Your Eight O'clock is Dead Read online

  "Good heavens, no," I said in a small voice.

  "Have the police been called yet?"

  I bowed my head and shook it from side-to-side to indicate no. Ryder turned me loose, reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted his cell phone. He punched in two numbers. As he spoke, he walked away from me and toward the entrance to the office. I missed the first part of the conversation, but when he about-faced and came back toward me I heard him say, "Suite 109. First floor. End of the corridor. Yeah, across from my office. Thanks."

  "Okay, Henrico County's finest will be here in a few minutes. You want to tell me what happened before they get here?" Ryder led me over to the front of the reception area away from Mr. O'Malley. I guess his theory was that he'd get more out of me if I wasn't staring at the dead man and if I wasn't near Dr. Daley. Or maybe he thought it was safer to separate the doctor and me. "I'll take the Reader's Digest condensed version if you don't mind, Becca. We don't have much time."

  Hearing him call me by my first name made me weak in the knees. But it also loosened my tongue and my version of what happened tumbled out.

  "I came in and found him like that. I screamed something, and Dr. Daley came out of his office. He checked for a pulse, but I knew that was hopeless. Nothing was ticking. He was gone. Dead. Right here in the office. I should have known when I talked to him and he didn't even tell me to shut up that he was dead and not just having a bad day. I mean, yes, he's having the worst kind of day, but you know what I mean. I was talking and going on and on, and he just sat there. It was eerie. The doctors warned me there'd be bad days where no one would want to talk. That's what I thought it was. But then I poked him and he sort of slumped to one side. That's when I saw the letter opener and the blood." My voice rose several octaves on the last word. I realized I could become hysterical if I wasn't careful. I took a deep breath.

  "That's fine, Becca. So you screamed and Dr. Daley came out of his office. And then you both started yelling and that's when I heard you." Ryder seemed to be reconstructing this more for himself than for me.

  "That's pretty much how it went."

  "Did you touch anything, besides him?" Ryder pointed to Mr. O'Malley.

  "I touched everything that I usually do. The radio, the water cooler, my desk, the phone…"

  He cut me off. "Did you touch anything on the victim, any of his possessions?"

  "No, of course not. That would be creepy." I shivered at the thought.

  For the first time since he'd entered our suite, Ryder smiled. It was brief, but it was there. I'd seen it. Somehow it made me feel better.

  "And what about Daley, did he touch anything other than to check for a pulse?"

  "No, absolutely not. I mean, just because it's his letter opener doesn't mean that he did it." My hand flew up to my mouth. What was I saying? Obviously, the stress of the murder had loosened my lips.

  Dr. Daley hobbled toward where we stood. "Miss Reynolds, with your help I'll be in jail. You know I didn't kill Mr. O'Malley."

  "Didn't I just say that?"

  Men! If they'd only listen to the whole sentence and not just pieces of it.

  "Becca?"

  The three of us turned in response to a voice I recognized all too well, and it was everything I could do to stifle a groan of dismay. "Granddad, what are you doing here?"

  He extended a brown paper bag.

  "You forgot your lunch. Didn't you take to heart anything I told you this morning about eating right and how your brain needs food to operate properly?"

  I wanted to go hide in a hole somewhere. Anywhere.

  Instead, I took the lunch bag from my grandfather. "Thanks, Granddad. We're kind of busy here." The understatement of all understatements.

  Instead of taking the hint, Granddad offered his hand to Ryder. "Martin Reynolds, Becca's grandfather. Don't think we've had the pleasure."

  Ryder introduced himself and shook my Granddad's hand with a hearty grip.

  "Now, Becca, here's a man's man. Mr. Ryder has a good handshake. Not one of those namby-pamby ones. You can always tell a man by how he shakes hands. That's what I always say."

  Ryder smiled and made eye contact with me, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. "I say the same thing, Mr. Reynolds."

  Oh goody. Two of a kind. Just what I didn't need.

