The clothes Ted hadn’t hung from the overhead beams were jumbled into a copier-paper box. In fact, the copier-paper box seemed to be the cornerstone of his decorating and storage scheme. Beside his futon, one box served as a bedside table, holding a digital alarm clock and half a dozen empty Coors cans. His desk was a board held up at each end by a stack of three boxes. The desk boxes contained computer manuals or small pieces of electronic equipment. A stack of about two dozen boxes formed a low wall between his niche and the rest of the basement - they contained a vast collection of science-fiction and mystery paperbacks and a small collection of relatively unkinky girlie magazines. In the tiny basement bathroom, Ted’s towels, ragged and brightly colored, had been thrown unfolded into a copier-paper box, since the linen closet was overflowing with Mrs. Sprocket’s vintage toiletries and faded, lace-trimmed towels.
I wasn’t seeing much paper, anywhere. Which was unusual. No matter how much so-called computer visionaries touted the paperless future, in my experience, heavy computer users tended to have more paper around, rather than less. And I found no disks, Zip drives, tapes, or CD-ROMs. Unheard of. One thing I’d noticed about my coworkers at Mutant Wizards - they adored their hardware and software with a passion I couldn’t even begin to understand, much less share. But at the same time, they trusted their cybernetic idols even less than I would have. I’d seen only one programmer whose work space wasn’t littered with printouts and backups, and I’d heard Frankie and Jack arguing about whether the best metaphor for that guy was “bungee jumping without a cord” or “playing Russian roulette with an Uzi.”
And it hadn’t been Ted. His cube at work had been as bad a rat’s nest of paper and disks as anyone’s, until the police hit it. Evidently the police had stripped his home office, too, and the only things I’d find were objects the police had left behind - probably for good reason.
I stood, looking around, and feeling sorry for myself gave way to feeling sorry for Ted. I wondered if he’d actually rented the house, or if he’d only worked out some kind of deal to live in the basement as caretaker until it was sold. No matter how tight housing was, I wasn’t sure I’d want to live here, surrounded by the warren of metal shelves Mrs. Sprocket had used to store such treasures as her back issues of the Saturday Evening Post, her empty mason jars, and several dozen rusty metal cemetery flower baskets.
I was working on a good case of melancholia when the doorbell rang again. As I was racing up the stairs to answer it, I tripped over something and fell sprawling on the landing where the L-shaped stairs turned, halfway up. I didn’t stop to see what had tripped me - I wanted to take care of the new visitor first.
This time it was Rico. A dressed-up Rico; he’d thrown a plaid sport coat over his design school T-shirt. He was leaning casually against one of the porch pillars. I was tempted to tell him that he didn’t have the height to pull off a really classy lean, but I settled for some more practical advice.
“I wouldn’t put any weight on that if I were you,” I said. “One good push could bring the whole porch roof down.”
“Oh, hi, Meg,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Locking up, at the moment,” I said. “The police have taken all of Ted’s computer stuff, so it’s no good looking here for the missing Lawyers files.”
“I figured as much,” he said.
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you the truth, I was hoping to run into Ted’s landlord. He hasn’t returned my calls.”
“And why are you looking for Ted’s former landlord?”
“Same reason you are, I guess,” Rico said. “Sooner or later he’ll want to rent the place out again. I was hoping to be first in line.”
“The landlord’s not here,” I said. “I guess you’ll have to keep trying. See you, Rico.”
“Okay. Any chance you could let me in to -?”
“Good-bye, Rico.”
I stood, pondering for a moment. Ratty as Ted’s living quarters were, he had a place to live. And I couldn’t remember anyone describing his basement den - all I’d heard were envious comments on how lucky he was to have actually snagged a place outside town. I suspected he’d never had anyone over. And Frankie and Rico both lived back at the Whispering Pines Cabins, four or more to a room. Could Caerphilly’s tight housing market actually be a motive for murder? It had certainly caused not a few heated discussions between Michael and me during our yearlong search for living space. And we were sane, rational human beings, for the most part. My coworkers at Mutant Wizards? Yeah, maybe one of them would kill for a place to live. I’d keep it in mind.