Elizabeth Stewart: Harm’s Way

“No, Miss Collier,” the detective answered slowly, “you’re not being accused of anything. And we have several witnesses who’ve already corroborated your story, including leaving the scene by taxi.”

“Then what may I ask, are you doing here?”

“Because the street beggar with whom you had your…altercation…was found murdered yesterday afternoon.”

It wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

Perhaps a childhood filled with black and white film noir detectives had conditioned her to think in terms of dark waterfront walkup buildings and tough sounding names in peeling black paint on frosted glass doors. A bleached blonde named “Ethel” or “Vera” behind an antique manual typewriter, filing her nails, great chasms of bored yawns chewing up her hard features. Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe slouched behind a cluttered desk, his trusty fedora hanging loyally on the ratty wooden coat rack in the corner.

This two-story walkup was actually a beautiful turn-of-the-twentieth century brick townhouse, saved from the wrecker’s ball at the eleventh hour and returned lovingly to its former glory. It stood in a part of town just now emerging from shabby neglect to teeter precariously on the brink of fashionable. All around, upscale professional offices, trendy little stores and cafes with more pretensions than patrons littered the landscape.

Inside the grand marble and oak foyer, a twenty-something brunette sat behind a raised counter, her fingers flying nimbly over a multi-line phone console as she smiled into the tiny microphone of her headset. Red, green and amber lights blinking like miniature traffic signals replaced the sound of ringing phones.

“Good morning,” she chirped, “Harm’s Way Security. How may I help you?”

She listened a few moments, her face a picture of attentive concentration. In a moment, the smile reappeared.

“If you’ll hold just a moment, please, I’ll see if he’s in.” And with the press of a button, the young lady merrily dispatched another poor soul to voicemail hell.

Looking up, she focused her smile and attention on the woman at the counter.

“Good morning,” she repeated cheerfully. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m Sheila Forbes. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Harm.”

“Certainly, Ms. Forbes. If you’ll just have a seat through there,” she pointed a slender, magnolia smooth hand to a large archway on her right, “I’ll let Mr. Harm’s secretary know you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

As she passed through the opening to the other room, she heard the receptionist announce her.

Sheila settled into a comfortable chair and gazed around the room, more front parlor than waiting room. Lace curtains hung at long, narrow windows flanking an enormous bay window that took up virtually the entire front wall, giving a clear view of the front lawn and garden and the sidewalk and street just beyond the short black wrought iron fence. A gray marble fireplace with painted, tiles, a full-length dark wood mantle and ornate brass screen occupied the opposite wall. Enormous closed double doors filled the last wall. An oval coffee table in the same warm oak as the mantle held a diverse array of current magazines and a pair of smaller tables supported little glass dishes of brightly colored wrapped candy.

Another woman appeared, this one middle aged with blonde shoulder length hair and brown eyes behind dark framed glasses, dressed in a tailored black business suit and sensible pumps, her hand extended, a smile on her round face.

“Ms. Forbes, I’m Jessica Weldon, Mr. Harm’s secretary. If you’ll follow me, please?”

Sheila trailed the other woman a little as they crossed back through the foyer and up a beautiful spiral staircase to the second floor. At the top, a long hall lead straight back, closed doors on either side as they moved along the polished wooden floor, the click of their heels muffled by a thick runner of muted floral and dark blue.

They went through an open door and into a large, bright office. Sheila noted a computer monitor glowing a deep blue on a workstation behind a smallish oak desk, littered with legal size manila folders. A multi-line phone, only slightly smaller than the console at the receptionist’s desk took up the right-hand corner. In a few steps, they arrived at another door on the opposite side of the office, this one closed.

Ms. Weldon rapped lightly with one hand as she turned the knob with the other, standing aside to let Sheila enter. The door swung quietly shut behind her.

Even by the standards of the rooms she’d seen, this one was huge and for a moment she had the odd sensation of having stumbled into the library of an elegant, wealthy gentleman from another time. Floor to ceiling bookcases, crammed almost to overflowing stood guard over a fireplace, the little brother of the one downstairs. French Windows lined the other wall, thin lace curtains fluttering slightly at an open pair. Beyond them, she glimpsed part of a terrace and a large, padded patio chair.

At her entrance, the man behind the massive dark oak desk stood up and she understood the scale of the room, the building itself.

C.A. Harm, President of Harm’s Way Security, stood at least six feet tall, she surmised, probably closer to six three or four. Late thirties, early forties she guessed with wavy, dark blonde hair that framed his face in a casual, windblown sort of way and deep, wide set, almost black eyes that studied her intently. She felt for a moment as if he were taking some kind of mental inventory of her.

A swimmer’s body she thought with an internal nod of approval. His neatly tailored charcoal suit settled snugly across his well proportioned shoulders, the jacket covering arms she could imagine that were well developed but not muscle bound. Neck like a steel cable but not thick and bulky, solid chest and flat stomach covered beneath his white business shirt and open jacket. Long legs that moved smoothly from behind his desk as he put out his hand.

Automatically she noted his bare left ring finger; not even a “cheater mark.” Another point in his rapidly growing list of “pros.”

“Ms. Forbes,” he greeted her in a warm, mellow tenor that for some strange reason made her think of church bells chiming. The feel of his firm hand against hers and the light in those eyes…

“Mr. Harm,” she managed as he guided her to a big saddle leather armchair in front of his desk.

“Can I get you something?” he asked pleasantly as he resumed his seat. Pointing at the large, plain white coffee mug just at his elbow, the smile became an almost boyish grin. “I’m afraid caffeine’s one of my more benign vices. I’ve got just about anything you could think of and a couple you probably never heard of.”

“No, thank you,” Sheila replied, momentarily captivated by the sound of his voice.

“Tea then? Soda? Water?”

“No, really I’m fine.”

He sighed and settled into his chair, the body still relaxed but the smile disappeared, replaced by a look that told her the pleasantries were finished and business had begun. A large hand flipped open the single folder on his desk.

“You told my secretary on the phone that you wanted to hire Harm’s Way to investigate a possible stalker and provide personal security until the problem could be resolved.”

“That’s right.” Surprised at the speed with which he’d changed gears but impressed too with his get-right-to-it manner, Sheila braced herself to begin.

Picking up a big gold pen, he poised it over the file.

“Do you have any idea who the stalker might be and why he’s made you his target?”

“Oh,” she squeaked, thoroughly surprised at the question, “I…I think you’ve misunderstood.”