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Chapter 56

Glibspet and Mindenhall walked into the offices of Gorman & Chase, a small Chapel Hill ad agency. They both wore dark suits and shades. "Snazzy," Craig said, looking at their reflections in the firm's lobby doors.

"It's an image thing," Glibspet said. "Well-heeled, but slightly menacing. Remember, we aren't here to be anyone's friend."

"If you say so, Dom," Craig muttered. He was still uncomfortable with this part of the job, but Glibspet thought his lying was coming along nicely.

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked. She was a strawberry blonde with a good figure and dimples. Glibspet immediately thought of several ways she could help him—unfortunately, none of them were applicable.

"Dominic Glib." He handed her an impressive looking business card. Mindenhall did likewise. "My associate and I represent Federated of Omaha Insurance in claims investigation. We're currently investigating a large claim paid out on the death of one Rheabeth Samuels. I believe she worked here."

The woman frowned. "Not that I know of," she said. "When was this?"

"About three years ago," Mindenhall said.

"Hmm. Maybe you'd better talk to Helen. She's been here forever." She keyed her intercom. "Helen, there are a couple of detectives out here who need to talk to you."

There was a squawk of dismay from the other end and the receptionist lowered her voice. "No, I'm sure it's not about that," she said reassuringly. She looked up again. "Helen will be right out," she said. "You gentlemen have a seat right over there." She pointed to an uncomfortable-looking couch.

The two sat. "Sit straight," Glibspet hissed to Craig. "Look grim—and put the magazine down."

Craig tossed the ancient Time magazine back on the coffee table. "I just wanted to see how the Ford/Carter race was coming," he whispered back.

Helen was a plump brunette in her early fifties. "Hello," she said nervously. "I'm Helen Goforth?" She didn't seem very sure of it.

Glibspet stood, and Mindenhall followed suit. "Dominic Glib, Federated Omaha," Glibspet said crisply. "I understand you may have known Rheabeth Samuels."

"I—well, the name sounds a little familiar. I've been here ten years, you know—there have been so many names?"

"Just the facts, ma'am," Mindenhall said. Glibspet glared at him. "She would have worked here about three years ago," Craig continued, somewhat chastened.

"I—I'm afraid I don't remember her," Helen admitted. "She can't have worked here very long?"

Either their information was wrong, or this Rheabeth Samuels had been a complete nonentity. Glibspet said, "She moved here from out of state only a few weeks before her reported death."

"Perhaps you'll have to talk to Mr. Gorman, then? He does all the hiring?"

"Yes, that sounds like a very good idea, Ms. Goforth," Mindenhall said. "Thanks for your help?"

"It's been a pleasure?" Goforth hurried off.

"That rising intonation would drive me over the line in about ten minutes," Glibspet said. "I don't know how these people stand it."

"They're used to it?" Craig said.

"Cut that out!"

Glibspet approached the receptionist again. "I'm afraid Ms. Goforth couldn't help us," he said. "Could we talk to Mr. Gorman, please?"

She frowned. "I'll see," she said. "He's pretty busy." She negotiated on the intercom with another secretary for several minutes, then, "I think he's coming down," she said. She paused. "Don't piss him off."

Gorman was a short dark-haired man with an unlit cigar in his mouth. Full of nervous energy, he didn't wait for Mindenhall and Glibspet to introduce themselves. "Jeez," he said, "I got people tied up in Germany, got a crew trying to talk some sense into the phone company, nobody on deck here and you want to ask me questions. What do you think I do here, run a research institute?"

"We just need a minute of your time, Mr. Gorman," Glibspet said and handed him a card.

"Federated of Omaha? Never heard of it. You need an ad campaign. I can get people all over the country lining up to buy policies."

"I'm sure you could, but we just need to ask you a few questions," Mindenhall said.

Gorman looked at his watch. "You've got five minutes," he said. "Then I start billing at on-site rates." Glibspet saw a man come through the back door holding a broom. He had several empty plastic bags threaded through his belt. He went over to the receptionist's desk, lifted the liner out of her trash can and replaced it with one of his empty bags. He and the receptionist talked for a minute. She pointed, and he turned to watch the tableau in the center of the lobby.

"You hired a woman named Rheabeth Samuels about three years ago," Glibspet said.

"No I didn't—" Gorman started, then shook his head. "Yes, I did. What about it?"

"Our company paid out a large claim on her life—"

"Damn straight you should have," Gorman said. "I remember now. Promising kid. Copywriter out of Alabama. Been here two days when a semi merged into her Honda. Killed instantly. Hadn't even moved out of the hotel yet."

"And you never heard anything about her being alive?" Mindenhall prompted.

Gorman snorted. "The police showed me the picture. No live people in that many pieces." He looked at his watch. "Time's up, or five hundred dollars a question," he said.

"Thank you very much," Glibspet said hurriedly.

"Been real. Pam," he called, "I want Frankfurt on the phone by the time I get back to the office."

"Can do," the receptionist said, and started dialing.

"Hey," the man with the broom said, and walked towards Glibspet and Mindenhall.

"Hello," Craig said.

"I've been super here five years," the man said. "I remember that girl. Not many people who come through here stick in my mind, but she did. Nice girl. Short, plump little thing, really friendly. I liked her an awful lot—thought maybe . . . well. Then she died. It was a real shame what happened to her."

Mindenhall nodded.

"But you said something about looking for her alive."

"Possibly," Glibspet said.

"Well, I heard the name again. Caught my attention—was a funny name the first time, and then to hear it again, you know? It was on the local news—right at the end of the show. About a woman heading some kind of hi-tech place, something in the Triangle. But if that's who you're looking for, your records are really screwed up. She's older than the Rheabeth who started here—pretty."

Glibspet pulled the photo he'd had made from the likeness of Averial and handed it to the man.

"This looks kind of like the woman I saw. I didn't get a very good look . . . but this could be her. Darker hair now, I think. Maybe. Maybe prettier."

Really. Glibspet smiled. "That's very interesting."

 

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