Chapter 1

Morning, Tuesday, October 7th

Bea Prancer arrived for work early. Turning on her computer, it beeped and flashed a password prompt. The office was almost silent; the only noise, the breathing whir of the computer fan sounded much like an air conditioner in a hospital morgue.

Bea looked, with mild irritation, at the tiny square-red message light flashing on her telephone. If the psychometric test for dementia was remembering a password or PIN number, then she would fail the competency exam. She pulled out her address book where under "S" for secrets, she had written the various code words and PIN numbers necessary to function in the faceless world of computers.

After logging in, Bea decided to make coffee before checking her e-mail. She walked down a pale salmon coloured hallway past the owner's office. Fred Waddle had interviewed her three weeks ago and had offered her a job on the spot. He was an effusive portly man with a beard like the bristles of a cheap square paintbrush. Her first impression: a nice man who liked his work and liked talking about it.

She glanced sideways into his office to say good morning as she walked past but instead did a double take. There stretched out under the round oak table; exposed, naked lay Fred. He looked pink. On his outstretched palm lay a stubby Crown Royal bottle. She pulled his door shut and scurried back to her cubicle.

"Damn, now what am I going to do? I never did like looking at naked people, especially fat, drunken men. Don't say fat, say chubby, obese, rotund," Bea muttered to herself. "Maybe that's his exercise suit." No, because she had glimpsed, over his protruding stomach, his dark-brown pubic hair.

A few minutes later, Bea heard the front door open. She knew it was Maggie Nichelton, by the sound of her chunky heels, energetically bouncing down the hallway. Maggie peeked around Bea's cubicle just for a second to smile and to wave good morning. As she continued, down the hallway, she shouted behind her. "Hi, Bea. I need a coffee. Is it made? Isn't Fred in yet? His door is closed. I'm starving."

Five minutes later with a coffee cup in hand, Maggie returned and after sighing a dramatic tired sigh, she said, "Like, Bea. Where is Fred? He doesn't usually shut his door this early, unless he's meeting one of his special clients or if him and Niels want to talk about secret investments. Hey look, my horoscope says - be prepared for a dramatic surprise that could bring you financial security. Yea, right! I'll probably find a quarter on the sidewalk. I'm so tired. Do you think that I should take some vitamin C with Echinacea? Maybe I'm getting the flu that can turn into strep throat or even pneumonia. I hope Fred comes in soon with the donuts. I need something or I'll be hypoglycaemic."

Young female lethargism or that genderless disease - morning melancholy always made Bea smile. She knew from experience that it was best to look a touch concerned, tilt her head to the side and nod in faint but not absolute agreement.

Maggie Nichelton was Fred's stepdaughter from a long since dissolved marriage. 'Fred,' Maggie had told Bea, 'has very, very bad taste in women and very, very good taste in employees such as herself, the payroll clerk/receptionist for the agency.' She paid approximately one-hundred and fifty temporary office and warehouse workers every week and ensured that each employer who phoned was handled with care.

"I think he's sleeping in the office," Bea looked down at her coffee cup. She turned toward her computer hoping that the girl would drift away.

"Sleeping in his office. I think not. He just, like, loves his beautiful house too, too much. Like, I hear the front door opening. See you later, it's payday and the temps want their mola." Maggie hummed as she clunked back to her desk in the reception area.

The other two employment representatives, Niels Wolfe and Daniella Thompson, arrived, at the agency, on the dot of nine o'clock. Immediately, without saying good morning, they headed straight for the coffee. Bea also heard them talking about how unusual it was to see the boss' door closed. Niels had been cordial and helpful since she had started working there. Maybe she should tell him that Fred was zonked out under the table in his office. She wasn't yet comfortable enough to bluntly ask anyone if her new boss was an alcoholic.

Sitting behind the hollow tweed cubicle barrier, Bea could hear the comings and goings in the hallway because her office was halfway between Fred's office and the reception area. Beside her cubicle were two interview rooms and across the hall were Danni's and Niels' offices.

