me about the copier, when the damned paper is just sitting there on the shelf, waiting to be loaded?“
“Because they're idiots?“ suggested a baritone voice behind me. I turned to see Jack Ransom, one of the team leaders. I'd have nicknamed Jack “the Hunk“ if it didn't feel disloyal to Michael, so I settled for “the Sane One.“ He didn't have a lot of competition for either title.
He had propped his tall, rangy frame against the partition just inside the opening that led to the main part of the office and was watching me with folded arms and a wry smile. I couldn't help smiling back, although something about the way he was looking at me suggested that yes, it probably was a good idea to buy a nice frame for that picture of Michael and me last New Year's Eve, and place it prominently on my desk.
“I thought they were supposed to be brilliant and original programmers,“ I said.
“Idiots savants, then,“ he said. “Want me to see about the paper?“
“You're an angel,“ I said. And then, worried that my enthusiasm would make him jump to a wrong conclusion, I concentrated on frowning at the pager while he strode off.
The pager had served its purpose when we were moving, and no one knew whether they could find me at the old offices or the new or maybe down in the parking lot, putting the fear of God into the movers.
But now that we were settled in and they always knew where to find me… Yes, it was time for a discussion with Rob. About abuse of the pager.
And also abuse of my cell phone, which had started ringing. I reached over and punched the button to answer it.
“This had better be good,“ I said.
“Do I sense that you're having a less than pleasant morning?“ Michael asked.
“Sorry. Yeah, you could say that,“ I said, sinking back into my chair. “No worse than usual, really. Where are you calling from?“
“One of the parking lots natives of Los Angeles playfully call freeways. The 110, I think. Or did I already turn onto the 101? I'll have plenty of time to figure it out before the next turn; we're only going about three miles an hour.“
“Sounds stressful.“
“Mostly just boring,“ he said with a chuckle. “I think it would get stressful if I knew I had to do it for longer than a couple more weeks. So now that I know how your day's going, give me the details.“
With brief interruptions to field phone calls, I told Michael about my morning, trying to sound light and amusing instead of frazzled and whiny. Apparently it worked.
“No wonder you keep refusing to come out to Los Angeles,“ he said. “I don't have anywhere near that much fun on the set.“
I hoped he was serious. I knew that in the episode they were filming this week, Michael's character had to seduce an Amazon princess. That was the one thing I didn't like about the TV gig – apart from its location across the country, of course. Why couldn't they have cast Michael as the prim, puritanical monk character? Or any other role that didn't involve romancing so many female guest stars? I fingered the fading but still visible lacerations on my face and sighed. Another reason I'd decided to remain in Caerphilly for the time being. At my best, I knew my looks couldn't compete with the parade of twenty-something starlets who populated the show's sound stage, and while Michael seemed to appreciate my other qualities, I still thought I'd be better off avoiding a side-by-side comparison with them until I'd healed a bit.
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
