Death Loves a Messy Desk Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PRAISE FOR

  The Cluttered Corpse

  “Amusing . . . Enjoyable.”—The Mystery Reader

  “We all should have a Charlotte Adams in our lives.”

  —ReviewingTheEvidence.com

  “Talented author Mary Jane Maffini has crafted a clever and fun tale . . . Red herrings and surprises await the reader [and] complexities of the plot make for a worthwhile read . . . Enjoy. I did.”—The New Mystery Reader

  “Charlotte is feisty, funny, and determined to help people, whether it’s organizing their mud room or clearing them of a murder charge . . . Delightful.”—I Love A Mystery

  “A sense of humor and Charlotte’s misadventures enliven the narrative.”—Gumshoe Reviews

  Organize Your Corpses

  “A comedic, murderous romp . . . Maffini is a relaxed, accomplished, and wickedly funny writer.”

  —The Montreal Gazette

  “Mary Jane Maffini provides a first-rate, well-organized whodunit . . . A new series that is fun to read.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A fast-moving story.”—Contra Costa Times

  “Maffini’s new series . . . is off to a brilliant start with this fast-paced mystery.”—Romantic Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Mary Jane Maffini

  ORGANIZE YOUR CORPSES

  THE CLUTTERED CORPSE

  DEATH LOVES A MESSY DESK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DEATH LOVES A MESSY DESK

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Mary Jane Maffini.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-05058-3

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to the many people who contributed time, expertise, and moral support in the writing of this book. As always I appreciate the warm friendship and insight ful comments of Lyn Hamilton and Mary MacKay-Smith. Victoria Maffini once again brought her unique sense of humor as well as advice on this project. Christopher My ers of Troy, New York, continued to be a gold mine of information and I continue to be grateful. Thanks also to Geoff Zeiss and Howard Gervais for elusive technical details and speedy response, and to Stephan Dirnberger for his usual cheerful assistance.

  My long-suffering husband, Giulio, ensures that I have a happy environment for the making of mysteries and the princess dachshunds, Daisy and Lily, provide ideas every time they emerge from their blankies. I owe a great debt to the community of professional organizers who do so much to help clients triumph over clutter and bring order to their lives. Special thanks are due to my friend Helen Gilman of Organize-U, as well as to Con nie Faith Shanti of the National Association of Professional Organizers, San Francisco Bay Area Chapter, and her colleagues Debra Baida, Margaret Luckens, Danelle McDermott, and Lisa Mark for fabulous background information, delivered with style and humor.

  Thomas Colgan and Niti Bagchi of Berkley Prime Crime are always upbeat, helpful, and unflappable. I’d be lost without them. Thanks to production editor Stacy Edwards and copyeditor Amy Schneider for their diligence and eagle eyes. Naturally, all errors are my own.

  1

  Position your desk so your back is never to the door.

  This aids concentration, and it just might save your life.

  As the flash went off in my face, I yelped and dove for cover. Even before I landed chin first on the grassy lawn of Memorial Park, I knew it was yet another mistake in a long month of negatives.

  A worried-looking woman bent over me as I raised my head. A digital camera dangled from a strap on her wrist. “Are you all right? I was just taking pictures of the fair. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Truffle and Sweet Marie, my miniature wiener dogs, compounded the problem by leaping at her, teeth bared. I hooked my fingers into their tiny jeweled collars, gathered them in my arms, and scrambled to my feet. She backed away at high speed.

  With a dog tucked under each arm, probably not the most normal look in the world, I did my best to reassure her. “The flash startled me, that’s all.”

  “Totally my fault. I should have checked with you first before snapping your picture.” She stopped, gasped, and moved closer. “Oh! Aren’t you Charlotte Adams?”

  Oh crap.

  “No wonder you’re so jumpy! After all that happened to you. And are these Truffle and Sweet Marie? They’re adorable.”

  “You know them?” I said, holding tight as Truffle made a less-than-adorable lunge toward her.

  “Know them? Everybody in the county knows them.”

  “Watch your hand,” I said. “They’re a bit overprotective.”

  “They’re little h
eroes. How about a treat, cuties?” Unless I was wrong, she was offering the homemade brown sugar oatmeal cookies that were being sold at the baking stand.