  "Granddad, now that you and Mr. Ryder have been introduced, I'm sure you have things to do. I'll see you tonight. Thanks again for bringing my lunch." I stepped forward to usher my granddad out of the office before he saw the dead body and before the police arrived which by my calculations should be any second.

  "Not so fast, Becca. You're always talking about this place. Now that I'm here, how about a tour? Just a quick one. I won't interrupt anything." Granddad winked at me and before I knew what was happening, he was shaking hands with Dr. Daley, after which he wiped his palm on the side of his slacks. I guess Dr. Daley didn't have that man's man kind of handshake.

  "So you're the Dr. Dick my little girl works for.

  "Dr. Daley," Dr. Daley gritted out.

  "Right, right. Well, good to finally meet you. I don't think you look nearly as bad as Becca made you out to be. You could stand to put on a few pounds. Probably too much time spent behind a desk listening to other people's problems. As I was telling Becca this morning, it all starts with a good diet. Proper food, proper rest, proper exercise. That's the key to a long life."

  Mortified, I could only pray that Granddad would say what he was going to say and then leave. Quickly. From experience, I knew that it did no good to try to steer Martin Reynolds' conversation to another area once he dug in like he had here. Like a tick, that's Granddad. All you could do was wait it out while he had his fill of you.

  That was what I usually did, but today wasn't usual.

  When he paused for a breath I said, "Granddad, we're in the middle of something. I'll show you around another day."

  "I tell you, Dr. Daley, you're one lucky man to have my little Becca as your office manager."

  "My what?" Dr. Daley suddenly came to life.

  "Granddad, I'm sure we don't need to discuss my career right now." I tried to direct my grandfather back toward the suite's entrance, but he seemed to have a different agenda.

  "And who do we have over here sitting quiet and to himself? Hi, Marty Reynolds, Becca's Granddad." Granddad approached the back of Mr. O'Malley's chair. He thrust his hand forward, but instead of getting a hand, he managed to grab hold of the letter opener. Shocked, he involuntarily recoiled, then stood frozen to the spot with the murder weapon in his hand, blood dripping onto the beige carpet.

  Unable to move, I sucked in my breath as Granddad shifted to stand in front of our late patient.

  "Well, I'll be. This guy's dead." My granddad, master of the understatement.

  Ryder reached my grandfather before either Dr. Daley or I could spring into action. "Don't touch anything else, Mr. Reynolds. This is a crime scene."

  "Darn tooting. Hope somebody called the cops." Instead of recoiling away from the murder victim in horror, my grandfather seemed oddly fascinated. This couldn't be good.

  "Granddad, put that down and come over here." I tried my outside voice hoping to shock my grandfather into compliance. What a joke. I should have known better. Grandad did what he wanted to. Always had. Always would.

  "Well, I'll be. Robert O'Malley." Granddad put the letter opener down on the deceased's blood-stained newspaper and scratched his thinning head of hair sending gray strands in all different directions.

  "You know him?" I asked surprised.

  "Of course I do. He's Edna's husband."

  "Edna?" I asked more bewildered by the minute.

  "Edna St. Vincent O'Malley.

  One of the ladies at church. Just as nice as can be. Real helpful. Not like him. Never did like him or understand why Edna married him. A bad one, I always thought. Looks like I was right."

  "Granddad, don't speak ill of the dead," I chastised.

  "Not speaking
ill, just speaking the truth," he replied.

  "So you never liked the deceased?" We all turned to see a portly man in a cheap brown suit taking notes.

  Chapter 3

  Ryder took instant control.

  "Tom, glad you were available. The victim is over here. Mr. Reynolds accidentally grabbed the murder weapon when he went to shake hands."

  I caught a glance that flashed between Ryder and the rumpled detective that probably translated between the two as don't ask.

  "Although Mr. Reynolds wasn't here until a few moments ago, it seems he knows both the victim and the victim's wife," Ryder added.

  "I see." The detective jotted something down in a small spiral-bound notebook.

  "Everyone stay where you are and don't touch anything," Ryder spoke with more authority than our Columbo-like cop. "Let's step into the hall for a minute," he added in an aside to the plainclothes detective.

