Trudy, Madly, Deeply (Working Stiffs Mystery Series) (2 page)

“Most recently I worked as a process server for a private investigator in San Mateo, California.”

The PI was the father of a friend I met at culinary school. She and I had both worked in four-star restaurant pressure cookers—probably why she thought I could handle the door-to-door verbal abuse, usually inflicted by irate soon-to-be-ex-spouses, pissed at being served with notices to appear. But it had its upside. I got to exchange being yelled at by the resident kitchen czar for a daily dose of California sunshine while I waited for my divorce to become final.

“I did research and ran background checks,” I said, making sure that I hit some of the key duties of the level one assistant job description, “and I served as the assistant office manager.” Which meant that I was the low man on the totem pole in charge of picking up the PI’s dry-cleaning, but at least I had a title.

“And before that?” Ben asked, sounding like a food critic with zippo interest in the menu I’d just offered him.

“I co-managed an Italian bistro in San Francisco. Supervised the kitchen, handled the payroll.”

Actually, I collected the staff’s timecards and handed them over to my former mother-in-law, who wouldn’t let me touch her computer. But to get myself into an office at the courthouse, I figured a sprig of creative garnish could only help my cause.

A flicker of disdain at the corner of his pursed mouth signaled that I was wasting his time. No doubt because I’d served him a double beef bacon cheeseburger last week.

“Before that, I was a pastry chef for ten years,” I volunteered to cut to the chase.

Blowing out a breath, he stared at his boss as if she were forcing him to eat his vegetables.

“She has other skills, Ben,” Frankie stated. “One in particular that could come in very handy around here.”

The Criminal Prosecuting Attorney shot me a fake smile. “I’m sure you do.”

I hadn’t had this kind of confidence boost since my husband won a top chef contest on TV, then came home to announce that he was trimming the fat in his life—namely me.

Frankie peered at me over her bifocals. “You’d better show him.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t the first time someone had trotted me out as if I were their trick poodle, but I could guarantee this guy wasn’t going to like the show.

I scooted my chair closer to sit directly across from Ben Santiago, and he scowled like I was invading his space.

“Is this going to take long?” he asked Frankie. “I’m due in court in ten minutes.”

Doubtful. Until now he’d shown no indication that he was in a hurry. No surreptitious glances at his wristwatch. Nothing.

“Sorry, Mr. Santiago, but I think the truth is that you just want me out of here.”

Getting into a man’s face and calling him a liar is a lot like poking a bear—often not good for the one doing the poking. Since I didn’t want the grizzly behind the desk to toss me out of his office, I thought it best not to use too sharp a stick.

His tie slowly rose and fell while a crease between his thick black brows punctuated his thoughts.

“I see that I’m right about when you’re needed in court,” I said.

“I’ll mention that to the judge when I see him.”

“When? In an hour or two?” I was guessing, taking a wild swing with my stick.

His eyes narrowed into a squint worthy of Dirty Harry.

Bingo. “Right again, huh?”

“I see what you’re trying to do, but trust me, I don’t have time for games.”

“Really? You seemed to be playing one earlier when you said that you hadn’t seen my resume.”

His tie stopped moving. “I—”

“Lied to me. You saw that I lacked the depth of experience you’re looking for, and you didn’t want to waste any more time on me. Would you like to tell me I’m wrong?”

His lips thinned. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Not lately. But I still had faith in my bullshit barometer. “I’m only telling you how I’m reading you.”

He tapped a thick index finger several beats against the surface of his desk. “Listen, I appreciate that you have … some skills,” he said with a headshake that told me otherwise. “And this is nothing personal, but—”

“Nope. Sorry. I think it’s very personal and has a lot to do with the fact that I’m the one who’s been taking your lunch orders at Duke’s.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Sure.”

His mouth quirked. “Okay, maybe it has a little bit to do with it. A waitress isn’t exactly a natural fit for someone working in this office.”

I couldn’t disagree with him. “But I’m a natural at identifying deceit. I’ve been shown hundreds of interviews and correctly interpreted thousands of flashes of expression in two university studies to prove it.”

