“Oh, now I see where all the confusion happened,” said the lady at the front desk of the Mountain View Lodge. “His name isn’t Victor. Her name is Victoria.”
To me, there had not been a lot of confusion. I’d only been standing there for about thirty seconds as the lady scanned the volunteer sign-in sheet. Thirty seconds of admiring how solidly she’d sculpted the bright-red strands of her hair into something that withstood the breeze coming from a fan behind her desk. That same fan had provided me with a whiff of the hairspray responsible for that sculpture.
“Victoria?” I repeated.
“Victoria,” she said. “I don’t make mistakes about this sort of thing.”
Implying, of course, that I did, and also that I was the source of the confusion in her normally ordered life. Anybody who had so thoroughly defeated gravity with that hairdo was a force, so I meekly accepted the scolding.
I wasn’t sure what was happening. Had Victor put on a dress and a wig? Only way to find out was to go looking.
“I must have misheard the message from the foundation,” I said. I shifted and felt the pain in my stomach wall from the bruise that was starting to yellow around the edges. “My apologies. If you could tell me where to find Victoria, I’d appreciate that.”
Happily, she must have misinterpreted my wince.
“Well,” she said, “the Wyatt Foundation does a great deal for these seniors, so let’s not give it any more worry.”
The Wyatt Foundation had so much money it employed two full-time staff to screen all the applications for charitable funding. A cynic might also note that the tax benefits were equally substantial. All I knew was that the Wyatt name made it easy to get things done, including placing volunteers for community service. As for the pre-probation judgment that Victor Lang had received by registered mail, that was sheer fiction, courtesy of Bentley’s superior hacking skills. Victor had promised to do community service, but I wanted him to be scared of stepping out of line again.
“Victoria will be down the hall and to the right,” Hairspray told me. “Exactly where requested. The Wyatt Courtyard Atrium. You’ll notice the thank-you plaque is prominently displayed.”
I let the breeze of the fan push me in the direction indicated.
When I rounded the corner, I saw the silhouette of a girl maybe a year or two younger than I standing near a number of huge windows. The sunshine directly in my eyes made it difficult to see details.
I did, however, notice four elderly men alongside the windows. One held a bottle of glass cleaner, and one held paper towels. The other two leaned on walkers.
Bottle Guy was misting the window, and Paper Towel Guy was mopping up the mist behind him. They were intent on their jobs and didn’t notice my approach.
“Missed a spot,” the man in the walker on the right cackled. “Right where Herb sneezed. How blind are you?”
“Rumors must be true,” Bottle Guy said without a beat. “You did pee your bed this morning, didn’t you?”
The other walker guy cackled too. “At least he remembers where it is.”
Old-geezer jokes. Not even funny old-geezer jokes. Socially acceptable to make if you’re one of the aged, but I was willing to bet the cackling would stop if I jumped in and made one myself.
“Herb,” the girl said, “you just ignore those teasers. I think you’re doing a wonderful job.”
Bottle Guy beamed, showing a huge tray of false teeth.
Ah, now I understood. Victor had not even bothered to show up. He had somehow got Jennie, his older sister, aka Victoria, to take his place.
“Victoria?” I said. “A word?”
You used phrases like “a word” when you were young and trying to project unearned authority. Add to that a navy-blue suit tailored for you on Savile Row in London. The silk tie that complemented it was worth the price of a dinner for four at a high-end restaurant.
Suit-and-tie was good when representing the Wyatt Foundation, and I would get double use out of it at my meeting the next day.
Jennie Lang looked my way, assessing me with a quick up-and-down flick of her eyes.
“Of course,” she said, giving me a flirty smile. “A word.”
She turned to her four admirers. “Gentlemen, looks like the fun and games are over for me. But keep going. I love, love, love how well you’ve cleaned those windows.”
“Me next,” Walker Guy One said. He tottered as he reached out for the spray bottle.
“Just don’t sneeze,” Walker Guy Two said. “Who wants to wipe that stuff off the glass?”
Jennie took a couple of steps my way. I could see why the men had lined up to take over her job.
She flaunted her classic hourglass shape with skin-tight jeans and a stretchy sleeveless shirt.
“So,” she said to me, “did you lose a bet?”
I frowned.
“Seriously. A suit and tie? What are you, Junior Wall Street?”
“Wyatt Foundation supervisor,” I said. “First thing I need to know is your real name and why you are here instead of Victor Lang. As I understand it, his pre-probation statement requires a minimum five hours a week of community service.”
“About that,” she said. “Let’s find someplace private to talk. We need to get that appealed. And I bet you’d love to help me, wouldn’t you?”