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Authors: Margaret Grace
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minutes alone at Skip’s desk to reflect. Or to snoop, depending on what you wanted to call it. I did wonder about the evidence Lavana mentioned, but it would have been unseemly to act nosy.
“Thanks, Lavana.” I gave her a grateful smile. “I know the way.”
“You didn’t happen to bring any of those ginger cookies?” she whispered. Apparently if I did, she wasn’t planning on sharing.
As a matter of fact, I had pulled a bag out of the cooler in my car, as an offering to Skip, but I was willing to use them to barter wherever necessary. I opened a small plastic container within the bag and invited her to help herself. It was a small price to pay for a few minutes alone in Skip’s cubicle.
Food as sycophantism. Another time-honored Porter tradition.
I sat in Skip’s office, in the visitors’ chair, facing the cubicle opening and his bulletin board. I had a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird open on my lap, for effect. I really had wanted to reread the classic, but today it served double duty as a cover.
The beige corkboard was cluttered with business and personal items, including a wonderful photo of a very young Maddie, her father, and me. I remembered the long-ago trip to Pier 39, one of San Francisco’s many fun places for kids. If Skip gave me any grief today, I’d remind him of his loving family.
Maddie looked happy in the photo, next to a life-size yellow cartoon animal of no particular delineation. Unlike now, I mused, when she was probably fuming as much as an eleven-year-old could fume. Maddie was in a prolonged Nancy Drew phase and hated to be left out of any investigative tasks. She was at least in an environment she might like, this time, with someone her own age and a wonderful (I guessed) workshop to browse in.
I saw nothing useful on Skip’s bulletin board. I’d been hoping for a to-do list. Clear Rosie Norman could have been an item. Then, Arrest John Doe . I started a mental list of who John Doe could be. No one had asked my opinion, but I thought the police should be looking into David’s ex-wife, his estranged son, and especially the Duns Scotus employee we all saw him arguing with last night.
I moved my chair slightly, to have a better angle on the desk. Lavana had said Skip would be back “any minute” and I didn’t want to be caught out-and-out snooping. I scanned the clutter for a file labeled Aunt Gerry’s Friend, Rosie . Or, simply, Norman .
Nothing.
Nothing big, that is. But there was something small. Under a few loose sheets of paper, I saw the edge of a hotel key card.
Still keeping an eye on the cubicle opening, I flung my left arm out, felt around for the card, and pulled it out. A Duns Scotus key, like the one in my purse. This one had a slightly different likeness of the Franciscan metaphysician, but it was the Subtle Doctor himself, in his brown habit.
The key cards to the hotel were imprinted with different reproductions of paintings of Duns Scotus; even keys to the same room had different images. I found the same policy at the last hotel I’d been in, in Monterey, where the cards bore a variety of pictures of the ocean. I didn’t see the point, except in terms of exposure to art. The bottom line was that there was no way to tell which key went with which room these days. No more large numerals etched on circles or flat metal keys. All for better security, which was on everyone’s mind.
I didn’t know yet where David had been murdered, but wherever it was, all the sophisticated, increased security in the world hadn’t helped him.
Whose key card was I holding? David’s? Rosie’s, therefore mine?
It wasn’t a good sign if the Lincoln Point police went to all the trouble to go to San Francisco and enter our room. Skip had said they didn’t know where the murder had taken place. If David had been killed at the hotel, then the San Francisco police would handle it. Pangs of guilt accompanied my desire to have LPPD in charge of the case so I could
“Thanks, Lavana.” I gave her a grateful smile. “I know the way.”
“You didn’t happen to bring any of those ginger cookies?” she whispered. Apparently if I did, she wasn’t planning on sharing.
As a matter of fact, I had pulled a bag out of the cooler in my car, as an offering to Skip, but I was willing to use them to barter wherever necessary. I opened a small plastic container within the bag and invited her to help herself. It was a small price to pay for a few minutes alone in Skip’s cubicle.
Food as sycophantism. Another time-honored Porter tradition.
I sat in Skip’s office, in the visitors’ chair, facing the cubicle opening and his bulletin board. I had a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird open on my lap, for effect. I really had wanted to reread the classic, but today it served double duty as a cover.
The beige corkboard was cluttered with business and personal items, including a wonderful photo of a very young Maddie, her father, and me. I remembered the long-ago trip to Pier 39, one of San Francisco’s many fun places for kids. If Skip gave me any grief today, I’d remind him of his loving family.
Maddie looked happy in the photo, next to a life-size yellow cartoon animal of no particular delineation. Unlike now, I mused, when she was probably fuming as much as an eleven-year-old could fume. Maddie was in a prolonged Nancy Drew phase and hated to be left out of any investigative tasks. She was at least in an environment she might like, this time, with someone her own age and a wonderful (I guessed) workshop to browse in.
I saw nothing useful on Skip’s bulletin board. I’d been hoping for a to-do list. Clear Rosie Norman could have been an item. Then, Arrest John Doe . I started a mental list of who John Doe could be. No one had asked my opinion, but I thought the police should be looking into David’s ex-wife, his estranged son, and especially the Duns Scotus employee we all saw him arguing with last night.
I moved my chair slightly, to have a better angle on the desk. Lavana had said Skip would be back “any minute” and I didn’t want to be caught out-and-out snooping. I scanned the clutter for a file labeled Aunt Gerry’s Friend, Rosie . Or, simply, Norman .
Nothing.
Nothing big, that is. But there was something small. Under a few loose sheets of paper, I saw the edge of a hotel key card.
Still keeping an eye on the cubicle opening, I flung my left arm out, felt around for the card, and pulled it out. A Duns Scotus key, like the one in my purse. This one had a slightly different likeness of the Franciscan metaphysician, but it was the Subtle Doctor himself, in his brown habit.
The key cards to the hotel were imprinted with different reproductions of paintings of Duns Scotus; even keys to the same room had different images. I found the same policy at the last hotel I’d been in, in Monterey, where the cards bore a variety of pictures of the ocean. I didn’t see the point, except in terms of exposure to art. The bottom line was that there was no way to tell which key went with which room these days. No more large numerals etched on circles or flat metal keys. All for better security, which was on everyone’s mind.
I didn’t know yet where David had been murdered, but wherever it was, all the sophisticated, increased security in the world hadn’t helped him.
Whose key card was I holding? David’s? Rosie’s, therefore mine?
It wasn’t a good sign if the Lincoln Point police went to all the trouble to go to San Francisco and enter our room. Skip had said they didn’t know where the murder had taken place. If David had been killed at the hotel, then the San Francisco police would handle it. Pangs of guilt accompanied my desire to have LPPD in charge of the case so I could
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