Shadows 7 (19 page)

Ben had never known Carl to be impish, but that was the only word that suited the vice-president now. "No, I haven't," he said, taking the chair nearest Carl's enormous desk.

"Well, it's better you don't admit it, even if you have," he said. "Nothing is final yet and it could still fall in the cracks." He leaned back in his padded leather chair. "Let's just say that you might get the chance you've been looking for. Nothing is final. Keep that in mind."

"Of course," Ben nodded, feeling stunned. Was Carl trying to tell him that he would be Tim Hoopes' replacement?

"They've narrowed it down to two; I'll say that much. Harry Riverford's a good man. His office runs well." He narrowed his eyes, watching Ben for his reaction.

"He does very good work," Ben managed to say, thinking of the rough humor of the man. Could it be that the telegram was nothing more than putting him on notice that it was Harry and not himself who would be promoted into Tim Hoopes' job?

"Something the matter?" Carl demanded.

Ben recovered himself. "Uh . . . no. I've got my mind on too many things. That machine tool plant that burned—I still don't like the way the reports look. The damn thing's too neat." It was true enough that the case was a troublesome one, and it let him account for his lapse of attention.

"Was that why you came in here? Tim started that claim investigation, didn't he?" Carl knew full well that it had been Tim Hoopes' case, but preferred to let the men under him explain themselves without his help.

"He started it. We're still not quite through. The cops are not committing themselves, and I think that warrants further investigation on our part. You'd be surprised how many questions are hanging on this one." He glowered down at his knees. "Is Tim at home yet, or is he still in the hospital?"

"He's been at home for three days," Carl said colorlessly.

"Three days? Do you think it would be okay if I gave him a call? I mean, do you think it would upset him?" If Tim had been at home and bored, he might take it into his head to send such a telegram to a man he feared would get his job. It made sense.

"I'll phone Lilah and ask her when would be a good time," Carl offered, not smiling at all.

"Sure, if you think that would be best." He started to get up, not wanting to appear to be soliciting Carl's good opinion. "If anything clear turns up, I'll let you know."

"I'd appreciate that," Carl said, making no attempt to stop him. "You can check with me this afternoon and I'll tell you what Lilah said."

"Thanks." He started toward the door, then paused. "How much have you said to Harry about these . . . rumors?"

"About as much as I've said to you. Leave it alone, Ben. I've told Harry the same thing." He said it coldly.

Ben responded at once. "Right."

The next day coming back from lunch, Ben found a note tucked under his windshield wiper:

THE FAMILY OF BENEDICT TURNER ARE GRIEVED TO ANNOUNCE HIS UNTIMELY DEATH ON THURSDAY, JUNE 21

He was about to tear it up when he decided that he might need this as evidence. Handling it as if it had poison on it, he folded the paper three times and slipped it into his wallet. He was not quite certain what he planned to do with it, but he had a vague sense of strategy building up within him. Whoever it was that was doing this to him, he was not prepared to suffer the outrage in silence. He looked down the street, but all he saw was the meter maid puttering along in her little cart, pausing now to write a ticket. He wanted to run after her, to find out if she had seen anyone put the note on his windshield, but he could not bring himself to move, for that might require an explanation.

"Damn!" he whispered, as if any stronger word would lend an importance to the incident that he did not want it to have. He walked back to the office in a thoughtful funk, not sure how best to proceed.

"I had a phone call this afternoon," Heather said during a commercial on the evening news. She had been fidgety since she got home but had not been willing to say why. "About half an hour before closing, there was a call at the library."

"Anything important?" Ben asked, not paying too much attention. He was still thinking about the hostage bargaining crisis that the last story had covered. It had been three minutes long. Three minutes, with eighteen lives at stake. He had never been bothered by that brevity until now.

Heather started to tell him, but the jingle for fast foods gave way to the crisp tones of the local newscaster and Ben waved Heather into silence for another twelve minutes while a possible new treatment for AIDS was speculated on—cautiously and technically by the researcher, more enthusiastically by the reporter; a multicar collision on the largest local freeway was shown; there was a report on a hearing for a utilities increase; and the fire marshal discussed what hazards were to be watched for in the coming dry months of summer, with the reporter doing her best to make a sense of order out of the man's rambling discourse. "Now," Ben said while three handsome, rugged young men praised an imported beer, "what were you saying about a phone call?"

