Chapter Three

When Agnes came into Blue Moon the next morning, something struck her as…off. She looked around the outer office. Everything seemed normal there: coffeepot empty; assorted paper cups littered around the wastebasket; conspicuous lack of work on everyone's desk—except Herbert's, which was buried in files, assorted phone books, and sheets of yellow legal paper.

A peek into Ms. Hayes' office revealed nothing unusual either, so after watering the plants, Agnes headed over to Mr. Addison's lair. There the mystery ended. The place smelled like a seedy bar, alcohol mixed with another scent, almost like week-old garbage.

Covering her nose, Agnes pulled up the blinds and struggled to open the one operable window. Sunlight flooded the room, illuminating a likely stain on the carpet…confirmed by an empty tumbler on Mr. Addison's desk. Agnes shook her head—men!—and went to find the carpet cleaner.

Thirty minutes later, she reigned over a restored, if still empty, office. She loved this part of the day, the peace and quiet broken only by the hiss and drip of the coffeemaker. The phone was silent, no one was bickering or making demands. This was her time. They came easily to her in the stillness…oh, not the rhymes themselves, which were always spontaneous, but her "theme" for the day: would she focus on the lighthearted—lost pets or jewelry, batty relatives; or the more dramatic—unsolved murders? Tax issues had been popular lately; 'twas the season, after all.

Well, no IRS rhymes today, she thought. Today, she was in a romantic mood: missing persons, lost loves. Couplets for couples, she smiled. And if she peeked quickly at Mr. Viola's seat, well, who was there to see her?

She finished readying her desk, got her coffee, and the clock struck nine. The Wobblies began filing in, followed in short order by Ms. Hayes, who looked…nervous?

Agnes could usually size up her workload by the way her bosses looked in the morning. Of course, sometimes there was a spontaneous combustion later in the day that threw her off, but the mornings were the real test. If Ms. Hayes and Mr. Addison came in cheerful—and in his case, fully dressed and relatively on time—she relaxed, knowing she would get all of her typing and filing done, and possibly even sneak in a few paragraphs on her mystery novel. (For Agnes, poetry came as naturally as speaking English: she just opened her mouth and the words flew out. But ever since her stint on J.B. Harland's Murder Train, she had burned to write an old-fashioned, heart-pounding thriller, complete with creepy atmosphere, enigmatic characters, and a few red herrings. Oh—and set in 15th-century Italy. Agnes liked a challenge.)

If, however, it was obvious by her employers' entrance that trouble was brewing—Ms. Hayes storming by in a huff; Mr. Addison late, unshaven, and/or in costume—Agnes would sigh, realizing that her day would be filled with soothing egos, smoothing over differences, and dispensing wisdom. She was both the glue that held Blue Moon together and the oil that greased its gears…not that anyone recognized that, she thought a little ruefully.

But Ms. Hayes, nervous? Agnes wasn't sure what that portended. Ms. Hayes glanced at Mr. Addison's door (which Agnes had left open, the better to disperse the fumes), listened for something, and then raised her eyebrows at the receptionist.

Agnes shook her head. "Not in."

Ms. Hayes exhaled, and made a show of looking at her watch. "Well," she said dryly, as Agnes handed over mail and messages, "I guess one of us has to do some work." Agnes thought she sensed some relief under Ms. Hayes' apparent irritation.

She watched Ms. Hayes walk quickly into her office and shut the door. Then her eyes lit on Herbert Viola, who was gazing after the boss with combined eagerness and indignation.

What did it all mean?

She puzzled over it for a minute, but then inspiration hit: an unexpected, yet plausible way to put Catriona in the path of the ruggedly handsome (but ominously named) Count Malefico—and plot possibilities temporarily eclipsed the office enigma.

The morning flew by. Her writing had to be shelved for more routine problems: the water delivery was late, an important paperclip order had gone astray, and she had to fix the copier and mediate a stapler skirmish.

Then the phone rang.

"Blue Moon Detective Agency," she began.
"Who can we find for you today?
Somebody from your past?
The one who got away?
A prom date, a blind date, a Cinderella in heels
Who stole your heart…or maybe your wheels?
We'll search high and low,
Both near and so far,
To uncover your lost love,
Or at least your lost car."

"Um…Maddie Hayes, please," said a friendly, but very masculine, voice.

A man? Who was not Mr. Addison? Calling Ms. Hayes? The plot thickened. "Can I tell her who's calling?" Agnes asked. Maybe it was the water salesman.

"Oh, sure…it's Sam."

"Sam?" Just Sam? Not the Culligan man, then.

"Yep, Sam." Now the voice held a hint of laughter.

"One moment," she hesitated, buzzing Ms. Hayes. "Ms. Hayes? There's a 'Sam' on line one for you."

"Oh! Thanks, Agnes." Ms. Hayes sounded…perky.

Five minutes later, she left her office smiling, and sailed out Blue Moon's front door. "I'm off to lunch, Agnes. Be back in awhile," she threw over her shoulder.

"But Ms. Hayes—" Agnes protested.

Ms. Hayes stopped, holding the door open. "Yes?"

"Mr. Addison still isn't in. Don't you want me to call him, or—or something?"

Ms. Hayes' face clouded over. "No."

"No?"

"No," she said definitely. "Now, may I go, Agnes?"

"OK," Agnes said, dejected. "Have a…good time." But Ms. Hayes had already rounded the corner on her way to the elevator.

Three hours later, Mr. Addison was still not in, and Ms. Hayes was still out. With, Agnes supposed, the reason for Ms. Hayes' smile: the mysterious Sam.

This couldn't be good.

Agnes had a plan—not a very specific plan, more a general, this-is-a-good-idea kind of plan. A plan she had concocted in the early months of Blue Moon's existence, amidst the first slamming doors and case arguments and sparks flying everywhere. Next to her novel, this plan was her most cherished goal. Mr. Addison and Ms. Hayes belonged together.

And it had only become clearer to her in the past year. She had booked Mr. Addison's flight to Argentina, when he went to help Ms. Hayes catch her shyster accountant. She had seen Ms. Hayes' ads in the paper, when Mr. Addison was on the run: "Please come home. We love you and miss you." And the way they looked at each other at Christmastime, when Ms. Hayes came back to the office that night…well, the only question was how the two of them could be so blind to something so obvious.

It was lucky they had her. They would never know how many times she, Agnes, would seize the opportunity to push them along, would send the employees home a little early (and leave herself) so they would be alone, or stop someone from knocking when they were behind closed doors.

Up to now, though, she hadn't taken any more definite action; she had been waiting to see whether they would figure it out on their own. But now…it looked like there might be competition. Competition that might not be bad, if Mr. Addison were here to see it. But he wasn't here, and he was leaving the field free for this "Sam" to move in on his Ms. Hayes.

Agnes didn't want to see that happen.

But where was Mr. Addison?