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CHAPTER forty-one
My eyes were glazing over and I was having trouble concentrating while I proofread the minutes of the meetings. I’ve never believed in the spell check feature on the computer because it always misses my glaring errors, like "there" instead of "their", or "your" instead of "you’re". Try and convince a tech-weenie who believes that the only thing a computer can’t do is breed, that the computer doesn’t have a brain. That’s why I made the big bucks. Proof-reader extraordinaire.
My phone rang and I eagerly answered it, hoping for a break in the monotony.
"I have a favour to ask," Harold said.
"Shoot." I never understand why he asks for favours when he knows I’m here to work and I don’t care what I do. Sometimes I wished he’d ask me to pick up his dry cleaning because it would be an excuse to get out of the office. But Mr. Fair Didrickson would never ask anyone to do something he considered beyond the scope of their duties.
"I know it’s almost quitting time," he said and I groaned inwardly. I couldn’t face working late tonight. "But I was wondering if you could attend at Rick Cox’s house and have him sign some documents. I know he lives near you and I thought on your way home... " he trailed off.
Well that certainly answered one of the day’s mysteries. The police obviously hadn’t arrested Rick. "He’s at home and expecting me?"
"Yeah. I spoke with him earlier this afternoon. I’ve got the documents in here. I said someone would be there before six."
I didn’t need any more encouragement to turn off my computer and pack it in for the day.
Rick Cox lived in an older home off Avenue Road in Rosedale, the richest residential area of Toronto. Lots of old money. And, lots of new money too because I knew of many executives and Bay Street lawyers who owned mansions in Rosedale and whose families certainly hadn't started out there. The streets in the area were tree-lined and the houses were set well-back from the street. I cruised slowly down the street glancing at house numbers looking for the one that matched the address I had quickly scribbled on a piece of paper. I had been to Rick’s house only once before and that had been at night. I recognized the house and double-checked the number before I pulled into the empty driveway and parked my car. There was a garage at the far end of the driveway and the yard at the back of the house was fenced.
The house was a very formal, old colonial and large windows dominated the front. The walkway which ran parallel to the front of the house was long, and paved with red, interlocking brick in a circular pattern. The sharp heels on my pumps slipped between the cracks of the bricks a couple of times. The third time it happened the heel stuck in the crack and I stepped right out of my shoe. I cursed as I bent over in a most lady-like fashion and yanked on it and cursed again when the lift on the heel came off and exposed the steel tip of the heel. I couldn’t find the piece when I tried to stick my finger between the crack in the bricks. Great, I thought.
Me and my shoe clicked and limped up the sidewalk and I admired the neatly trimmed lilac and forsythia bushes which were strategically planted in the formal garden in front of the house. Hired help, I thought.
I tucked the large brown envelope with Rick’s severance documents firmly under my arm and straightened my suit jacket as I approached the front of the house. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Rick and I hoped that his wife or one of the kids answered the door. I couldn’t leave the envelope and run because my instructions were to get Rick’s signature on everything and return the documents to the office on Monday. If his wife answered the door, I thought, I’ll give her the envelope and tell her I’d wait outside while he signed.
The door of the house was open a few inches when I stepped onto the small front porch. I listened for sounds inside and rang the doorbell and waited. When no one came to answer the doorbell, I stuck my face in the opening of the door and called out Rick’s name.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was only ten to six. There was no car in the driveway and I couldn’t imagine that they had gone out and left the house open so I pushed the door open a little wider and called out again.
"Hello. Rick?" I waited for a few more moments to give him the benefit of the doubt. I listened for a toilet flushing or water running but heard neither.
I stepped off the front porch and angrily marched around to the back of the house to see if anyone was in the backyard and the shoe that hadn’t lost its lift got stuck immediately between the bricks in the walkway. I swore out loud, not caring who heard. "Fuck." I took off both shoes and walked in my pantyhose-clad feet and made a mental note to charge the company for lifts for my shoes and one pair of pantyhose. This was definitely above and beyond the call of duty.
The gate to the backyard was locked and I yelled over the fence.
"Hello? Anyone?" I tried peering through the minute cracks in the fence to see if anyone was there and all I could see was blue. The shit has a pool too, I thought miserably. With all his severance money, he’ll be able to enclose it and swim all year round.
On my return trip to the front of the house I made up my mind to leave the documents and come back on the weekend to fetch them before returning to the office on Monday. I pushed lightly on the open front door and glanced around the marble-tiled foyer for a table to lay the documents on. The foyer was pristine and the only furnishings were a large chandelier that hung above the circular staircase and some very old-looking paintings hanging on the walls. To the left of the foyer the door was open to the room I remembered as Rick’s study. I called out once more and when no one responded, I scurried across the marble floor to the study.
The room was dark because the heavy, green velvet drapes were drawn. Rick’s desk was on the far side of the room and an eerie, greenish glow surrounded the high back of the leather chair behind the desk. The chair was turned around and the tall back faced me. I realized that the green glow must be coming from a computer screen behind the desk. Rick must be in the house if the computer is on, I thought with a jump.
I turned around and faced the foyer and called Rick’s name once again, but I heard nothing. I took a deep breath and reminded myself it was unlikely that I would be arrested for trespassing. The man expected you and was supposed to be here, I told myself.
I hugged my shoes to my chest and crossed the room to the desk and laid the envelope in the middle where he wouldn’t miss it. It was then that I knew something was wrong. I could see an arm hanging limply beside the chair.
Someone was sitting in the chair and I hadn’t seen them because of the high back.
"Rick," I croaked out in a whisper but didn’t expect an answer. My bare feet were stuck to the floor and I was frozen to the spot.
Move, I urged myself. He might need help. I tried reaching across the span of the desk for the chair to turn it around but my arms weren’t long enough. I grasped my shoes tighter to my chest and slowly walked around the desk.
Rick Cox was staring at the blood spattered computer screen. The bottom half of his face was gone and in his lap was a gun. I tried to scream but the only thing that came out of my mouth was a hoarse moan.
I couldn’t remember the house number or the street name when I called 911 from the phone on Rick’s desk. The dispatcher assured me help was on the way. She tried to keep me on the phone but I hung up and I hurried outside. I was suddenly very cold and shivering violently as I ran to my car for the cigarettes I had left on the dashboard. I grabbed the pack and stood against the side of the house smoking and waiting for the police. My legs started to tremble and I looked down at them and willed them to stop. I stared at my bare feet and wondered where my shoes were. My big toe was sticking through my pantyhose and I thought irrationally that if Vee were here I could use some of the nail polish she always keeps in her purse to stop the run that was moving slowly up my shin.
I was on my second cigarette when a police cruiser silently glided into the driveway. The police probably felt that no sirens w
ere necessary because I had told the dispatcher he was dead. I had made certain of that when I touched the limp arm hanging over the side of the chair. The arm was cold and I knew there was no need to check for a pulse. I had stared at the half of his face that was still recognizable and felt bile rising up in the back of my throat.