents on the street below.
Lena must have read it in her eyes, because she didn't say word. Five minutes later, when Andi turned back and inspected the package, Lena glanced up, but remained silent.
When a client called, Lena smoothly reeled off that Ms. Wicksham was unavailable, but that she could probably address their problem. Andi glared at Nimitz' package. It reminded her of being kicked in the shin. Then feeling guilty that Lena was working while she wasn't, she pulled over her notebook and began listing physical observations.
The package was an oversized, padded manila mailing-envelope, "12x15 Inside Dimensions," was printed in the lower left front corner. There was a row of stamps in the upper right-hand corner adding up to three dollars and thirty-four cents.
Andi hefted the package, it was light. There was more than enough postage--as if Nimitz didn't have a scale and wanted to make certain there'd be no dispute.
His name was printed in block-letters with a black felt-tipped pen leaving a big space for the address to be added. There was no return address, no other writing except the machine printed notification "First-Class Mail" and "Special Handling Please."
The flap was taped with two-inch wide, heavy-duty, clear packing-tape. Andi peered at the edges--if it had been previously opened, signs of tampering were hidden. She flipped the envelope over again, looking closely at the stamps--remembering a spy story where a dot of micro-film was hidden under the stamps and a detective novel where the stamps themselves were the valuables being clandestinely transported.
Postal regulations were not statutes an experienced person felt comfortable ignoring--the package hadn't been mailed, but it looked ready, with stamps and everything. Curiosity gave caution an impatient nudge...what would it take to look inside without leaving an obvious trace? She pondered the question sulkily, debating a call to Ramirez--it would be the responsible thing to do, but she didn't really want to talk to him.
They spent the last quarter hour at the office that way, Andi quietly brooding, Lena walking on eggshells and avoiding contact. At four o'clock, Lena started their day's-end cleaning--well before usual quitting time, by fourteen-after she'd finished and risked poking the sullen beast once again staring out the window.
"I officially declare this work-day over."
Standing like the Madonna on her half-shell, Lena touched thumb to index finger and waved her hand in a pope-like benediction. "Let's go home...you might already be a winner."
"What?" demanded Andi sullenly, she'd already given herself permission to be cranky.
"End of the day, end of the week. I can leave you here if that's your pleasure...but I'd rather take you home, force a glass of wine in your hand, turn on some mellow music and sweet-talk you into a bubble-bath. I prescribe comfort food...that's pasta if I've got it right...you can give instruction or take what you get." Lena smiled and reached a hand to pull Andi from her chair.
Andi tried to manifest a suitable grumble, but couldn't even succeed at that. She let Lena to pull her to her feet and herd her down the stairs fully intending to be a formidable, hostile bitch as soon as she could muster the energy. Damn the day and Simpson anyway.
Saturday morning they lazed in bed until roused at six minutes after ten by a call from Francois. Lena fumbled for the phone and answered a yawning "Yes..." and peering mole-like at the red numbers of her bedside clock.
"Is that invitation for breakfast still good?" Francois chattered cheerfully in Lena's ear.
"Who is it?" grumbled Andi, her head still covered by a pillow.
"Francois..." Lena replied, "...you invited him for breakfast, remember?"
"If it's not a good time..." extended Francois politely.
"Tell him to bring orange juice..." mumbled Andi from beneath her pillow.
"Andi says to bring orange juice." passed on Lena. "I'll throw together some waffles if she's too out of it...I'm dying to try her trick of separating the egg whites and whipping them until..."
"Whipping until stiff?" queried Francois with mock concern delivered in a shocked falsetto.
"...old joke...not funny." responded Lena impatiently. "You fold in the egg-whites and get these light, yummie waffles..."
"Hold it." Andi rumbled in ominous outrage, "You can't use my waffle recipe just because I'm in bed and half-asleep...you recipe thief...right here in my own bed..." cried Andi, suddenly leaping up and beating Lena with her pillow."
