Free An Educated Death by Kate Flora Page B

nature, a morning person, so it's a peculiar twist of fate that I've chosen a profession where everyone gets up with the birds. Nevertheless, I was up with the birds on Monday and in my office by eight with a cup of steaming mochaccino and a chocolate croissant. I occasionally give in to my chocolate impulses. It's either that or join Chocoholics Anonymous and I don't have time for that. I figure, why spend time in some dingy church basement listening to other people's tales of woe and addiction when you can just eat the stuff?
    By eight-thirty, everyone else was in, too, and things at the office were unusually chaotic. Magda, Suzanne's secretary, was shouting something into a phone in a language I assumed was Hungarian and taking notes in something that looked like hieroglyphics; calm, cheerful Bobby had been pulling at his hair so that it looked like a fright wig; and my secretary, Sarah, was yelling at a pair of legs that emerged from behind the copying machine. I debated grabbing my stuff and hurrying to Bucksport, but I hadn't been at work for several days, so instead I waded in and started sorting things out.
    My desk looked as if someone had stood over it and shredded a roll of pink insulation. Even from the doorway I could see that many of the messages had Urgent! written on them in red. Sarah stopped screaming at the man and machine and charged into my office. "I thought we got a new copier so that we wouldn't have to have the repair man here all the time," she said.
    "So did I. I'm afraid I haven't been paying attention. Has it broken down a lot?"
    "A lot? It's worse than the last one."
    "Have you kept a record of all the repairs?"
    "In the file," she said. "Every last one of 'em."
    "Bring me the file, then, and I'll look into it. Anything else I should know about?"
    Sarah indicated my desk with a wave of her arm. "Other than this? Someone sent you flowers. Yanita Emery called while you were in the bathroom and says she has a crisis. And Mrs. Merritt is in her office crying because her day-care lady quit and Junior is crying right along with her. Maybe you can help. Call me if you need me. I'm going to go back and yell at the repair man."
    "Does it do any good?"
    "No, but it makes me feel better."
    I decided to deal with the last item first. Mrs. Merritt was my partner, Suzanne, who started the business. Not a woman given to tears and weakness. I found her behind her desk scowling at something she was reading. There was no sign of breakdown other than a slightly red nose. "So, partner," she said, "how did it go? Romantic days and nights of unbridled lust?"
    "Of course."
    She smiled at her son, who was sitting in the corner playing with an elaborate contraption of beads and colored wires. "Better be careful. Here's graphic evidence of where all that can lead."
    "Well, Andre has been getting a strange gleam in his eye lately and talking about children. Speaking of children, Sarah says your day care has fallen through again?"
    "It's like a nightmare, Thea. I spent a week interviewing people to find just the right one... and then she lasted, what? Five weeks? Whatever happened to work ethics? The way things are going, the kid's gonna end up crazy from having no stability in his life. What am I supposed to do, quit?"
    "Could you stand having someone live in?"
    She shrugged. "Depends on the person. And you'd have to give up your room. Why? Got someone up your sleeve?" She sounded hopeful.
    "Maybe." I told her about Ellie Drucker's niece and gave her the number. Then I went back to my office to call Yanita Emery. The flowers on my desk were from Andre's boss, thanking me for my rehab job.
    I got waylaid by pink message slips. I was sorting them into urgent, needing attention, and discard when the phone rang. It was Suzanne. "I am constantly reminded of how smart I was to make you my partner," she said. "Her name is Marion. She loves babies. And she's on her way over right now."
    "Good luck," I said. "I hope things work