  I tried to eavesdrop, but unfortunately, they spoke too low for me to make out much of anything. I sensed movement behind me and whirled around in time to see my grandfather hovering over poor Mr. O'Malley.

  "Granddad!"

  He regarded me with a sheepish expression. "I'm not stupid, Becca. I wasn't going to touch anything."

  Not sure that I could trust his curiosity, I hurried to his side and led him away from the dead man like a mother trying to contain an overactive child. "You've already compromised the murder scene. Now, stand over here by me."

  "All I did was extend my hand in friendship. How was I supposed to know that the other person would have something sticking out of his chest? You told me this job was safe, Becca. Obviously, it's not. What if you'd gotten here on time today? That could have been you." Granddad inclined his head toward our hapless patient.

  "You weren't on time?" Dr. Daley advanced on me, a murderous glint in his dark, beady eyes.

  I shot my Granddad a thanks a lot look. "It's not what you're thinking, Dr. D." I managed to cut off the "ick" part of his name in the nick of time and promised myself from now on to think of him as Dr. Daley or Dr. D. instead of Dr. Dick.

  "Either you were late or you weren't." Dr. Daley crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at me. "And it's not Dr. D. It's Dr. Daley. How many times must I tell you that?" He held his hand up in a stop gesture. "Don't answer that. It was purely rhetorical."

  My career at Daley & Palmer was definitely on the short track to unemployment. I had to defend myself.

  I glowered back at him, trying the tactic of the best defense is a good offense. "It wouldn't have mattered if I was on time or not. He was already dead when I got here. It's a wonder you didn't hear anything since you arrived before me."

  We stood toe-to-toe, Dr. D. and I, each waiting for the other to launch into another verbal assault.

  But before we could go another round, Ryder and the detective reentered the suite.

  Ryder took in the situation and wisely chose to ignore whatever office dynamics were going on. "The police are going to need all of you to go down to headquarters for fingerprints and to make statements."

  Tom, the detective, nodded once signaling there was no room for argument.

  Not quick on reading people today, I objected. "But our patients – someone needs to call them and let them know we're…closed." I gulped and cast a backward glance to the Queen Anne chair where dead Robert O'Malley grew stiffer by the minute, while his blood congealed on the rug. My stomach did a nasty loop-de-loop before settling back into that tense knot that was becoming a permanent fixture in my body. "I also need to call Dr. Palmer and let her know what's going on."

  Dr. Dick backed me up. "As unfortunate as this all is, we do run a business here. Clients need to be notified, as does my partner."

  I nodded my head up and down like a rag doll hoping it emphasized the criticalness of the situation.

  "Do you have a schedule with phone numbers you use for cancellation purposes?" Ryder asked me, all business.

  I nodded yes again, returning to a mute mode where I was less likely to get into trouble.

  "Grab it while Tom secures the scene. Crime scene techs will be here along with the Medical Examiner's office. I'll escort all of you to police headquarters."

  Ryder made direct eye contact with each of us and got a nod from Dr. Dick and my granddad.

  I rushed over to my desk and pulled out the center drawer. The aroma of my stone-cold bacon and egg biscuit filled the office. My stomach, reminded that it hadn't had breakfast yet, roared to life. Embarrassed, I reached beneath the wrapped biscuit and pulled out two sheets of paper with gigantic grease stains all over them. Our schedules.

  "Miss Reynolds, what have I told you about eating at your desk?" Dr. Daley's voice pierced the quiet office as everyone turned to stare in my direction.

  Mr. O'Malley wasn't the only one having a bad day. Granted his problems were worse than mine. I was still among the living. And if I was breathing, it meant I still had problems.

  Problems at work and problems at home.

  In less than thirty days, my six-month probationary period would be up. If I made it, I would secure my employment with the firm. At least for the near future. But with Dr. D. shooting those eye daggers at me, I probably didn't need to worry about the evaluation, because I wasn't going to be around for it.

