Free Shadow Waltz by Amy Patricia Meade

ago.”
    â€œI’m sure that’s earned him a lot of friends,” Creighton commented facetiously.
    â€œIt has here at Allied,” Sachs affirmed. “Not that it makes a cent of difference to Barnwell. He keeps to himself. A real loner.”
    â€œAnd you’re certain, Mr. Sachs, that you last saw Michael Barnwell two days ago?” Marjorie quizzed.
    Sachs eyed the calendar on the wall. “Let’s see, today’s Thursday … yes, it was Tuesday I saw him. I remember because my wife had just phoned to ask me to pick up a few things from the store on the way home from work—my mother-in-law was arriving that night for a week-long visit. I don’t get along well with my mother-in-law,” he added delicately, “so I was in a bit of a huff when I hung up and decided to go to lunch. That’s when I literally bumped into Barnwell. He was coming in as I was going out.”
    â€œWhere had he gone?”
    â€œI don’t know. I didn’t ask. When a claims adjustor makes as much money for the company as Michael Barnwell does, you tend to turn a blind eye to the finer details.”
    Creighton nodded. “However, you did notice that he was extremely nervous. Didn’t that strike you as somewhat odd?”
    Sachs tossed his head back and forth in contemplation. “Yes and no. As I said earlier, Barnwell has always been on the edgy side. Was he edgier than usual? Sure, but he’d also been working on an important claim. Big money at stake—for both sides.”
    â€œInteresting. What type of claim was it?” Marjorie asked casually.
    â€œA life insurance claim. I’m not at liberty to say anything else, however.”
    â€œWe understand,” Creighton acknowledged.
    â€œOh, of course,” Marjorie interjected. “We would never dream of compromising your client’s privacy. We’re just doing everything we can to find Michael and bring him back to his wife and child. I don’t suppose … no, I shouldn’t even ask. You’ve done so much already.”
    Sachs learned forward and patted Marjorie’s hand, which rested upon the surface of the desk. “No, no, please. Anything I can do to h elp.”
    Creighton laughed inwardly at the ease with which his fiancée could ply her feminine wiles. Yet he couldn’t help but wish that she’d take more effort in displaying her engagement ring.
    â€œWell,” she started, “we’d like to take a look at his desk. Just to see if he left behind any clues that might indicate his whereabouts. But I don’t wish to impose …” Creighton could have sworn that she punctuated the sentence with a flutter of her eyelashes.
    Sachs rose from his chair and walked to the other side of the desk where he, again, took Marjorie’s hand in his. “Don’t be silly, dear. Of course you can see his desk. It’s not as if you’re asking to rummage through our file cabinets.”
    Marjorie flashed Creighton a triumphant grin as Sachs led them out of his office and into the turbulence of the New England Allied Insurance hurricane. The cacophony of ringing telephones, tapping typewriters, and monotonous secretaries’ voices filled the stale air of the vast, windowless room where neatly attired agents crunched numbers at row-upon-row of evenly spaced wooden desks .
    A tired-looking young man approached Sachs. “Sir! Sir? My cousin just graduated from college in May, and I was wondering if—?”
    â€œTell him to come in and fill out an application,” the older man answered abruptly.
    â€œOh thank you, sir. He’ll be very happy. He’s a great …” His voiced faded into the office din as Sachs walked away, leading Marjorie and Creighton farther into the sea of clerks, secretaries, and eager-to-please new agents.
    Marjorie frowned. She had never underestimated the effects of the economic depression; she knew she was