Death Loves a Messy Desk by Mary Jane Maffini Page B

“Did you say cornstarch? I have a box somewhere in my kitchen.”
    “Just pat it on and before you hang up again, I’m curious, who’s the date with? Anyone I—” Click.
    Oh well. Obviously, it was a tense moment and I had to give her space. But who was she dating? Why wasn’t I in on this? What was the good of being friends for all these years if we didn’t share every little detail when we were lucky enough to have little details? What had Margaret done to get little details? That’s all I wanted to know.
    Next I tried Sally, just in case she was up to a second girls’ night in a row. Sally’s husband, Benjamin, informed me that Sally had had a rough day with the four children and was flaked out on the rug in the family room, snoring. I considered calling Margaret back to warn her that dating can lead to falling asleep on the rug after a rough day with the kids, but I didn’t want to get another earful of new vocabulary.
    So much for the misfits sticking together forever.
    To top it off, my friends Lilith Carisse and Rose Skip owski were in L.A. on a belated visit to Rose’s daughter.
    It always pays to have a Plan B when you feel like company and find yourself alone. My Plan B usually involves decluttering. There’s always something that needs to be done. I keep a list of tasks handy, especially the type of ten-minute chore that a person tends to forget about until it becomes a problem. I headed for my medicine cabinet and checked the expiration dates on my medications. Then I hit the fridge and checked the vitamins. I put the ones that had outlived their dates in a small basket and parked it in my cupboard out of reach of the dogs until I could take it to the local drugstore for disposal. I jotted that onto my master To Do list.
    There’s a great feeling that comes from getting rid of silly stuff that clogs up your life. Especially items you couldn’t use because they were past their best-before date and still you couldn’t quite bring yourself to throw them out because you paid good money for whatever it was.
    Naturally you will feel so virtuous that you will reward yourself. Enough work and worry. I knew exactly how to do that. I picked up my iPod and selected my James Blunt favorites. I curled up on the sofa with a cuddly throw and my pooches and a few purely medicinal chocolates. Luxury.
    “You’re beautifulllll,” James warbled.
    What a great way to make sure none of the toxicity of Fredelle’s office and her office mates got under my skin. Wouldn’t want that to contaminate my life.
    My subconscious inquired exactly how Fredelle had learned that Barb Douglas had tried to run me off the road. My eyes popped open.
    I hadn’t told her.
    I hadn’t told anyone.
    The truck drivers? Mel and Del? There had been no one else around. But could they be part of the great “get rid of Barb Douglas” conspiracy?

    At five minutes to ten the next morning, I arrived at Quovadicon. There was a slight September nip in the air, and I wore a crisp fitted jacket to give myself that extra bit of authority I thought might be necessary, a flowered skirt, and my purple leather stiletto boots.
    Fredelle was already hovering around the door spreading anxiety when I got there. Her cotton sweater today was a deep and beautiful periwinkle. The pin appeared to be a squirrel or possibly a chipmunk. I spotted a glimmer of lavender in her nail polish. Maybe it was the periwinkle that made Fredelle look pale as a breeze.
    Autumn sat at the reception desk biting her lip and staring. The phone rang, but Autumn didn’t appear to hear it. She watched, transfixed, as Robbie Van Zandt paced back and forth in front of the desk, clenching and unclenching his fists. Maybe that was why Autumn seemed on the verge of tears. Although possibly she was trying not to laugh. Robbie was definitely not the type to inspire fear.
    I said, “Good morn—”
    “She’s not here,” Fredelle whispered.
    “Who?” I said, hoping the answer was