On paydays, the temporary workers popped into the back offices to talk to their respective representatives. If they had been working for the agency for awhile, they helped themselves to the coffee and the goodies that Fred brought in every Tuesday morning. There were usually boxes of donuts or danishes. When he was in a really good mood, two foot long slabs of black forest or carrot cake would appear on the table in the file room.

Being new, Bea had only one visitor, an older clerical worker, Mrs Fundy. She sat with her shoulders hunched forward and whispered at an audibility level louder than a saxophone. "I really need to speak to you, in private, about my last assignment."

"Sure, where were you working?" asked Bea. But before she had closed her mouth, the woman burst out.

"The job is over and it was dreadful. Dreadful! Please I really need a clean two-week assignment. I can't stand these one and two day jobs. Do you know what that crummy company did to me?"

Bea shook her head in the negative. Mrs Fundy responded by lifting her fist into the air. She then pointed her index finger at the ceiling but her purse dropped off her lap onto the floor. Out fell a bottle of spray cleaner, two bars of used-up yellow soap, a soiled tea towel and a damp wash cloth. She continued talking as she picked up her belongings.

"One! They gave me an old chair. Two! They gave me an office, in an old building, covered in ant and cockroach droppings." Her fist went back up into the air and her middle finger joined the index finger pointed at Bea's nose.

"Three! The office was cold and air conditioned me nicely. Thank you very much. At least it wasn't 30 degrees below zero outside." Ring finger opened angrily. "Four! I only stayed because it was a two-day assignment but the agency should know that the owner is filthy. He doesn't wash his floors every night. He's too cheap." Both hands were simultaneously opening and closing expressing distress as she spoke. "I didn't want to let poor Fred and the agency down, so please, please next assignment, find me something clean and decent."

Bea nodded her head, "Let me see what's available. It sounds like you had a pretty rough time." She turned to her computer and found Mrs Fundy a two-week assignment inputting invoices with a plumbing contractor. The phone rang just as Bea finished writing up the job order which included location, hours of work, hourly wage and supervisor's name. She handed Mrs Fundy the slip of paper and spoke into the phone with relief. "Hello."

"Please, please take this call. Fred still isn't in. Do you think he had a car accident?" asked Maggie, on the other end of the phone.

"No, I'm positive that he didn't have a car accident. Who's on the line?" asked Bea.

"The cops, a Detective Bottleman. He's really pissed off because someone didn't show up for work this morning at exactly nine hundred hours."

"Please tell him that I'll call him back in a few minutes. That'll give me time to find the file." Bea listened to Maggie as she searched the database for the words - police and Bottleman.

"I already tried to take a message but I'll try again. I'm going to give him your name and tell him you'll call back right away."

After searching the database three time, Bea gave up, she couldn't find a job order for the Metro Police or any police station in the Greater Toronto Area. Fred must have filled the job request on his own without processing it through the system. She called the police station with trepidation for she loathed sounding incompetent. "Sgt. Bottler, hello, this is Bea Prancer. I work with Fred Waddle."

"It is Detective-Sergeant Bottleman, not Bottler. Where's the computer guy? He should have been here at nine o'clock sharp. In one short month the phone company is adding a new area code to the city and we have to have the software tested and loaded this week. Where's Fred?" bellowed the irked policeman.

"I'm sorry. He's in a meeting. Could you please tell me the name of the person you were expecting this morning?" asked Bea.

"The name! Don't you people know `o you were sending over here? Someone called Tom Clarke. Go get Fred out of his meeting? Tell him the police wish to speak to him." The detective's Scottish accent became more pronounced as he tried to control his temper.

"Okay, why don't I do that and I'll call you back," said Bea politely as she twisted and untwisted a lock of her auburn hair around and around her finger.

"I don't want you to call back, lassie. I'll hold," said the irate Detective-Sergeant Kyle Bottleman. His impatience flowed through the phone line like irritation in a lineup at a women's washroom when the final bell, for curtain call, is rung.

"Fine. Thank you. Let me put you on hold and I'll find him." Bea didn't push the hold button hard enough so he heard her mutter, "I don't want to get him."

"Mrs Prancer, I don't care what you want. Go find him," boomed the voice as it moved away from her ear.

"Are you still there? Sorry, I thought I'd put you on hold," she stuttered, jabbing the square button again.