"Can you imagine another increase in the electric bill?" Heather said, her indignation making her cheeks redden.

"Was the phone call about that?" Ben asked, avoiding sarcasm by the barest margin.

Heather cleared her throat, becoming more subdued at once. "No. No, it wasn't about that. It was . . . it was a condolence call."

Ben gave her his full attention for the first time. "A
what?"

"You heard me," she snapped. "A man called and asked for me, and then said he was very sorry about your death. He wanted to know if he was to send flowers or a donation to a charity." She choked on the laugh she attempted.

"That's ridiculous," Ben said apprehensively. "Who'd do a thing like that?"

"The same person who sent you the telegram, perhaps?" she suggested, then flushed as he stared at her. "All right. I read it. You were so upset, well, what would you have done?"

Ben was about to upbraid her when a name on the news caught his ear.

"The suicide of Mister Hoopes was the result of depression following open-heart surgery. His wife of twenty-three years, Lilah, discovered the body when she returned from shopping. The Haymarket Insurance Group has issued a request that all those clients dealing with Mister Hoopes contact company vice-president Carl Hurley at their earliest convenience, as the destruction of files in Mister Hoopes' possession was extensive and it appears that he deliberately destroyed many of the computer records before he took his life."

"Je
-sus!"
Ben burst out. "Did you hear
that?"

"Yes," Heather answered. "That poor woman."

"Destroyed computer files and . . . he must have been in worse shape than anyone guessed." Secretly, he thought that his several annoyances might now come to an end. It was tragic, but with Tim Hoopes dead there would be no more notes, no more phone calls, no more telegrams. The worst was over and he could let himself feel pity for the man. "There's gonna be hell to pay at the office."

"What ever possessed him?" Heather wondered aloud, staring at Ben. "What made him do it?"

"Who knows?" Ben answered. "A man does all kinds of crazy things if he wants to kill himself. I guess you better call Lilah in a while, let her know that we're sorry." He cleared his throat. "Don't say anything about the pranks, though. It wouldn't be right to mention it."

Heather was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, it was with unusual reserve. "If that's what you want, Ben."

"Thanks," he said, his mind already on the problems they would face at the office with the files in disorder. "You're a good kid, honey."

INSURANCE EXECUTIVE KILLED IN CRASH

Benedict Turner, newly appointed vice-president of the Haymarket Insurance Group, was one of four victims when a late-model Mercury collided with an ambulance near the emergency entrance to Southside General Hospital. Also pronounced dead were ambulance driver George D. Bellman, paramedic Kevin Chmura, and Evelyn Hayward . . .

Ben read the newspaper clipping and swore with more feeling than he had shown all through the exasperating morning.

"Something the matter, Mister Turner?" his secretary asked as she put down a stack of files and peered at him over her glasses.

He forced himself to be calm. "Nothing. Nothing really. Someone with a ghoulish sense of humor and very bad taste," he said, attempting to laugh. "You know what some of our people can be like. Coming now . . ." He let her finish his thought for herself. "With Hoopes dead, and all."

"Very tragic," she said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue in disapproval.

Ben was about to throw the clipping away, when he read it over. It said that he was a vice-president of Haymarket Insurance Group, and that was not the case. It also said that there had been . . . would be an accident between an ambulance and a late-model Mercury. His Cougar was three years old and might still qualify for that description. "It's easy," he said to himself.

"What was that, Mister Turner?" Rosalind inquired, speaking more sharply. "I'm trying to get some order here, Mister Turner."

"Nothing, Rosalind. Just thinking out loud. Don't mind me." He smiled. Whoever was pulling these stunts had gone too far this time. It said that he would be killed outside the emergency entrance to Southside General. He already knew it was supposed to happen next Thursday. All he had to do was be somewhere else on Thursday and there would be no problem. He would even let Heather take his car to work, and that would take care of everything. He folded the clipping neatly and put it in his wallet with the note that had been left on his windshield.

