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I said a few more of those words under my breath and hustled after her.
“Millie,” I said when I caught up, “we can’t just walk around in here—”
“Yes, we can,” she said.“I saw it on one of those oldMatron of Murderepisodes.Genevieve Webster walks right into an office building like she owns the place, and when the security guard tries to stop her, she holds up her library card and says, ‘Winifred Rush, Securities and Exchange Commission.This is an unannounced inspection.’And the security guards let her walk right in.”
My body kept moving while my brain tried to catch up.
“I’m sorry,” I said—but a small voice inside my head observed that I didn’tsoundvery sorry.Isoundedlike I was choking on my own rage.“Your plan is based on an old TV show, which in turn is based on Vivienne Carver’s books, where someone pretends to be a—a federal inspector by flashing their library card?”
“It worked for Genevieve Webster.”
“It’s not going to work here!”
Admittedly, that came out more loudly than I intended, but to my surprise we’d already gotten farther than I expected.The man who had called out to us hadn’t tried to stop us (maybe because he was so caught up in his bird conversation), and nobody else seemed to care who we were or what we were doing.
Millie must have recovered her spirits, though, because she just flashed me a smile, patted my arm, and said, “Oh, Dash,” like I was—I don’t know.Being a ninny, I guess.
The door led us into a narrow hallway with worn carpet and dinged-up walls.It was warmer, and it smelled like a dusty furnace, and a framed picture on the wall showed a man dressed a little like Harry Truman (including a fedora) with a brass plaque underneath that said RICHARD MOORE, FOUNDER, FATHER, FRIEND.He looked like the kind of guy who’d dock your pay if you were a minute late, and I imagined every woman at Clatsop Parcel and Freight had probably been forced to endureMad Men-levels of sexual harassment.A pair of restroom doors were immediately next to us, and beyond them, a door had a small sign that said LOUNGE.
Millie didn’t even hesitate.She pushed into the lounge.
Loungewasn’t the word I would have used to describe it.Loungesuggested comfort.On one of my more generous days, I might have called it a break room, but honestly, it was closer to a weird kitchen-and-locker-room combo.There was a small, two-burner stove, a sink, and a stretch of laminate countertop.And there was a spavined sofa and a few tubular chairs with pilled upholstery.A sorry-looking Santa costume had been draped over one of the chairs, as though Santa had sat down for some milk and cookies (or a beer) and then evaporated.And some generous soul had left a stack of theNational Enquireron a beat-up coffee table.Apparently, Bat Boy was still on the loose.
Lockers lined two of the walls, and Millie moved straight toward these.The lockers were marked with masking tape that had been written on with a Sharpie.Millie stopped in front of the one that said PAUL.If there had been a lock, it was gone now, and when she tried the door, it opened.
There was nothing inside.
Millie frowned.
“I didn’t know Paul had a locker here,” I said.
“Neither did I,” Millie said.
“Then why did you—”
“Come on, Dash.HURRY!”
If nobody had heard us yet, I thought.
We returned to the hall and made our way along it.The next door was marked LOSS PREVENTION.Millie paused.We both listened, but I couldn’t hear anything.Millie gave me an inquiring look.I shook my head.Millie nodded.And then she opened the door.
(Honestly, did anybody ever lockanydoors around here?)
It was a small office, with a second door on the far wall that I guessed, based on my mental map, connected directly to the warehouse.It looked like the rest of what I’d seen in the CPF offices: a drop-tile ceiling, walls that were probably supposed to be gray or cream but looked yellow under the fluorescents, carpet squares with a color and pattern combo that could best be described as “chili mac.”Some metal shelves filled with binders, a filing cabinet with a massive dent on one side, and a desk topped with a chipped walnut veneer were the room’s only furniture.
A woman was kneeling on the floor near the desk, an overturned can of Cherry Coke next to her.She wore work clothes, and she was solidly built, with a quiff of blond hair.Her mouth opened in silent outrage, and then she said, “Who are you?”
I opened my mouth, praying to the god of sweet, innocent little gay boys that a believable lie would miraculously spring to mind.
If the god of sweet, innocent little gay boys was listening, he (or SHE!) had a sense of humor.
Millie whipped something out of her pocket.I had a moment to glimpse HASTINGS ROCK PUBLIC LIBRARY, and then another moment to regret every life choice I’d ever made.
And then Millie barked: “Jinx St.James with the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office.”
Chapter 5
Millie’s words hung in the air, and for a single, eternal moment, I wondered if this was a nightmare.Or if I’d died, and this was my personal, um, heck.