  “Oh, I don’t think—” The snap of tiny jaws cut that short. Of course, they can be bought off with special treats because they’ve been spoiled rotten after all the attention that’s been showered on them. That was the reason I was spending my Sunday afternoon at Woodbridge’s Second Annual Volunteer Awareness Fair. When September stole into Woodbridge, I still felt the effects of too much murder, too close to home. I found myself shrieking and spinning at sudden noises. An unexpected plate of baked goods could reduce me to a puddle on the floor. As my throbbing grass-stained knees showed, I was a mess. And I hate anything messy.

  The dogs wolfed two cookies each before I escaped to check out the booths set up in my favorite uptown park, near the Old Dutch Church. As a way of enticing people, the Central Volunteer Committee was dishing out ice cream cones. Dogs were welcome, kids were squealing, and even the faint wail of sirens in the distance didn’t bother me.

  “Thanks for coming,” said the huge grinning man wearing a baseball cap with the Central Volunteer Committee logo. He handed me an ice cream. “Woodbridge needs you!”

  That was good news because I needed to spend some time with people who had worse things to deal with than being afraid. And Truffle and Sweet Marie needed to get over themselves.

  I savored the double-chocolate cone as I trotted along the path, stopping at each booth. Truffle and Sweet Marie sniffed toes. I had already picked up brochures and information from the Restoration Committee for the Water-front, the Friendly Visitors of Woodbridge, and Habitat for Humanity when I spotted the perfect solution.

  Woodbridge League of Therapy Dogs.

  My heart fluttered. I skipped a couple of deserving booths and hustled closer. I waved back at the cheerful volunteer in a black T-shirt with a pair of huge white paws on it. She slid a brochure into my hand. “Hi there. Do you know about our wonderful program?”

  “A bit,” I breathed.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “Well, just these two,” I said pointing down.

  “Ooh. Two. Then you know how much joy they bring you.”

  Truffle chose that moment to bare his teeth.

  I nipped that in the bud and nodded. Not always joy, but why muddy the waters? “He doesn’t mean that.”

  She ignored Truffle’s behavior. “Then you can imagine the difference a dog visitor makes to a stroke victim or a lonely senior citizen or a . . .”

  Perhaps she was nearsighted.

  “Count me in,” I said.

  “. . . troubled reader.”

  “Where do I sign up?”

  “Here’s our info package.” She reached for a folder. “There are registration forms and information inside. Pay close attention to the forms. We need ID for a police check and a health certificate from your vet. Vaccinations, all that. We’ll need a check to cover registration for the dog or dogs. All that’s in your kit.”

  “This is great. We’ve been hoping to find something like this. When can we start?”

  “We have an orientation session scheduled in the Woodbridge Library auditorium this coming Friday. Don’t miss it. The next one’s not until the spring.”

  “An orientation session?” I liked the sound of that: well planned and organized.

  “Oh sure, there’s lots to learn. We have to make sure you and your dogs are ready before you begin.” She raised an eyebrow at Truffle. “Especially you, young man.”

  Obviously, she knew a challenge when she saw one. “We’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. You can fill out the forms and drop them off here with your check today or at the front desk of the library before Thursday. And I almost forgot. No dogs at that session,” she said.

  “No dogs? Because he barked? He’s just being—”

  “They’ll get their turns. But the doggie evaluation will be scheduled later. First we get you owners up to speed.”

  “Doggie evaluation?”

  “It’s all in the kit. Training schedule. Evaluation criteria. Everything they have to know.” She glanced over my shoulder and said, “Oh boy.”

  I turned and saw a glowering woman tapping her toes impatiently. Behind her, a man glanced at his watch. I never like to be the person holding up everyone else. I waved the folder and said, “Thanks. I don’t have my checkbook. I’ll fill out the form and drop it by the library.”

  The frazzled volunteer wiped her hair out of her eyes. “I’m by myself. It was so quiet before my colleagues stepped away to snag some iced tea. We should have known.”

  As she beckoned to the next person, a gentle voice behind me said, “Woodbridge Therapy Dogs is such a wonderful organization.”

  I found myself facing a soft-faced woman with silver curls. A doggie pin sparkled on her pink sweater. The sweater matched her nail polish and her cheeks. Although she was wearing jeans and silver sneakers with pink stripes, she didn’t seem casual. Maybe it was the precise crease down each leg of the well-pressed jeans. If she’d had a bit more sparkle and been hovering in the air, I might have mistaken her for a fairy godmother.

