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Authors: Gillian Roberts
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the living room, Claire Fairchild looked as if she’d fallen asleep. I stood near the entry and cleared my throat by way of announcement. Her eyes opened and she adjusted her torso to a more up-right position. I suspected that once, before parts of her went bad, she’d had ramrod posture.
“Don’t sit down,” she said.
Fired? Like that? I formulated a protest, feeling as humiliated as the frightened housekeeper had been, except my emotions immediately steamed and mutated into anger. Enough of this woman’s imperial attitude!
50
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“The desk.” She pointed. “Bottom drawer.”
As almost always, I was glad I’d held my temper. I didn’t hear arrogance in her voice. I heard exhaustion. It had probably been a busier than normal day already, with her son’s visit and, as added psychic strain, his announcement of a wedding date to a woman she wanted investigated. Me. And, from the appearance of it, earlier on, a confrontation with her housekeeper.
I went to the small desk—what was called a lady’s desk because it’s easier to say lady’s than useless, undersized, and intended for trivial, inconsequential tasks. It was narrow and delicately formed of pale wood inlay. I opened the lower of its two shallow drawers.
“On top,” she said. I extracted a plain manila envelope and held it up. She lowered her head in a nod of acknowledgment, then, wiggling her index finger again, indicated that I should bring it over.
I handed it to her and sat down on my assigned love seat.
“I thought I was being too . . . careful . . . putting it there. He drops over. Lucky today.”
So there was more to this than a snit about inadequate storytelling skills, and we were finally getting to the point.
She slowly unclipped the envelope and extracted sheets of paper and photographs, all of which she let sit on her lap. “I worried,”
she said. “Not right, how she says nothing. How determined she is. Moving here. But I called because of this.” She checked one of the papers on her lap, then passed it to me.
The top of the page was dominated by a drawing of a skinny-necked insect with huge eyes and saw-edged front legs, an unreal creature from an inept science-fiction film. Below was a message written in a collage of different-sized print from what looked like newspapers and magazines. I had the sense of being back in an old movie. Given computers and clip art, nobody had to cut up newspapers to remain anonymous. This was the Antiques Roadshow of crime. I read the message:
the PRAYING man TIS! lookS devout but LOOKS lie! sHE eats its mate when sex is done.
51
GILLIAN ROBERTS
“Did this come in the mail?”
She nodded.
“Do you have the envelope?”
She shook her head and frowned. At herself this time, I trusted.
“I remember. From New Jersey, somewhere.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said, wondering why I was trying to spare her feelings. “In any case, this could mean anything, about anybody or nobody. Most likely, it’s a prank. I don’t think it should worry you. Somebody plucked your name from the phone book—”
“Not listed.”
“You know what I mean. Somebody found your name and address. For starters, it’s on the wall downstairs, next to the buzzers.
This isn’t necessarily anything, and its meaning—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Then this came.” She passed a second sheet that was again crudely fashioned out of snippets of print, some words pasted on letter by letter. Letters were clipped from shiny magazine stock, others from newspaper headlines or advertisements.
Would not YOU Feel More InFORMed IF! you Could read THE
Independent Journal?
I looked up at Mrs. Fairchild. “Sent from Altoona,” she said. “I remember.”
“What’s it mean? What’s this Journal? The sender doesn’t sound bright, to put it mildly.”
She shook her head and passed me a third page that had only a date, about fifteen months ago. “From Chicago.” The envelope was
“Don’t sit down,” she said.
Fired? Like that? I formulated a protest, feeling as humiliated as the frightened housekeeper had been, except my emotions immediately steamed and mutated into anger. Enough of this woman’s imperial attitude!
50
CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
“The desk.” She pointed. “Bottom drawer.”
As almost always, I was glad I’d held my temper. I didn’t hear arrogance in her voice. I heard exhaustion. It had probably been a busier than normal day already, with her son’s visit and, as added psychic strain, his announcement of a wedding date to a woman she wanted investigated. Me. And, from the appearance of it, earlier on, a confrontation with her housekeeper.
I went to the small desk—what was called a lady’s desk because it’s easier to say lady’s than useless, undersized, and intended for trivial, inconsequential tasks. It was narrow and delicately formed of pale wood inlay. I opened the lower of its two shallow drawers.
“On top,” she said. I extracted a plain manila envelope and held it up. She lowered her head in a nod of acknowledgment, then, wiggling her index finger again, indicated that I should bring it over.
I handed it to her and sat down on my assigned love seat.
“I thought I was being too . . . careful . . . putting it there. He drops over. Lucky today.”
So there was more to this than a snit about inadequate storytelling skills, and we were finally getting to the point.
She slowly unclipped the envelope and extracted sheets of paper and photographs, all of which she let sit on her lap. “I worried,”
she said. “Not right, how she says nothing. How determined she is. Moving here. But I called because of this.” She checked one of the papers on her lap, then passed it to me.
The top of the page was dominated by a drawing of a skinny-necked insect with huge eyes and saw-edged front legs, an unreal creature from an inept science-fiction film. Below was a message written in a collage of different-sized print from what looked like newspapers and magazines. I had the sense of being back in an old movie. Given computers and clip art, nobody had to cut up newspapers to remain anonymous. This was the Antiques Roadshow of crime. I read the message:
the PRAYING man TIS! lookS devout but LOOKS lie! sHE eats its mate when sex is done.
51
GILLIAN ROBERTS
“Did this come in the mail?”
She nodded.
“Do you have the envelope?”
She shook her head and frowned. At herself this time, I trusted.
“I remember. From New Jersey, somewhere.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I said, wondering why I was trying to spare her feelings. “In any case, this could mean anything, about anybody or nobody. Most likely, it’s a prank. I don’t think it should worry you. Somebody plucked your name from the phone book—”
“Not listed.”
“You know what I mean. Somebody found your name and address. For starters, it’s on the wall downstairs, next to the buzzers.
This isn’t necessarily anything, and its meaning—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Then this came.” She passed a second sheet that was again crudely fashioned out of snippets of print, some words pasted on letter by letter. Letters were clipped from shiny magazine stock, others from newspaper headlines or advertisements.
Would not YOU Feel More InFORMed IF! you Could read THE
Independent Journal?
I looked up at Mrs. Fairchild. “Sent from Altoona,” she said. “I remember.”
“What’s it mean? What’s this Journal? The sender doesn’t sound bright, to put it mildly.”
She shook her head and passed me a third page that had only a date, about fifteen months ago. “From Chicago.” The envelope was
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