The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 35

Harry's second-floor office south of downtown was up a staircase that was sandwiched between two brown brick storefronts. 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 strongly of Raid Ant and Roach Killer. The toxic atmosphere might have been why the flowers in the pot hanging in the only window of the narrow anteroom were drooping, nearly dead. I looked up to see a dark-walnut ceiling fan twisting lazily overhead, wobbling with every turn. Two dim, flickering sconces provided light above a row of wooden chairs with black padded vinyl seats. At this late hour, no one else was in the waiting area. I thumbed through a three-year-old Family Circle magazine 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, Mr. Sanderson asked me to send you on back. His office is past the cubicles, on the rear wall."

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. I felt a warm familiarity with Harry Sanderson's environs.

His office door was open, and as I entered and our eyes met, he 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 toward 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." Posted next to it was an unframed 1950's-era black-and-white photo of Anita Ekberg, cigarette holder in hand, her countenance stern, looking directly into the camera.

Harry's space reeked of cigarettes. Two filled ashtrays, a butt smoldering in each, told me Harry was a chain smoker. He wore suspenders, with his tie loosened and the top button of his white shirt unfastened—sweat stains were visible on the inside of his collar. His thinning hair was distributed in a not-very-convincing comb-over. His large abdomen was keeping him from getting too close to his desk.

As I walked in, I heard the tail end of his phone conversation, his sign-off given in the gruff voice you'd expect from all those cigarettes over the years. He waved me into his office with two fingers as he finished his call and hung up, immediately giving me his attention.

"Hello, Mr. Sanderson, I'm Debra Ann Wynn. Darrell Woodson suggested I reach out to you," I said.

"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 the person 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.

"But please—Mr. Sanderson was my father. Me, I'm just Harry." He stood up to shake hands, his midsection shifting downward. Harry put his hands flat on both sides of his belly, regarded 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.'"