Paula took a deep breath. “Busy day, getting the latest out about Maggie Branch’s murder. Not much more was released at the press conference the Tyler cops held, and then I had a quick take-out sub for dinner, and then went to the regular scheduled Tyler selectmen’s meeting.”
I squeezed her and she patted my other arm. “Meeting went on, blah blah blah, and then I heard the Tyler cops and Diane Woods are going to have another press conference later today. Okay? So I had a bind of getting my copy in today to make deadline, and making sure I could have the time to get to the press conference.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You went back to the Tyler Chronicle offices to write your selectmen’s story.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It was past midnight when I got the story wrapped up and done. Then I slipped to the front office to grab a drink of water, and then I heard the rear door bang open.”
“Oh.”
“You bet,” she said. “There were voices, and some guy swore, and … I panicked. There are two conference rooms by there, and I ducked into the smallest one, locked the door behind me. Then—my cell phone was back at my desk, and there was no phone in the conference room.”
“Paula …”
She snuggled into me, took another breath. “I stayed there, under the conference room table, for hours. I could hear them moving around.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Two at least. Maybe three.”
“Could you hear what they were doing?”
“They went through the office upstairs, and then I heard someone shout that he had found it, and they went downstairs to the cellar. Spent at least an hour down there, I could hear them tossing things around.”
“The cellar?”
“Yeah, pretty weird, right? You’d think they’d go through the desks on the ground floor, break them open, looking for laptops or some petty cash, but no, they stayed mostly in the cellar.”
“When did they leave?”
I could feel her head shake. “I don’t know. I … was under the conference room table, curled up, and I know it sounds strange, but I actually dozed off for a bit—until I heard a door slam.”
“Them leaving.”
“That’s right. But I was so scared that, oh, I don’t know, that one of them had stayed behind. So I waited, and waited, and when it started lightening up from the sunrise, well, I felt brave enough to get out. I ran out the front door and went over to the Common Grill & Grill to make a call. The cops got there in about five minutes, thank God.”
“What was taken?”
She turned, smiled, which was nice to see. “Hard to tell, because they left the basement a mess. Filing cabinets with old clips, bound back issues, that was all tossed around. But I told the cops I was sure I knew what might have been taken. The sludge.”
“The what?”
Paula smiled and I could feel her tension easing. “For decades, the Chronicle has had a darkroom down there in the cellar, processing film, before digital cameras came on the scene. Don’t ask me the ins and outs of everything, but the chemicals and papers used in photography back in the day had silver in them. A year or two … big deal. But years after years, if certain sludge was collected, well, I told the cops the silver there could be worth a bit.”
“How much?”
“No idea,” she said. “But the containers with the sludge were gone. What else could it be?”
“Must have scared you something awful,” I said.
“It did.” Paula moved and looked up at me. “All right if I crash here for a day or two?”
“Stay as long as you want,” I said, which earned me a kiss, and then a wrinkle of her nose.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“No offense,” she said. “But you taste like dirt.”
Despite her offering to do so, I made us both a quick breakfast as she set up her laptop on the kitchen counter, and when we were finished with our instant coffee, scrambled eggs, and English muffins, she said, “Good. Two more hours before I have to head to the cop shop.”
Paula yawned and I said, “I need to go upstairs for a second. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
So I took my time going upstairs, did some morning business, and when I came back downstairs, Paula was stretched on the couch, fast asleep.
Well.
This now posed a problem, because I was counting on Paula to help me with my two drains, but she was sleeping and I wasn’t going to wake her up, not after the night she’d had at the Chronicle. So what to do?
Adapt and overcome.
I walked away from the couch, made my way to the stairs.
In the bathroom I got my oversize T-shirt off, looked at the situation in the mirror. Situation approaching extreme. Both bladders were full, and needed to get emptied. Okay, then.
The near bladder looked like it was reachable, as before. I moved my arm, my fingers brushed against it. Close.
I forced myself again. Almost.
“One more time,” I whispered. I used my other arm to push my right arm and—
Snagged the little bastard. I pulled it out of the pouch, the bladder warm and obscene-looking in my hand. I gently tugged it away from the tube, emptied it in the measuring cup. Eight ounces. I washed out the bladder, popped the tube back in, and then grunted one more time and …
Success. The empty bladder was back in the pouch.
Okay. I took a few more breaths. Leaned over the bathroom counter. My head was light. That was some effort.
I calmed myself down and turned back once more.
The second bladder …
It could have been in Concord for all the good it was doing me.
All right.
As someone I greatly admired once said, work the problem.
I slowly walked out of the bathroom, went into my office, still in disarray. Desk, shelves, computer, printer, and monitor, plus cartons of books and shelves and other clutter.
Including a toolbox, overflowing with tools. I