"Yeow..." screamed Lena, slipping off the edge of the bed still holding the phone to her ear. "It worked like a charm Francois...Andi's up now...sure, half-hour will be great. Tootles..." She curled defensively beside the bed in a fetal position, laughing.
Francois climbed the stairs from the front door with a cantaloupe and carton of fresh-squeezed orange juice. "I always thought fresh squeezes were best...is that coffee...?" He followed Lena into the kitchen to catch Andi pouring the second batch of waffles in the iron. "Hi Andi...you got up to make breakfast!" He sounded surprised and shocked.
"What are you doing being a morning person?" Andi grumbled petulantly. "I'm shocked you'd stoop so low...and of course I'm up to make breakfast." She accepted a peck on the cheek, pointed to the coffee pot and slipped the plate of finished waffle into the oven to keep warm.
"She's so easily manipulated..." Lena confided to Francois as she chose a mug from the cupboard and handed it over with a little swagger. "...all it takes is knowing the buttons."
"What's that I hear over there?" grumbled Andi menacingly.
Lena chuckled. "Nothing Dear..." She took a sip of coffee and wandered into the living room to find the jazz station on the radio. "We eating in the kitchen or dining room?" Lena yelled back to the kitchen.
Andi and Francois looked at each other, then at the kitchen table. "Here in the kitchen." they responded in unison. Andi got syrup from the refrigerator, decanted some into a little pitcher and slipped it into the microwave. Francois set the table and cut the cantaloupe into quarters. "...ready?"
Lena was the first to pull out a chair and settle regally before her plate. Andi pounced on the waffle iron soon as the little light went out. "It's show-time...are we ready to rumble?"
They feasted and put on a second pot of coffee.
"So what's going on this morning?" Francois asked chattily. "Anything exciting I can help with?"
Andi and Lena shared an exhausted look. "Nothing...it's saturday, we're on vacation..." Lena answered smugly.
"...no work today?" replied Francois, a little concern creeping into in his voice.
"There's nothing much to do..." Andi shrugged nonchalantly. "There's a package at the office I want to look into...but other than that..." Andi waved her hand in an off-hand gesture, dismissing all concerns of the office.
"You're doing that today?" asked Francois in surprise, "But it's a weekend..."
"It's not really going to work or anything." Andi explained with an offhand shrug.
"That's good...a mini-vacation...almost like not working." commented Francois. He had a smile on his lips and gave Lena a significant look over the top of his spectacles.
Andi glanced at him then at Lena, then back to Francois. "OK, what is this?"
"Nothing at all Andi, you're so suspicious..." scolded Francois. He caught Lena's eye and grinned.
Andi again favored each with a doubtful stare. "OK...come clean. What're you smiling at?"
Lena had kept her expression as sober as a judge. "We had a bet on whether you'd want to work through the weekend."
"I'm not going to work through the weekend." stated Andi indignantly.
"She means do any work during the weekend." Francois corrected with a smug little smile. "Our bet was about whether you'd want to work on the weekend."
"And you bet that I would and she bet I wouldn't?" Andi's eyes narrowed in grim suspicion as she searched for a fitting retribution.
Francois shook his head, his face suddenly sobered. "No, that wasn't it..."
"She bet I'd work this weekend and you bet I wouldn't? Betrayal...that's worse." Andi turned up both pitch and volume and shifted her ire to Lena.
Francois shook his head again. Lena struggled to control her laughter. "Even worse...we both bet you'd work...both bet you wouldn't get through the morning without mentioning it. I bet you'd bring it up before we got up from the table, Francois felt sure you could hold off until the table was cleared..." They collapsed again into convulsive hysterics that left them gasping for breath.
Andi looked from one red-face to the other. "I'm truly disappointed..." she chastised, "...that you'd have so little faith in me." She shook her head in sad dismay.
"Oh, we had ultimate faith in you..." protested Francois, straight-faced, struggling to regain his composure.
"Faith you'd talk about going to work at breakfast...I won..." spouted Lena gleefully, waving her hands in the air as if she'd won Olympic gold.