She walked to Fred's office door, knocked softly and called, "Mr. Waddle, telephone." She knocked again this time harder and increased the volume of her voice. "Fred, the police are on the phone."

No answer so she slid the door open a crack. He was still lying under the table but now the room smelled like an infirmary. She darted into the room, dropped on her knees and felt the side of his neck with the back of her fingers. Next she placed her cheek a millimetre above his nostrils and her palm on his chest. When she stood up a sharp shriek erupted out of her throat and without looking around she ran back to the telephone in her cubicle.

"Detective Bottleman. He's dead. I know he's dead. You should come here right away," said Bea, in what seemed to her a soft controlled voice.

"Mrs Prancer, tell me who's dead?"

"Fred Waddle is lying under the table in his office. I thought he was drunk. But he's dead. He smells dead. I think you should send someone here right away, please, right away."

While listening to the detective's instructions, she looked up to see five people crowding around the doorway of her cubicle. Niels listened for a second, then ran to Fred's office. Danni followed him a few moments later. Two temps, who had been walking down the hallway, looked at each other with exaggerated open eyes and faces that said, 'Let's get outa here fast.' Curiosity, however, compelled them to take a darting detour to Fred's door to check out the accident site which was closer and more convenient than one seen on a highway.

When Bea hung up, Maggie said, "What happe..."

"Fred died in his office. I'm really sorry, Maggie. The police told me to make sure no one touches anything. I better go do that." She hurried when she heard Niels and Danni standing outside the office arguing about whether or not to cover him up.

"Well, at least shut the door if we have to leave him lying there exposed. It's disrespectful. When did you become such a prick?" Danni asked Niels. Her hands were fists and the veins on the back of her hands were starting to bulge with stress.

Bea interrupted before Niels could answer back. "The police and an ambulance are on the way. Don't touch anything. They said we should wait for them and not go into the room."

Peering over Niels' shoulder, Maggie gasped when she saw her stepfather in his final position. Fred's arms were neatly laid across his chest and his chubby legs were crossed at the ankles. His face was turned toward the window and his eyes starred into the wooden desk. Beside him was the whisky bottle and a wooden-handle serrated knife sprinkled with what looked like icing sugar.

"Danni's right. We have to cover him up. It's very, very disrespectful. Anyway, Bea, how did you know he was really dead? Did you check?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, I checked his pulse and breathing. I'm sorry, Maggie, but he's really dead. The police said we aren't to touch anything, nothing, not even the computers."

"We heard you the first time telling us not to touch anything. Maybe we should go sit in the lobby and wait for them," said Danni.

Suddenly, Maggie shoved everyone aside, scurried into the office, grabbed the rye whisky bottle and threw it like a basket ball into the waste paper basket. The liquor bottle hit the bottom with a metallic clunk vibrating the garbage can. Niels and Bea rushed into the room, each grasping one of Maggie's arms. She looked at them in disgust. "I'm not five years old, you know. I just didn't want anyone thinking he was a drunk when he wasn't."

Pulling the door halfway closed behind her, she started to weep and ran down the hallway presumably to the ladies' room. Danni turned on the heels of her pumps and marched back to her office. Niels looked at Bea and said, "Well, too bad the liquor bottle is empty or else we could have had a drink. Let's go sit in the lobby and wait for the cops or better yet you go and I'll bring us a couple of hot coffees."

"Yea, thanks, that would be great. Maybe I'll go answer the phones at the front. They must be ringing off the hook. It will give me something to do before the police come," said Bea.

"So you didn't realize he was dead when you first arrived this morning?" asked Niels tactfully but curiously.

"I don't know. I just shut the door. The room didn't smell like death, either. Now it reminds me of the morgue."

"A morgue. You've been to a morgue? Really," said Niels. "Anyway, didn't you notice the knife?"

"The knife. No, I don't remember the knife until I took his pulse. I thought he was drunk." Bea started to laugh but instead tears flowed. Niels patted her on the shoulder, turned to leave and muttered the word, coffee.

A few minutes later, the ambulance attendants rushed down the hallway. They checked the body for less than a second, then they stood on guard outside the death room.