I’d participated in the deception detection studies as a favor to my former sister-in-law, who was working on her doctoral thesis in clinical psychology, but the results validated Heather Beckett’s claim. Compared to the perceptive abilities of the average person, I really was a bit of a freak.

Ben’s eyebrows arched with interest. “That may be true,” he said, “but—”

“I’m a hard worker and a quick study.” I would have added that only one percent of the population had my level of deception detection accuracy, but I didn’t want to sound like a used car salesman trying to make a hard sell. “I might fit in better than you think.”

The look he gave his boss told me that he still wasn’t sold.

“You already know how I feel about this,” Frankie said. “But as head of the Criminal Division, your team would also work with her, so it needs to be a joint decision.”

He leaned back, his desk chair creaking under his weight as his gaze swept over me.

I placed my hand over the yolk stain on my sleeve. “I’m good at what I do, Mr. Santiago.” Despite all appearances to the contrary.

The pinstripes on his chest rose and fell. “Call me Ben. And we’ll see about how good you are.”

Not the most enthusiastic job offer I’d ever received, but every fiber in my being was singing a hallelujah chorus.

He looked at Frankie. “Thirty-day trial?”

“Fine,” she agreed without hesitation.

Ben shrugged. “Then it looks like you just found yourself a new assistant.”

Chapter Two

Three days later, energized to start my new job, I bounded up the well-worn marble stairs of the Chimacam County Courthouse. By the time I made it to the third-floor landing, I had a stitch in my side and I needed oxygen. Pitiful. Since when couldn’t I handle a few stairs?

I only had to look down for the answer. Since I had eaten my way through a divorce.

The patty melts and pie happy hour at Duke’s had to go. And no more double helpings of mashed potatoes and gravy at my grandmother’s house.

“Stairs. Every day,” I huffed. It was barely eight o’clock and I already had a diet and exercise program. Sort of. My hips and thighs would thank me later, after they stopped screaming.

Gold and black tile spanned the third-floor hallway, the geometric pattern interrupted by a wooden bench and three yellow vinyl upholstered chairs that looked like refugees from a garage sale. Gleaming wainscoting accented walls the color of vanilla pudding.

Breathing in the slightly musty scent of the nineteenth-century courthouse, I noticed a sheriff’s deputy watching me from a desk opposite the stairs.

I smiled.

He didn’t.

Maybe Chimacam County’s version of a security system wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the help.

Heavy oak doors with department names etched in the glass identified each county office in the four-story, red brick building. The Prosecutor’s office was no exception.

Inside, behind a half wall, two mismatched vintage desks littered with paper and stacks of file folders stood side by side. An African violet with electric blue blooms, catching filtered sunshine from a narrow window, sat atop a tan metal file cabinet with two drawers open and chock-f like an over-stuffed cannoli. Apparently, no one around here believed in going paperless.

Using her shoulder to press the telephone receiver to her ear, the middle-aged, honey-haired receptionist waved me in after I told her my name. “See Patsy,” she whispered.

I figured Frankie had arranged for me to get the fifty-cent tour of the courthouse. It was probably best to be polite and not mention that I had toured the historical landmark back in the fifth grade.

I made a left and headed down a short hallway, where Patsy Faraday, Frankie’s legal assistant, stood by her desk with her gaze set on me like a sentry training her rifle on an approaching enemy.

Her black polyester-blend slacks hugged a pair of tree trunk thighs, emphasizing a panty line that her plus-sized paisley print tunic couldn’t disguise. I knew from the gossip pipeline at Duke’s that Patsy’s husband had cheated on her for most of their twenty-year marriage. Like me, she appeared to have landed on her feet after her recent divorce, holding a fork in her hand.

Patsy flashed me a tepid smile. “Good morning. Frankie’s going to be a little late, but she asked me to show you around.”

Since we had another hour before the ferry from Seattle arrived with dozens of sun-seeking tourists eager to caravan toward the historic Old Town district in their RVs, I knew Frankie wouldn’t be late because of the usual mid-morning backup on Highway 19. “Is everything okay?”

Patsy jutted her pointy chin at me. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

She knew plenty. It just wasn’t for me to know.

Patsy grabbed a thin red binder from her desk. “If you’ll follow me,” she said, leading the way down the hall. “Most of the attorneys aren’t in yet, so we’ll start with the lunchroom.”