"Do you want me to work overtime, Mister Turner?" Rosalind cut into this thoughts.

"Um?" He looked up with a start, then glanced at the clock. More than an hour had slipped away from him. "Oh. No, I don't think it will be necessary. I'll put in a couple hours tonight and that should give you enough to do tomorrow. Monday is no day to work late, Rosalind."

"All right, Mister Turner," she said prissily. "I imagine that you will want me to come in early tomorrow?"

He frowned. Obviously, she had said something that he had not caught. "Yes, I suppose so, if you think you ought to."

"Very good, Mister Turner." She was already prepared to leave, slipping her summer-weight cardigan over her beige shirtwaist dress. "I hope it's good news."

This puzzled him even more, but he did not permit himself to question her. "So do I, Rosalind," he called after her. Why, he wondered, would he be driving near Southside General, anyway? There was always the remote chance that he would have to visit a client in the hospital, but he could think of no one who was ill or old enough to require an emergency visit. With a sigh he shrugged it off. Another time he would work it out, sometime next week, or the week after.

"Hector Wyland called," Heather told Ben as he came in the door. "He would like you to call him back." She could not disguise the excitement she felt: Hector Wyland was the chairman of the board of the Haymarket Insurance Group.

"Wyland?" Ben asked, startled. "Did he say what he wants?"

"No. Of course not." She looked closely at him. "Do you know why he'd want to talk to you?"

Ben did not hear the suspicion in her voice, nor notice the pointed way she watched him. "It's probably something to do with Hoopes' files. It's a mess the way he left things." He smiled at her. "Fix me a drink, will you? I might as well get this over with."

Heather did as he told her, trying to decide how she would react to any bad news. She took her time in the kitchen, dawdling over the ice tray and impulsively setting out cheese and crackers, so that she would not have to listen to what Ben said to his boss. By the time she heard him put down the phone, she was ready to listen to him.

"Hey!" he beamed at her. "How did you know it was a celebration?" He pointed to the cheese and crackers.

"Oh . . ." She gave a flustered giggle. "Woman's intuition, I guess."

He took the drink from her and tasted it. "Great! Just great."

She put the cheese and crackers on the coffee table. "And what are we celebrating?"

Ben swaggered the length of the living room. "We are celebrating my promotion. You, my darling wife, are looking at the new vice-president of Haymarket In—"

"Haymarket Insurance Group?" she finished for him when he broke off in some bewilderment.

His enthusiasm left him. "Yeah," he muttered, and took a long pull on the drink.

Heather was perplexed by this change in him, but she said, "Ben, that's just wonderful. You've wanted this for so long."

"Un-huh," he said, thinking of the clipping in his wallet, that had identified him as the newly appointed vice-president of Haymarket Insurance Group. "I just didn't think it would be because of Tim Hoopes killing himself." The words sounded lame to him, but apparently they satisfied Heather, who came to his side and put her arm around him.

"You shouldn't feel that way, Ben. You've deserved promotion for a long time. It's very . . . sad about Tim Hoopes, but you had nothing to do with it, and you mustn't think of your advancement as some kind of grave robbing." She patted him affectionately. "Come on. Have some cheese. And then, let's think of a nice place to have dinner out."

His mouth was dry and there was a vaguely sick feeling south of his stomach, but he smiled at her. "Sounds great."

This time she was not fooled. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. A goose must have walked on my grave, is all." He drained his glass hoping that the alcohol would relieve the dread that had awakened within him.

Lunch the next day was a festive affair, with half the office accompanying Ben to the Golden Calf for their most sumptuous fare. Men who ordinarily had little to say to Ben now sought him out to offer effusive good wishes for his success; only a few were unable to conceal their jealousy in banter. Rosalind never moved more than six paces away from him, simpering whenever he spoke to her.

When the meal was almost over, a waiter brought in a large bouquet of white mums and yew boughs, his expression sheepish. "They were delivered, Mister Turner," he told the gathering who stared at the funereal display.