could possibly be old enough to have graduated from high school. Make that junior high. Did child labor laws apply to programmers?
“Later,“ I said. “After the police get here. When the police say you can.“
“Aw, c'mon,“ he began.
“Never mind,“ said his much shorter companion, whom I recognized as Rico, one of the graphic designers. Actually, I recognized his RHODE ISLAND SCHOOL OF DESIGN T-shirt; without that distinctive wardrobe item, Rico would be yet another vaguely familiar new face. I still hadn't quite determined whether Rico owned only the one T- shirt or whether his alumnus zeal had inspired him to buy a wardrobe of them, though observation of distinctive pizza stains pointed to the former.
“But I'm hungry!“ Frankie whined.
Rico said something to him in a low voice.
“Okay,“ Frankie said. “I guess I can eat later.“
They turned and disappeared. Planning to sneak out, of course. At the back door, they'd find Liz. Fat chance getting past her. Dad, who happened to be in the office providing technical advice to the programmers working on a proposed new Doctors from Hell game, was guarding the side door to the hall. Having achieved what some mystery buffs only dream about – getting close to a real, live murder – he'd normally be wild with excitement and thus useless as a watchdog. But since I'd refused to let him examine Ted's body, he was sulking, and had apparently decided that if he couldn't have any fun, neither could anyone else. I did hope the police showed up before anyone figured out how to escape by rapelling down the side of the building, I heard a noise behind me – someone opening the front door. I turned and shouted.
“Stop right there! I said no one comes in, and I meant it!“
The door stopped about two inches open.
“You didn't tell us this was a hostage situation,“ murmured an unfamiliar voice out in the hall.
“It's not,“ I heard my brother, Rob, say. “That's just my sister, Meg, keeping people away from the crime scene. Meg? It's Rob. I have the police. Can we come in?“
“Of course,“ I said. “You should have identified yourselves; I thought you were just more stupid sightseers.“
“You can stay outside, Mr. Langslow,“ the unfamiliar voice said. “We'll take it from here.“
I heard murmured conversation from the hall, and then the door opened, cautiously, and a head appeared.
“Ms. Langslow? I'm Chief Burke.“
Chief Burke was a balding, middle-aged African-American man whose laugh lines suggested that his face more often wore a smile than the current anxious frown.
“Please come in, Chief,“ I said. “I'm just trying to keep all the rubberneckers out.“
“We appreciate that,“ he said, stepping a little farther into the reception room. “Could you –? Oops!“
I heard a thud, followed by the squeaking voice of the Affirmation Bear.
“Whenever something makes me angry, I stop, take a deep breath, and try to see the humorous side of the situation.“
“That's God-damned easy for you to say,“ the chief growled. And then he added, “Who the hell said that, anyway?“
“I'm sorry,“ I said. “I guess you tripped over the bear.“
By this time, he had fished the bear out from under him and was frowning at it. “It talks?“
“Poke his stomach,“ I said.
He did, tentatively.
“Harder,“ I said. “Vent your frustration over being tripped.“
The chief punched, harder, and I suspected, from his form, that he had boxed during his youth.
“Don't keep anger and hurt feelings bottled up inside,“ the bear advised. “Find positive ways of expressing negative feelings.“
“Mouthy little thing,“ the chief said, heaving himself up with the help of a worried-looking officer in uniform. “Sure hope the grandkids don't want one of them for Christmas. So – good Lord.“
He'd noticed George.
“Office mascot,“ I said quickly.
“Okay,“ the chief said. “Thought for a moment maybe you'd waited a little too long to call us.“
We both laughed – nervously, and maybe a little more than the joke deserved. I found myself wondering if they saw many murders here in Caerphilly.
“I'm going to have to clear people out of the crime scene while we investigate,“ he said.
“I figured as much,“ I said. “Can we shoo everybody down to the parking lot?“
“Well, by crime scene, all I meant was this room here, where he was killed.“
“Yes, but he wasn't killed here. He was killed on the mail cart.“
“Which is here in the reception area.“
“Yes, now it is; but he certainly wasn't killed here. I've been sitting here at die switchboard all morning. I think I'd have noticed something as bizarre as one of my coworkers getting strangled with a mouse cord.“
“Um… right,“ the chief said, glancing at George. “So someone moved the body?“
“Not really. He was on the mail cart.“
“You're not suggesting some lunatic wheeled the mail cart in here without even noticing there was a dead body on it?“
I explained about the automated mail cart, Ted's obsession with it, and his annoying antics of the morning.
“Let me get this straight, then,“ the chief said. “We have no idea where he was killed, because he was riding the mail cart all over creation, and no idea when, because everyone was ignoring him all morning.“
“You got it.“
“You're not going to make this easy, are you?“ he said. I was startled, until I realized he was looking up, not at me. “Okay,“ he said, turning back in my direction. “I guess we have to move all these good people out into the parking lot after all. You got an accurate list of who's supposed to be here?“
“On the reception desk,“ I said. “There's a copy of the phone list. I already marked the employees who aren't here today, earlier this morning, so I wouldn't put through calls to them; and the sign-in sheet shows the visitors.“
Half a dozen police officers fanned through the suite to herd everybody out. Just then Liz appeared in the reception area.
“Chief Burke?“ she said, extending her hand. “I'm Elizabeth Mitchell, the firm's general counsel.“
The firm. I noticed that, as usual, she avoided uttering the words “Mutant Wizards.“ According to Rob, about every six weeks she'd send another earnest memo suggesting half a dozen logical reasons for changing the company's name. I could have told her this was useless – the only reason Rob had named his company Mutant Wizards was that he thought it sounded cool. If she wanted to change the name, she should forget logical reasons and try to think of an even cooler name.
“Pleased to meet you,“ the chief said. He looked a little wary. Maybe he expected her to raise some objection to his investigation. Or maybe he just found her a little intimidating – many people did. Not physically – she was only about five feet four. But I'd seen some pretty tough characters, like the guys from the moving company, back down when she went toe to toe with them.
She was dressed, as usual, in monochrome – a slim, tailored black skirt, an off-white silk blouse, a scarf in tones of gray, black hose, and sensible black pumps. Only her face and hands kept her from looking like a black- and-white movie; and come to think of it, they didn't look real – just badly colorized. But she oozed chic, and I could easily have hated her, except for one thing – she always had some tiny flaw in her outfit. The sort of thing only another woman would notice. One day she'd been wearing two similar but not identical shoes. Another day one of her earrings had been bent at an odd angle so it looked as if a tiny hand was giving the world the bird. Last Friday, all day, she'd walked around with a spent staple stuck to the back of her calf, inside the pantyhose.
I wondered if this were deliberate, like the flaws oriental rug makers always included in their works. Since it wasn't the sort of thing I could ask without mortally embarrassing her, I'd probably never know.
And had she broken the curse today? No, I finally spotted the flaw. Poking up out of her collar was a tag,