I watched her plaited hair sweep across her back like a pendulum, keeping rhythm with the sway of her rounded hips. The tawny color had probably come from a bottle she’d purchased at Clark’s Pharmacy, but the gray roots were all Patsy’s.

At the lunchroom doorway, she flipped a light switch, illuminating a coffee machine cooking the sludge in its pot. “You should check in here periodically. Not everyone thinks to make a fresh pot when they take the last cup. Coffee and filters are in there.” Patsy pointed at the metal cabinet next to a dark brown mini-refrigerator, leaving no doubt which assistant she expected to make the coffee.

She switched off the light and I followed her down the hall to an office bullpen of five legal assistants where Patsy systematically introduced me to each woman.

Their ages probably ranged from early thirties to late fifties. I already knew the oldest lady—Karla Tate, a two pack a day smoker who lived on G Street down the hill from my grandmother. The other four I knew by sight from having served them lunch at Duke’s. Based on Patsy’s speed-dating approach to today’s introductions I could only hope there wouldn’t be a who’s who quiz later.

“And here we are … your desk,” Patsy said as she and I made our way to the windowless rear wall, where four black filing cabinets shared the dreary space with a scarred walnut desk, an empty, black plastic pencil cup, and a spindly philodendron languishing in the corner.

If this concluded the tour, my desk certainly looked like it was at the end of the line.

Patsy handed me the red binder. “You’ll find your computer login in here, plus a manual on navigating the network. When there’s time tomorrow, I’ll schedule you for some training.”

“I’ll probably have time today.” Considering that I didn’t even have any pencils to sharpen, a lot of time.

Her pale lips disappeared for a split second. “Maybe.”

That looked more like a
no way
. Patsy definitely knew something she didn’t want to share.

She aimed her chin at me again. “If there’s nothing else you need, Frankie will call when she’s ready for you.”

“What should I do in the meantime?”

“Make coffee.”

Swell.

Fifteen minutes later, while the coffee machine gurgled, laboring to spit out its last few drops, I stood at the lunchroom window and considered cleaning out the refrigerator until I saw Frankie’s Volvo roll into the parking lot. Happy to give the fridge a reprieve, I found a ceramic mug in the cabinet, filled it with some fresh brew and headed down the hall to find out what was going on.

“Charmaine,” Frankie said, standing at the doorway of her office. “What good timing.”

For both of us.

I lifted the mug in my hand. “Coffee?”

Her lips curled into a pleasant smile, but the tension in her jaw made it look forced. “You must have been reading my mind.” She gestured toward her desk with her briefcase. “Come in. I’d like to talk to you about something.”

As I stepped into her office, she asked Patsy, “Do you have Trudy’s file ready?”

Trudy? The only Trudy I knew was Trudy Bergeson, the Port Merritt library
Story Lady
of my youth and one of my great-aunt Alice’s oldest friends. Since Trudy had been in the county hospital with pneumonia for most of the last week, it couldn’t be a good thing if my favorite story teller had a file.

Carrying the blue folder Patsy handed her, Frankie set her briefcase on the two-drawer file cabinet to her right and eased into her desk chair. “Have a seat,” she said as I placed the steaming mug in front of her.

I took the closest of the two Georgian high back chairs facing her.

Frankie took a sip of coffee. “I know you’ve hardly had a chance to settle in, but I have something I’d like you to do.”

I was fine with ending this morning’s tour of KP duty, but I had a sinking feeling about the contents of that blue folder.

Setting the mug aside, Frankie folded her hands, her gaze soft as warm butter. “Trudy Bergeson died at the hospital early this morning.”

My sinking feeling hit bottom.

Any breaking news of a birth, death, engagement, or divorce always made a beeline to Duke’s Cafe. Aunt Alice had to have already heard about Trudy.

“And one of the doctors on duty has some … concerns,” Frankie added.

Concerns? About how Trudy died? Most everyone in town knew that she’d been in failing health ever since her stroke last year.

Even though I was well aware that Frankie had recently been elected to a third term as the Prosecutor/Coroner of rural Chimacam County, this made no sense. Why would a doctor contact her about the death of a frail seventy-seven-year-old woman?