  I smiled back at her. “It does sound wonderful. I plan to sign up.”

  I swear she sparkled more than her doggie pin. “You’ll bring something special to the group, and your sweet little dogs, too.”

  “Sweet? Don’t be so sure.”

  She produced a silvery laugh and pointed at them. “Of course they’re sweet. Everyone knows Truffle and Sweet Marie. They were all over the papers. They’re very photogenic.”

  For sure, they’re photogenic. Unlike me. This woman had such a kind face that I knew she wouldn’t mention what I’d looked like being hauled into an ambulance after my last brush with death. Just as well, I’d heard enough about that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have introduced myself. My name is Fredelle Newhouse, and I’m convinced they’ll be excellent therapy dogs.” She held out her small, perfectly manicured hand.

  “Charlotte Adams,” I said, shaking it. She had a remarkably firm handshake for someone so soft and pillowy looking.

  “Everyone knows you, too!” she warbled on. “I got one of your organizing brochures in my mailbox, then I saw you on television, oh, I don’t know how many times.”

  That wasn’t such a good thing.

  I said, “But . . .”

  She patted my arm. “Oh dear, I realize that this isn’t really the place to ask you about this when you’re enjoying your weekend, but I have an office organization problem. I hope you’ll be willing to find a solution. It won’t take long. Just a few hours at most. It really would help so much to have someone with your reputation and skills and perspective on the situation.”

  “I don’t have a perspective on the situation.”

  “My point exactly! You’re not involved with anyone in the office and that would be so useful.”

  I was about to say that my organizing business was booked solid for three months, which was true, and in fact one of the unintended benefits of being all over the news. You win some, you lose some. For every client who canceled, another two were eager to get in line. At this rate, I’d soon know every closet in town. On the other hand, at lunchtime I’d received a call from the worried husband of a client who’d been rushed in for an emergency appendectomy. I’d scheduled most of the week for her downsizing project and would be rebooking her appointments.

  “For once, I’m available. I can look at your office and estimate the time involved. I’ll see if I can take care of it this week. I do charge for consultations.”

  “Of course you do! That’s just good business. I’m so happy that you’ll do it. I’d like to fill you in on the background to the project first. Shall we have iced tea? Or a latte?”

  I glanced at my watch. My friend Sally and I had an excellent plan to spend the evening stuffing our faces with pizza and making big-girl talk once we’d read her childr
en to sleep. I had a little time to kill before Sally got all four kids through bath time, a process not enhanced by Auntie Charlotte and dogs. My job was to arrive in time to mop up the puddles on the bathroom floor.

  “Sounds good.”

  Seconds later, Fredelle and I were seated in the hospitality area and another toothy volunteer was serving us iced lattes with chocolate sprinkles and making sure we knew that Woodbridge needed us. Fredelle and I chatted a bit about the event and the crowd and the wonderful weather. I thought what a good choice I’d made moving back to Woodbridge from New York City. What Woodbridge lacked in excitement, fashion, and vile cheating ex-fiancés, it made up for in ice cream, specialty coffee, and smiling community-minded people. Not to leave out childhood friends, in my case, the misfits who had stuck together with me for twenty of our thirty years: Sally, Margaret, and Jack.

  So I was feeling well disposed when I asked, “So what kind of office organization problem?”

  Fredelle said, “Messy desk.”

  I grinned. I love a messy-desk challenge. “There are lots of those around. I’ve seen my share.”

  “Not like this, I don’t think.”

  I let a chuckle slip out, although perhaps I shouldn’t have. Fredelle didn’t seem to think there was anything funny about it. I reminded myself that she was probably quite embarrassed and might be hurt by my reaction. I straightened my face. “How bad is it?”

  She took a deep breath. “Really, Charlotte, you’d have to see it to believe it. Could you come tomorrow?”

  “I can check it out at least. I hope I can help. This is one problem that I always love dealing with. There are so many useful techniques that can help people feel less overwhelmed.”

  I flinched at my own words. I try not to sound preachy when I talk, but I don’t always succeed. Apparently Fredelle didn’t mind.