"And what's so wrong with that?" she demanded haughtily.
Lena reached a hand to cup Andi's face. "Nothing at all, dear...honestly, nothing...the joke's about how dependable you are..."
"Yes, absolutely..." chipped in Francois. "...it's really a compliment on your dependability..." That set them off onto another bout of giggling. "So what did you want to do today?" At last he struggled to regain his composure.
"Nothing..." replied Andi poutily.
Lena filled in the information, "It's a big envelope she brought back from Simpson...supposed to be from...or was that to?..Rex Nimitz."
"Both..." answered Andi flatly. She didn't dare show enthusiasm. "Rex gave it to Simpson to mail back to him."
"Interesting..." murmured Francois quietly. "...implying there's something important inside..."
Andi leaned her elbows on the table, her coffee cup between her hands, staring at him. "Are you guys baiting me again?"
Francois turned to look at Lena. She cocked her head, returned his stare and shrugged. They turned together back to Andi. "No..." said Francois simply. "At least I don't think so..."
"Really?" asked Andi with a sarcastic smile.
Francois silently shook his head "No." Andi looked to Lena who echoed his silent head shake. Andi narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"What you got in mind." Lena asked, her face as sober as a judge.
Andi opened her mouth to respond, then shut it, then opened it again to speak. "I don't know if I can trust you two or not..." she said sadly.
Alison Simpson's package waited on Andi's desk just as it sat the evening before. Lena inspected it carefully, handed it to Francois and chattered about steaming open envelopes in a microwave with a damp paper towel.
Andi leaned back in her chair considering the situation--the unaddressed envelope was given to her in the progress of an ongoing investigation and probably played a material role. She might not have the right address. It hadn't entered the postal system and there was a decent argument that it was purely personal property passed to her and that she had a professional responsibility to check it out.
It was a definite, if roundabout, conclusion; since the envelope hadn't been mailed, postal law didn't apply--the only way to ascertain rightful ownership might be to look inside. It might even argued that it would be negligent not to. Thus professionally rationalized, she leaned forward started a new page in her notebook.
Andi caught Lena's eye and pointed. "Can we get an envelope identical to this?"
"Identical?" asked Lena, dubiously.
"Yeah...so we can switch envelopes..." Andi tried to make it sound off-handed and casual.
"Probably." Lena glanced at her watch. "...in three or four stops..."
Andi stayed to take care of a few loose ends until Lena and Francois returned with a package of envelopes and a dozen sets of latex gloves. Then Andi double-checked the envelope's printing and paper and made a careful survey of every mark and crease that might have been made as an identifier.
Francois opened the window and spun the radio dial until he found the bluegrass show on KBOO. Andi carefully slit the envelope's factory sealed bottom edge, cutting through the glued seal, then the inner lining. Lena leaned against the table playing surgical nurse, handing scissors or razor blade, providing the ready extra hand to retract a curling edge. She bent over the envelope until their heads touched.
Andi carefully pulled a bundle of cardboard-enfolded papers through the bottom of the envelope and set them aside. So far so good--next she slit the back of the envelope from edge to edge and folded it inside out to expose the inside lip of the sealed opening.
Portions of the glue-edge flap had been torn open and the package resealed with tape. Andi glanced up and smiled at Lena.
"Could have been Simpson." Lena observed, her eyes never leaving their work.
"It's a half-assed job..." Andi scratched at the glue-marked edge of the envelope with a paper clip. "...steamed maybe, but she got impatient and ripped it..."
Lena pursed her lips and cocked her head to a side. "If it was Simpson, she didn't seem to care who knew...it's an obvious job."
"Maybe that's why she passed it on..." Andi put the envelope aside and turned to its contents--the thin sheaf of papers was protected by a piece of neatly-creased cardboard.
