Chapter Ten

I was carefully tearing the gigantic muffin into more manageable pieces, when I heard the chair across the table from me slide along the floor. � I looked up to see Zoffie Collins lowering her considerable bulk into it.

"Mars in Capricorn," she spoke ominously. � "Violence, guns, the law."

My mouth dropped open.� "Zoffie, how did you know?"

"Everyone's talking about it," Zoffie admitted. � "But of course, I heard this weird feeling all last evening.� Derek was a Scorpio, very secretive; he would never give me his complete birth data.� But I'm sure he had Mars in an angular placement.� That can be very dangerous, you know."

"Does anyone have the facts?" I asked.

"You should have the facts," Zoffie scoffed. � "After all, YOU were there."

"It was only a coincidence," I began, but Zoffie would have none of it.

"Nonsense," she said. "But I did tell you to gain support.� I suppose having a...what sign is your policeman?"

"He's not MY policeman," I began. "Zoffie, just what did you hear?"

"That poor Derek was MURDERED last night in his own bed!� And you and your policeman were there!� I'll wager he's a Capricorn, or has strong planets there.� That seems to bring out a strong law involvement. �� But, oh dear, two Capricorns like you and he, that makes for a difficult..."

"Zoffie!� You don't even know that he is a Capricorn!"

"Then you must get the date for me.� At once!" she declared.

"I don't know when I'll be seeing him again," I said truthfully.

Zoffie consulted her omni-present little book. � "Aha!" she cried.� "You must be very careful on the next quarter moon."

"When is that?" I asked in a weary tone.

"Next Wednesday," she pronounced.

"Great, just great," I answered, thinking of my upcoming meeting with G.O.D.� I slowly chewed on the muffin.� "Zoffie, do the stars tell you who killed Derek, or why?"

"Not exactly," she admitted.� "But I did a horary - that's a timed chart for last evening.� The indications are that the murderer was someone Derek knew well, someone with a horrible secret."

"That's not very helpful."

She pushed her glasses back on her nose, snapped the book shut, and stood up indignantly.� "Well, that's all it told me," she declared.� "Just look out for the missing portion."

"What does that mean?"

She looked puzzled, as she always did when her pronouncements seemed to originate from somewhere outside her consciousness. "I don't know what it means, but it's important!"

And without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked off.

I finished my muffin, shelved my tray, and reluctantly made my way to my office.� I checked the desk calendar for Friday, which fortunately were few, since the phone never stopped ringing all morning.

I left Dena field most of the calls, and soon I had a stack of messages on my desk from the usual daily contacts as well as some people who rarely call.� Apparently, the word was out about Derek, including my so-called involvement.� I wondered how the word had spread so fast, so I call my ear-on-the-office-world, Dena, to ask her about it.

She was pouting a little that I had failed to ask earlier, but she was quick to forgive and fill me in.

"No big shakes, Jayne.� One of the cops who caught the squeal is engaged to Taffy, the receptionist.� She mentioned it to Mel in Security, and well, it doesn't take long for the word to get around."

"I wish you'd stop talking like a T.V. copy show," I told her.� "But thanks for the info."� I turned on my computer and ignored her, but she didn't go away.

"Even I didn't know you were going with that cop," she said in a semi-hurt tone, but her curiosity got the best of her. "Is he the mysterious sexy voice who's been calling you lately?"

"I'm not GOING with anyone.� He's just a friend, no big shakes, O.K.?"

She grinned.� "Anything you say, Boss," and she left the office.

I applied myself to the piles of paperwork, oblivious to the passage of time, until I heard a rap on my office window and looked up to see Dena pointing to her watch and pantomiming spooning food into her mouth.

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I nodded my head to acknowledge her reminder and forwarded my phone to phone mail.� Sighing, I headed upstairs.� At the very least, I needed a diet Pepsi to revive my flagging caffeine level.

I moved through the food line in automatic mode and found myself with a bowl of chicken something soup and a can of life-restoring diet Pepsi on my tray.� I headed for an empty table and sat down, only to be joined a few minutes later to Penelope Kretzmeyer of the labeling department.� Penelope, never called Penny, was agitated.

"Honestly, Jayne," she whined.� "I don't know how any of us can ever feel safe again."

"I can understand your concern," I told her, "But I don't think what happened to Derek had anything to do with us."

