So I began waving frantically, hoping Liz would look up from her law book soon and come to my aid.
My cell phone rang. It was Michael. Of course; I couid use the cell phone to call out.
“Meg, what do you mean? Who’s really dead?”
“Ted, the practical joker,” I said. “Listen, right now I really need to call the police.”
“Meg, can’t I -?”
“No. Stay out,” I said. I was standing in the opening that separated the reception area from the rest of the office, arms folded, keeping people from leaving the premises or traipsing through the crime scene before the police arrived.
Part of the crime scene, anyway. For all I knew, Ted could have been killed anywhere in the office. And any time during the last several hours. The few people I’d been able to ask had, like me, been ignoring him so successfully that we had absolutely no idea when we last noticed signs of life. But since there was no way I could cordon off the entire office, I settled for the reception area. Abandon hope, all ye who even think of entering here before I say so.
“But I need to get some lunch,” Frankie the Eager whined. I frowned more sternly while wondering if Frankie could possibly be old enough to have graduated from high school. Make that junior high. Did child labor laws apply to programmers?
“Later,” I said. “After the police get here. When the police say you can.”
“Aw, c’mon,” he began.
“Never mind,” said his much shorter companion, whom I recognized as Rico, one of the graphic designers. Actually, I recognized his RHODE ISLAND SCHOOL OF DESIGN T-shirt; without that distinctive wardrobe item, Rico would be yet another vaguely familiar new face. I still hadn’t quite determined whether Rico owned only the one T-shirt or whether his alumnus zeal had inspired him to buy a wardrobe of them, though observation of distinctive pizza stains pointed to the former.
“But I’m hungry!” Frankie whined.
Rico said something to him in a low voice.
“Okay,” Frankie said. “I guess I can eat later.”
They turned and disappeared. Planning to sneak out, of course. At the back door, they’d find Liz. Fat chance getting past her. Dad, who happened to be in the office providing technical advice to the programmers working on a proposed new Doctors from Hell game, was guarding the side door to the hall. Having achieved what some mystery buffs only dream about - getting close to a real, live murder - he’d normally be wild with excitement and thus useless as a watchdog. But since I’d refused to let him examine Ted’s body, he was sulking, and had apparently decided that if he couldn’t have any fun, neither could anyone else. I did hope the police showed up before anyone figured out how to escape by rapelling down the side of the building, I heard a noise behind me - someone opening the front door. I turned and shouted.
“Stop right there! I said no one comes in, and I meant it!”
The door stopped about two inches open.
“You didn’t tell us this was a hostage situation,” murmured an unfamiliar voice out in the hall.
“It’s not,” I heard my brother, Rob, say. “That’s just my sister, Meg, keeping people away from the crime scene. Meg? It’s Rob. I have the police. Can we come in?”
“Of course,” I said. “You should have identified yourselves; I thought you were just more stupid sightseers.”
“You can stay outside, Mr. Langslow,” the unfamiliar voice said. “We’ll take it from here.”
I heard murmured conversation from the hall, and then the door opened, cautiously, and a head appeared.
“Ms. Langslow? I’m Chief Burke.”
Chief Burke was a balding, middle-aged African-American man whose laugh lines suggested that his face more often wore a smile than the current anxious frown.
“Please come in, Chief,” I said. “I’m just trying to keep all the rubberneckers out.”
“We appreciate that,” he said, stepping a little farther into the reception room. “Could you -? Oops!”
I heard a thud, followed by the squeaking voice of the Affirmation Bear.
“Whenever something makes me angry, I stop, take a deep breath, and try to see the humorous side of the situation.”
“That’s God-damned easy for you to say,” the chief growled. And then he added, “Who the hell said that, anyway?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess you tripped over the bear.”
By this time, he had fished the bear out from under him and was frowning at it. “It talks?”