  Chapter 4

  On the ride over to police headquarters, I used my cell phone to make hasty calls to our scheduled patients to let them know that we were closed. The excuse I gave: a burst pipe. It was the first thing that popped into my head and was infinitely better than blurting out what I wanted to – we're closed because someone killed one of our patients. Dr. Dick would have probably handed me my walking papers right on the spot if he didn't get arrested for strangling me first.

  My last call was to Marcy Palmer, Dr. Daley's partner. I couldn't reach her but left a detailed voice mail about the murder. As my battery charge wore down and we neared police headquarters, I snapped my phone shut. Dr. Dick glared at me, probably for being so frank with his partner about what had happened, and I turned my head away. After all, Marcy deserved to know the facts. I just hoped she'd access her voice mail before she reached the office and the police stopped her. I was in deep enough trouble with Dr. Daley; I sure didn't need to be on Marcy's bad side. Up until now, she'd been my biggest ally.

  Police headquarters wasn't what I expected. I thought it would be dark and dreary and that there'd be bars and criminals all over the place like I'd seen on NYPD Blue or the other cop shows on television. Instead, it was a brightly lit and cheery place, not unlike most big office complexes. The halls were wide and the cleaning staff kept the white linoleum so polished you could almost see your reflection in it.

  Ryder led us through a maze of corridors acting like he knew exactly where he was headed. Pretty strange for a CPA. It occurred to me that there was a lot about R.J. Ryder that I didn't know. And it made me want to get to better acquainted. Much better acquainted.

  "Okay, if you'll all step in here, I'll tell the Detectives you're here." Ryder stepped aside and showed us into a tiny room with molded plastic chairs, the kind you see in clinics or hospital emergency rooms. The really uncomfortable kind. An industrial-strength carpet covered the floor. At least it was in a soft green hue. The walls were cream-colored and free of any pictures or decorations. It sure didn't appear like "the box" that I'd seen on crime shows - you know, the place where they sweated and coerced confessions from the guilty.

  But it was a small windowless room, and I hated confined spaces. I can deal with large, confined spaces or smaller spaces as long as they have windows to the outside world. This room was neither spacious nor had an outside window.

  My chest tightened and my breathing grew rapid as beads of sweat popped out on my forehead and upper lip.

  I knew if I didn't get some fresh air, and soon, I was going to lose it.

  To try to staunch the symptoms of a mini-panic attack, I decided to explore my new surroundings and circled t
he room.

  I found the cameras straight off. They bothered me. Don't get me wrong. I'm not averse to being filmed, but these were surveillance cameras. They were mounted near the ceiling in a couple of corners and seemed to follow my every move. Without reason, I felt guilty and didn't even know why. The other objectionable part of the decor was the wide mirror that covered most of one wall from about waist level almost to the ceiling.

  While the others took their seats, I sashayed over to the "mirror." Not for one minute did I believe this piece of glass was there to make the small room appear larger. No question it was a two-way mirror. I pressed my nose up against the wall to see if I could make out anything besides my own reflection, all the while wondering if Detective Tom stood behind the glass watching our every move. Or was someone else videotaping us? Not that we were saying or doing anything. But unless I missed my guess, they were rolling nonetheless. Talk about Big Brother.

  "Becca, what in heaven's name are you doing? You have no idea who might have put their germy skin up against that wall. Come over here and sit down." My granddad's voice sliced through my body like that letter-opener must have done to Mr. O'Malley's body.

  "Be right there, Granddad."

  "Now, Rebecca Ann."

  I hated it when he called me by my first and middle names. Even worse, he'd change my middle name to one belonging to some long-deceased ancestor that gave me a clue as to what he was thinking. In this case, Ann was a particularly obnoxious great-aunt who'd been the world's biggest busybody. Okay, Granddad, I got the message.

  I joined Dr. Dick and Granddad in one of the plastic chairs arranged in a circle around a sturdy wooden table and Granddad, bless his meddling heart, took my hand in his and patted it. His way of letting me know that he understood that I'd had a bad morning. Yeah, a bad morning. And I had a feeling the rest of the day wasn't going to get much better.

  Honestly, all I wanted to do was scream.