Free The Girl with the Phony Name by Charles Mathes Page B

couple days to think it over.
    The best thing about the offer, ironically, had nothing to do with the work. It was the suite of rooms she would be able to live in.
    After the tour of the basement, Wing had taken her up a narrow, poorly lit staircase from the kitchen at the back of the house. The door at the top was a dark slab, like the entrance to a tomb. Wing opened the ancient lock with a key from his ring. Lucy was expecting a dusty garret at best. Instead she found a huge, clean space that the morning sun lit up like a lantern.
    There were windows on all sides. The ceilings were the insides of the gabled roof—a maze of right angles, a three-dimensional crazy quilt. Every wall was a different size, the floor of each room a unique geometric shape. The pale patterned wallpaper might originally have been deep red. Washed with light, it was now the faintest pink, the tiny flowers barely visible.
    There were four rooms in all: a large sitting room with a fireplace, a bedroom, a smaller room that had been fixed up as a study, and a huge bathroom with old-fashioned brass fixtures. It took Lucy a moment to realize that the blue picture on the ceiling above the tub was a portrait of the morning, framed in a skylight.
    â€œWhen you start?” Wing had asked, bouncing up and down on the bed.
    â€œI still don’t understand what the job is.”
    â€œSee? Lots of room for creativity. You help me run business. We team, like Yankees.”
    â€œDon’t you want to interview anyone else?” Lucy was still too stunned to think straight.

    â€œWhy? Wing decisive guy. You Harvard woman. You enthusiastic—phone on Sunday. Have good sense of humor—laugh at my jokes. You pretty. I like you.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Wing if you think …”
    Wing hung his head.
    â€œPlease accept apologies. Wing no sexist pig. Meant only compliment. No funny stuff. Promise.”
    He held up his right hand and made a crossing motion over his chest with his left.
    â€œNo dead bodies?” asked Lucy warily.
    â€œStrictly management.”
    â€œI might need to get into the city during the week sometimes … .”
    â€œHours flexible. Neat ‘n’ Tidy never sleep.”
    â€œWell, I’m used to working for more money … .”
    â€œProfit-sharing plan. Three weeks’ vacation. Room and board. Free cremation if you croak … .”
    Lucy was surprised at how tempted she was. It would be great to have the sunny apartment and a salary while she looked for clues to her past. Wing had even reimbursed her for the cab. He seemed on the level and her hotel bill was only going to get higher. Still …
    â€œWhat happened to Mrs. Hernandez?” Lucy asked as the car turned onto Fifty-seventh Street. Bell shrugged.
    â€œNatural causes,” he said melodiously. “I guess.”
    The limo was pulling up behind a parked tour bus in front of the hotel.
    â€œWhat would you do if you were me, Mr. Bell?” Lucy asked sincerely.
    The man raised an eyebrow and studied her for several seconds.
    â€œWell, honey,” he said kindly, “I think I’d start by wiping the lipstick off my teeth.”
    Lucy shrank an inch. Bell laughed. She got out and stood at the curb as he drove away, acknowledging his wave halfheartedly.

    â€œGod, give me a sign,” she murmured at the sky.
    God didn’t answer, but the doorman gave her a strange look. Lucy turned and walked into the hotel, feeling uneasy, worried, confused.
    The lobby was full of loud women who smelled like gardenias and men in peach-colored pants and white shoes. Lucy’s thoughts wandered involuntarily toward Neat ‘n’ Tidy. The marketing possibilities were endless.
    â€œWhy only gray paperweights?” she asked the empty elevator. “Why not pastel paperweights? Why not paperweights with holograms? Paperweights with American flags?”
    The door opened on the seventh floor and Lucy got