"But to have a member of our little family here at Potts, murdered," she trilled and shuddered the same time, while her white eyebrows bobbed up and down in unison.� She shook her mane of silvery hair.

"I'm sure that Derek's been troubled for some time," she said.� "The last batch of records he brought me to approval for label standards were all mixed up."

"Derek was always getting things mixed up," spoke a voice over Penelope's shoulder.� Daphne Richmond, a QC line supervisor slid her tray across from me and joined us.� "That was just his way."

Penelope looked uncertain.� "I'm sure he was troubled."

"Around here, who isn't troubled?� Come on, Penny, eat up."� Daphne said, picking up her anemic looking egg salad sandwich and devouring a quarter of it in one bite.

Penelope picked at her salad, and I spooned my way through my soup.� Finally, I broke the silence.

"Is everything on track for the Spritzie launch?" I asked, in a calculated casual tone.

Daphne guffawed and rolled her eyes.� Past fifty, she was a thirty-year veteran of the production line, recently promoted to supervisor. � Little escaped her attention or satirical comment.� Her obligatory hairnet concealed her permanently 50's hairdo.� Her wise old eyes missed nothing.

"No?" I asked innocently.

"The packaging components are here," Penelope put in with a bright chirp.

"That's encouraging," Daphne said in a dry undertone.� "That's the least of our problems."� She looked over at me and winked.� "Penny here expects things to go like clockwork around here."

"Well, if we follow procedure," Penelope began, but Daphne speared a pickle from her plate and waved it at us."

"Look," Daphne said.� "Procedure in the lab has been as loose as a goose: big ones slip right through the cracks," she cackled, and slurped down her iced tea.

Penelope pouted, ignoring Daphne as she addressed me. � "Well, Jayne, our department is is certainly aware of our responsibilities in putting out a quality product."

Of course," I soothed, anxious to maintain a dubious truce between the two, but deciding to question Daphne further, later.� She obviously had some information that would help me in pursing the answer to G.O.D.'s questions about the manufacture of Spritzie.

I mostly listened as Penelope chatted of other things, and at last I was able to excuse myself and escape.

On my trip back, I saw little clusters of people whispering together.� Derek's fate seemed to be the main topic of conversation today. � As I reached our section, I could see the fiendish little red phone mail light blinking furiously, and opted to listen to my messages.� To my surprise, the first one was from Tater.� He absolutely hated our electronic message system and had his set to bounce all messages.� I was shocked that he had actually used it to leave a message.� His voice alternately squeaked and boomed, just like in person.

"Jayne," I need you to send me the folder marked "ATLANTA" from the locked cabinet in my office.� See it in an envelope and Fed-X it to me, TODAY for Saturday delivery here at the warehouse."

There was a little pause, and you could almost here the little gears clanking together as he thought.

"The key to the cabinet is inside the empty vitamin bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk, under the golf magazine.� You don't need to make a copy of anything. Don't even open the folder.� Just send the whole thing. � I MUST have it tomorrow."�

There was another pause, and Tater cleared his throat slightly, as if he had suddenly realized he was being recorded.� Then he concluded: "Roger, over and out."

I collapsed with laughter on my desk and deleted his message.� He must be desperate to call and ask me to do something for him, I thought.

I looked out my office door and saw that Dena was away, so I went across to Tater's office.� I closed his door and set behind his desk to open his bottom drawer.
I moved the magazine, found the bottle, and tumbled the key into my hand.� I'd always wondered what he'd kept hidden in that locked cabinet, but I just figured that it held his collection of girlie magazines or booze, so I was disappointed when I found only a few folders, each marked with the name of a field warehouse.� I found the one he wanted. � Of course, I peered inside.� It contained only a single sheet of paper covered with handwritten notes and a thick brown envelope.� The envelope was only sealed with the clasp, so I opened it.� It was stuffed with hundred dollar bills.� I didn't count it, but supposed it was well over fifty thousand in cash.

I whistled softly and carefully refastened the clasp. � I returned the fat envelope to the folder, relocked his cabinet and replaced the key.� I went out to Dena's desk and got a Fed-X envelope and quickly addressed a label.� I headed for the copy machine on my way to the mail room.� I copied the page of cryptic notes. You never when a copy might come in handy.

Once back at my own desk, I poured over the copy of the page from the folder, but the figures didn't make sense to me.� Maybe it was list of payoffs or even gambling losses.� I slipped it into my purse for later study.

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