The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 33

Harry's second-floor office was up a staircase sandwiched between two brown brick storefronts on the south side of the downtown area. A simple sign on the door read "Harry Sanderson and Don Manchusen, Private Investigations."

The lady at the front desk was in her early fifties, pleasant but curt, likely the same woman I spoke to on the phone. "Mr. Sanderson knows you are here and will be with you shortly," she said.

I couldn't blame her for not wasting any time on amenities. Her in-basket was overflowing. There were myriad piles of folders, notebooks, and papers on her oak desk and the dark cherry credenza behind it. It seemed she had a heavy workload.

The place smelled heavily of Raid Ant and Roach Killer. That was likely one reason the flowers in the pot hanging in the only window of the narrow anteroom were drooping, nearly dead. Water dripping from the plant saucer suggested they may have drowned—there was little evidence anyone in the office had a green thumb.

A dark walnut ceiling fan twisted lazily, wobbling with every turn. Two dim, flickering sconces provided light above a row of wooden chairs with black padded vinyl seats. No one else was in the waiting area, probably because it was now after hours for most white-collar businesses. I thumbed through one of the three-year-old Family Circle magazines from the end table that split the row of chairs. Directly across from me was a pair of swinging doors through which I could hear the commotion of conversation and activity.

The receptionist called out, "Ms. Wynn, Harry asked me to send you on back. His office is on the rear wall past the cubicles."

I nodded my thanks and pushed through the doors. In the middle of a large open area were a dozen workstations, six on each side, most occupied. Many employees were on the phone - some looked up and smiled, and a few turned their backs for privacy as I passed. The place reminded me of what Dad called his "boiler room" when he used phone solicitors to drum up business for his construction company. Sometimes he'd let me play in an unused cubicle when he had to work a weekend, and I felt a warm familiarity with Harry's environs.

Harry's office door was open, and as I entered and our eyes met, Harry seemed familiar to me. Memories of Granddad's beloved reels of old film noir classics flashed into my mind. His face resembled Morley Safer's towards the end of his 60 Minutes career.

A large sign, dingy with tobacco smoke, was posted prominently on the wall behind him. It read: "California banned smoking in offices in 1995. The maximum fine is $100.00. You can file a complaint on your way to the unemployment office." Harry's space reeked of cigarettes. Two filled ashtrays, a butt smoldering in each, told me Harry was a chain smoker. He wore suspenders, his tie loosened, the top button of his white shirt unfastened, and sweat stains visible on the inside of his collar. He had thinning hair distributed in a not-very-convincing comb over. A rumpled suit coat hung from one hook on the hat rack, and the bottom six inches of a tan trench coat on the same hook splayed out in the dust on the floor. His large abdomen was keeping him from getting too close to his desk.

As I walked in, I heard the tail end of the phone conversation he was finishing, and he had the gruff voice you'd expect from all of those cigarettes over the years. He waved me into his office with two fingers as he finished his call.

"Hello, Mr. Sanderson. I'm Debra Ann Wynn and Darrell Woodson suggested I reach out to you," I said as soon as he finished and hung up.

"Ah, yes, the famous former Union-Tribune investigative reporter," Harry said with a bit of flair. "I've read you for years—great stuff—and meeting you is a pleasure."

"' I am not a myth,'" I said with a chuckle, resorting to one of my grandfather's favorite old Marlene Dietrich quotes.

"Mr. Sanderson was my father—me, I'm just Harry," he said, and when he stood up to shake hands, his midsection shifted downward. Harry put his hands flat on both sides of his belly, looked down at it, and said, " 'It's either the candy or the hooch. I must say, I wish it was your chili I was gettin' fat on. Anyway, you're sure lookin' good.'"