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If I didn't shape up, start crossing more "tees" and dotting more "eyes" I would be facing imminent replacement by Jackie Torrance, in her early twenties, ambitious almost to a fault, so efficient it absolutely exhausted me, just watching her. Shortly after George and I had returned from our all-too-brief honeymoon, I put an ad in The Denver Post for a part-time word processing/filing clerk/receptionist . . . well, for just anybody who would do all the lousy stuff I hated doing. My original thought was four hours in the morning, Tuesday through Friday, sixteen hours a week. I phoned in such an ad on a Monday around one in the afternoon, just three weeks ago. My front door flew open at one-thirty that same day, and there stood this pint-sized black girl who appeared to be about fifteen, give or take a year. In her left hand was a burgundy attachè case and in her right a sheet of paper I later learned was a print-out of my advertisement; I learned it had never gotten past her to reach the want-ad pages of the Denver evening newspaper. "Mrs. Casey," she began earnestly, "My name is Jackie Torrance. Until about a half-hour ago I was manning a telephone in the ad department of The Denver Post. It was I who took your call; and, with any luck, it was the last ad I'll ever have to take." So far I hadn't been able to get in a word, and I was understandably confused. Always a believer in the get-to-the-point school of repartee, I asked, "How old are you, Miss Torrance?" Still standing at the foot of my desk, she plopped her case down on it, flipped up the lid, and handed me the top sheet -- like the Boy Scouts, I was to learn, our Jackie was always prepared. What she handed me was a photocopy of her birth certificate, showing her to be six or seven years older than she appeared. I guess if you look that young, you never leave home without a birth certificate. Hasn't actually happened to me in a year or two, myself. Sure, it hasn't. "Mrs. Casey, let me make my pitch for your job before I lose my nerve. I've just burned every one of my bridges, but I don't want that to influence you, really." Yeah, and if I believe that, you have Florida real estate to peddle. "If you'll take a minute to look at these," she continued, placing a small stack of what turned out to be recommendations from all over town, all manners of businesses, "you will see I've had lots of experience in all the duties your advert called for -- filing, answering phones, billing, everything -- and I'm very fast on a word processor." She paused to breathe, and I held up a palm to halt the flood momentarily while I read, motioning her to a seat; she sat, eyes glued to my forehead. Glancing through the various documents, I could see that she indeed had experience, but I could also see she had only stayed in one place for a maximum of a year. "Then tell me, why do you keep going from one job to another? From the testimonials I see here, you obviously weren't fired, apparently you just up and left. Why was that?" "It's really simple, but kind of hard to explain, I'm afraid." "Try, dear." "Okay. These were all full-time jobs, and they left me no time for studying. You see, I'm a sophomore at Denver University, attending night classes only, three times a week. I have a part scholarship, but it doesn't fill the gaps between income and out-go, and I have to work. "Also, I live at home, and there are six there younger than I. It's noisy and nearly impossible to get much done in the way of studying when I'm there." She took a deep breath before continuing. "So what I thought when you called in your ad, it would be perfect for both of us if you paid me for, say, twenty hours a week rather than the sixteen, but I was actually here a full day, Monday through Friday." Up went my hand again, but she bore on before I could open my mouth -- neat trick, considering the mouth with which she was dealing. "And I'd do whatever you ask me to do, all day rather than mornings only, and fit in my studies between. I'd have the use of your computer and printer over there," pointing to the IBM and Hewlett-Packard on the largely unused desk by the inner door, "And I'll supply all my own floppies, printer paper, and what-all. "And since your phone surely rings in the afternoon as well as in the morning, I'd be here to answer it." She paused again, but I waited this time. "And if you're not satisfied, I'll pay for your ad next time, and stay until you find somebody else." Her big brown eyes were fastened avidly on my expression which probably leaked a dawning interest -- 'probably,' hell. She just smiled this great big toothy grin, dimples rampant on a field of brown silk, virtually bouncing up and down. "Why don't we talk about this a little, Miss Torrance --" "Jackie, please, Mrs. Casey." "Sheila, please, Jackie." She bounced some more. For about an hour that day we discussed a little of her background, some of what would be expected of her, haggled a bit over an hourly rate, wandered off the track now and then, and got to know one another a little. In other words, she charmed my Nikes off. What finally decided me was when the phone rang in the middle of my introducing her to the resident guard Chihuahua, Fuzz, who took to her immediately and without reservation. I raised an eyebrow at her and pointed to the phone on what is now her desk. She dashed to grab it by the second ring. "Good afternoon. Sheila Casey Investigations. May I help you, please?" Pause. "May I ask who's calling, please?" Pause. "Just a moment, Mr. Halley," she said, turning a questioning face toward me. "The master of all he surveys, Jackie," I laughed, picking up my phone. She hung up, at once heading for the hall with Fuzz in hot pursuit. She spotted the leash hanging inside the elevator cage, hooked it to Fuzz' collar and took him for a short walk, chattering away in baby-talk at the top of his round little head. "And who, pray, Madame, was that?," my lovely husband inquired. "That, my dear, was my clerk, one Jackie Torrance, soon, I suspect, a force with which to reckon." "She sounded on the phone like she'd answered it for you forever." "And she's cute, too." "Ah-hah! Better all the time." "Control yourself, Don Juan; she's too young for you." "There is no such thing as too young for me." "Better yet, you have a wife who's armed and dangerous as well