"What's going on in here?"
Dr. Daley and I both directed our attention to the doorway. There stood R. J. Ryder, C.P.A, and occupant of the suite across the hall.
Every time I saw Ryder it struck me all over again just how much he didn't look like the stereotypical accountant. Dressed for success in a black Armani double-breasted suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie, Ryder filled not only the doorway but also the suit to perfection. His shaved head and striking blue eyes added an edge to his appearance, one he didn't need.
He was simply a man I had a hard time ignoring on the best of days. And today certainly wasn't one of those.
I cleared my throat and finally found my voice. "That was me you heard. Sorry if I bothered you." I moved toward Ryder leaving Dr. Daley with our dead patient.
Ryder strode into the suite.
At over six foot three, he stood a good seven inches taller than me. He also appeared larger than life and had a serious "yum" factor going.
"So everything's okay?" he asked, suspicion clouding his voice. He peered over the top of me, and I did this stupid little dance that looked like I needed to go to the little girls' room instead of the blocking action it was meant to be.
"Everything is fine," I lied.
Let me just add that I've never been good at lying. Never.
Today was no exception. My face and voice must have betrayed me big time, because, without another word, Ryder lifted me like I weighed less than the 125 pounds the scale normally registered, and set me down several inches to the side out of his way and proceeded to where Dr. Daley stood.
"What's going on here, Dick?"
He said "Dick" the way I thought it.
I hurried to stand between the doctor and Ryder as if my physical presence would somehow make this whole ugly crime scene disappear. Ryder glared at me like I annoyed him, which come to think of it, I probably did.
"I can explain," I said as the knots tightened in my stomach and my palms sweated unmercifully.
Ryder peered over me at the psychiatrist and waited for him to speak. I didn't like being ignored and tried to fill the void. "If you'd just let me explain…."
Ryder took another step forward as I took one back. The heel of my shoe came down hard on Dr. Daley's instep.
Daley yelped in pain.
"Miss Reynolds, haven't you done enough for one day?"
"It wasn't my fault," I said louder than I'd intended and turned in time to watch Dr. Daley hop on one foot in full retreat toward the door to his private office. He placed his hand at shoulder's height on the doorframe and put his head down on his arm.
A defeated man if ever I saw one.
"Who's the dead guy?" Ryder asked dispassionately.
I faced Ryder again. In my haste to make things right with Dr. Daley, I'd momentarily forgotten him. Not a smart thing to do. He'd discovered our corpse and was crouching in front of the dead man studying him.
"Dead guy?" I tried to pretend I didn't know what he was talking about. By his expression, I could tell that lame tactic wasn't going to fly.
"Yeah, the dead guy. You know, the one with the letter opener as a fashion accessory."
"I didn't do it." It was all I could think to say.
Ryder stood up and wrapped his large hands around my upper arms. "No one said you did, Becca." He jerked his head toward Dr. Daley as if to ask me if the doctor was the culprit.
"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.