Andi rubbed her chin with her palm, looked from Francois to Lena and back, then returned to the envelope's contents. They were reports on rose hybridizing dating back over the last ten years. She quickly flipped through the pile, a number had William Tyson's name, others Jennifer Gould's, still other were Darrel Feight's. Andi skipped quickly through the pile in disbelief, then checked the material again more slowly, nothing had been published more recently than six years ago.
She chewed her lip and tapped her foot restlessly--something was obviously wrong. Francois reached tentatively toward the papers. Andi impatiently pushed the pile his way.
"It doesn't make sense...this stuff's not important..." complained Andi.
"Unless it includes secrets..." suggested Lena.
Andi gave her a doubtful look, gave a subdued kick to the waste paper basket, then ruffled her hair with both hands and clasped her fingers behind her neck and stretched against them to get a kink out.
Lena and Francois looked over expectantly.
"Let's copy it, just in case..." Andi responded hopefully, thinking she might ask her mom if any the stuff was meaningful.
"Did she replace the contents?" Lena wondered out loud.
Andi shrugged a noncommittally.
"What do you think of the envelope problem?" Lena switched on the copier. Francois handed over the pages.
"Since we found extra envelopes, Simpson could have..." Andi pointed out. "She could have faked a new one same as us...faked the reopening and taping up..."
"That's a scary thought." Francois grinned nervously. "Machiavelli had nothing on you..."
"It's too convoluted a scenario..." Lena pushed at the opened packaging with a finger. "Not everybody is as sneaky as you..." she observed quietly.
"Is that a criticism?" Andi demanded defensively.
"Oh, no..." Lena protested, wide-eyed. "...to tell the truth, I find it kind of sexy..." she raised a suggestive eyebrow.
"Sure..." snorted Andi derisively.
"Oh, Baby..." Lena lowered a shoulder and looked slinky. "...you really know how to be devious and underhanded...I mean really tricky..." Lena's voice was low and sultry and she caricatured bedroom eyes.
"Oh, God...I know we just ate, but I think it's lunch time." Andi gave Francois a hopeless smile before loudly changing the subject. "Let's go, it's only fair that I treat. How about bento..."
Francois laughed and ducked out first, leaving Andi to pinch and push and make little bites at Lena's neck as she bullied her out the door.
Sunday, Lena took Andi to the Sandy river for a picnic lunch. Andi skipped rocks across the rippling surface and tried not to think of her mother or that Darrel Feight's funeral was taking place as she wasted time in the boonies. She'd been sorely tempted to go just to check out who came and how they acted, but Lena would call it workaholism--worse still, it would make her think of her mother.
Recently, just about everything evoked memories; sidewalks reminded her of walking with her mother, driving roused memories of trips to grandma's. The river evoked vacations, picnics and rock-skipping competitions, challenging her sister for the number of splashes to reach the other shore.
Her mother's calm reaction to her diagnosis seemed harder to take than ranting and sobbing, but her mother had always been alpha stoic. She probably looked-up words like, `death' and `dying' and `mortality' in the Oxford English Dictionary to have definitive derivations, assorted nuances and corollary concepts ready so she could correct people's offhand comments.
Andi paused to look through the lace of branches and leaves that screened the sky. It would be like her. As a teenager, Andi hated that more than anything else--that need to be the expert, to be not just right, but the most right. The memory made her stomach hurt.
She skipped a stone--four splashes in a arc that curved clockwise, downstream--then stooped to pick another two from the gravel at her feet. Even as a little girl she'd been better than anyone else at skipping--maybe she wasn't that far away from her mother, competition-wise at least.
She threw the next stone hard and low, making it across to the overhanging brush though it only skipped water once. All in all, though she'd never admit it to Lena, she'd rather be working than taking this "quality" time-off.
Working kept her too busy for uncomfortable thoughts.
Go on to Chapter 9
Go back to Chapter 7
Go back to Andi Wicksham Series page
Copyright © 1997 RL BELL.
Last Updated 5/24/97
For more information, contact Webmaven Lena Kovid, at:
geekgirl@cafeunderground.com