as suspicious and possessive." "Yes, there is that. Well, if you must put it that way, I'll watch myself closely." "You do that, as will I," I smiled. "What's up?" "My dander. There seems to be hell-abrewing at the Foster Building. Randolph Powers, that fatheaded CEO of the firm and new husband of the owner, has accused one of my men of stealing equipment and art works, of -- well, he's blowing up a typhoon. "There's nothing for it but I've got to go over there and see how many holes in the dike I can stick a finger into before it gets any worse, if that's at all possible." "Do I hear the stray mixed metaphor in there somewhere?" I inquired. "What I'm saying is, sweet lady, don't prop the feedbag open for me today. It's going to be a long one, and I might not make it back before seven or so." "Got a better idea. I'll just wait until you get here, whenever that is, and we'll then go over to Perry's, okay?" "Fine with me. Love ya." "Me, too," I answering, hanging up the phone. It rang again almost immediately, and the just-returned Jackie dashed over to pick it up, already an old hand. This call was from a Mrs. Madeleine Foster Powers, was turned over to me, and requested an appointment to see me about an urgent, private matter, one not to be discussed over the telephone. I asked when she wished to come and she replied as soon as possible. We agreed on four o'clock that afternoon, and I replaced the receiver. Hadn't George mentioned the Foster Building and Randolph Powers? This was, as they say, déjà vu all over again. Jackie had during the second phone conversation taken over the receptionist's desk, fired up the IBM, and fingers flying, was hard at work on our employment agreement, as it turned out. Very simple, just stating the hours to be paid for, the hourly rate, the use of the hall, as it were, and various nuts and bolts -- no hidden minefields that I could see. It took old buttinsky George to spot those, blast him. When I asked her if she wanted me to sign it, or anything, she just laughed -- it was just for reference. She'd be back promptly at nine the following morning. She was gone, jogging to the bus stop on the corner, Fuzz smearing his wet nose all over the window, watching her with his tail wagging -- oh, boy, a new friend! The time between then and the arrival of Mrs. Powers was spent looking up her firm in Dun & Brad, being properly impressed, and then calling to pick the brain of my old friend Margaret Booker, a retired newspaper writer who knew everything there was to know about everybody of particular importance in the entire city. Margaret filled my ears and notebook with all manner of very interesting tidbits on the redoubtable Mrs. Powers, widow of the even more formidable Jason Foster, the founder of the huge multinational Foster Corporation. This firm began in the thirties as a design and construction company, grew enormously during the war years, and had diversified into many areas since that time. They had their corporate fingers into everything from soup to nuts -- literally. Jason Foster had a talent for making money, one apparently not inherited by his two sons, Keith and Patrick, but full-blown in his daughter, the youngest offspring of Madeleine and Jason, Arminda Foster Cullen. This fact was said to be a source of bitterness and deep resentment on the part of the sons as well as conceit and smugness on the part of Arminda. And the ensuing backbiting, rivalry and bickering was causing great pain to their mother, Madeleine, ill-prepared to cope with it while yet still reeling from the loss of her husband. In an effort to assuage the loneliness she felt when Jason died of a massive coronary, dead before he hit the floor of his office, Madeleine was urged by family and friends to get away from the site of her painful memories, to take a long cruise on the Aegean. After months of protest, she finally agreed, reluctantly. While she was gone the siblings did their level best to destroy what their father had spent his life erecting. Their constant wrangling and outright battles brought about the resignation of more than one knowledgeable and worthy employee, causing even more uproar. The only glimmer of sanity to be seen was in the person of an uncle, older brother to Jason, David Foster. Acting President, he was getting long in the tooth and was eager to relinquish the reins and the responsibilities to someone able to carry on, someone more willing than he. But that was the operative word: Able. Arminda would surely prove one day able, but her older brothers would have none of it at the moment. The Board of Directors would eventually have the unenviable duty of deciding it once and for all, but not until Madeleine as President of the Board returned. And return she did, only creating even more havoc than even her children had been capable of. Into their midst came a new husband, twenty or so years their mother's junior, ego-ridden, suave, acquisitive, unburdened by any considerations of morality or honor so far as anyone could see -- except the smitten Madeleine, of course -- and hand-picked by her to take over their birthright, their inheritance, their company! Before their for-once united roar could be heard, it was finito -- a done deal. So far as they were all concerned it was not to be countenanced, and war was declared before the ink on the marriage license was thoroughly dry. Margaret said that was about all she knew for certain, that it had happened about three years earlier and things had gone rapidly downhill from there. She also added I was not to come out to admire her garden for another month or so, but I was to make an appearance later, no excuses accepted. I hastily agreed, saying we'd set a time. She grunted, and business over, replaced her receiver smartly without wasting breath on "good-bye." Tough old bird -- never fooled me, though. Armed with this knowledge, I watched with considerable interest the arrival of Mrs. Madeleine Powers as she purred up to my front door in her red Ferrari, parked the little jewel smartly, tapped the accelerator to create the obligatory throb, and turned it off. We'd have to maybe discuss the relative merits of hot cars one day, my own AMX included in that category. But first, I'd listen to the lady -- maybe earn a buck or two. When I remembered her rating in Margaret's estimation, I revised that upwards, adding a few more zeroes. |