Doggone Murder: A Sissy and Miss Boo Mystery by Nancy Smith Gibson

Author:Nancy Smith Gibson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781952579059
Publisher: Cozy Cat Press
Published: 2020-05-28T07:18:59.036000+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

When we returned to the office, there were more people stirring around, more phone conversations going on, more noise. Carly took me back to the desk that guarded Gene Hoskins’ office. “The real boss of the office is here,” she told me. “Let me introduce you to her.”

“Ms. Frewer,” Carly said, “I’d like you to meet Cecilia Townley. She’ll be my replacement when I go out on leave.”

The woman sitting there sorting papers into stacks was probably in her fifties, with gray hair pulled back into a twist. She could have looked severe, mean even, with no makeup and her glasses perched on the end of her nose, but then she smiled. I smiled back, and I got the idea right off that we were going to be friends. If I didn’t mess up, that is. Time would tell.

“Gene told me he’d hired someone. I looked over your resume, Cecelia. It looks like you’re well prepared for the job. Welcome,” she said.

“My Aunt Doris was who sent her over to apply,” Carly said. “I reckon she wouldn’t do that if she didn’t think Sissy would be right for the job.”

“I imagine you’re correct about that,” Ms Frewer said, then asked, “Would you rather be called Cecelia or Sissy here in the office?”

“Sissy, please ma’am.”

“Then Sissy it is. Unless, of course, you have something published under your byline. If that happens, you’ll need to decide which name to use and stick with it.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be thinking on it,” I said. She surprised me with the thought there was a possibility of being published, with or without a byline.

All afternoon people came in and out. The photographer, assistants for various editors, and the public. There were lots of people leaving messages and notes. There was a basket just for those, and when we returned from lunch, it had a bunch of pieces of paper in it. “Don’t these people know about email?” I asked Carly.

“No. The people walking in here—most of them don’t have computers, or else they don’t trust them, or else they think someone can steal their information if they don’t give it in person,” Carly said. “And, if you think about it, leaving a message this way is almost anonymous, but an email usually can be traced back to who sent it, or at least the computer it came from.”

I’d have to sort it out later, who worked at the paper and who were customers. Who got the hand-written messages? Was a note stating “Plaza Suite, 2 p.m. Sunday,” an invitation to hanky-panky, a party, or an announcement about the theater group’s latest play? By the time the work day ended, my brain was full of lots of names and information to sort out. It wasn’t that different than what I did at the Grove Gazette, it was just happening with people I wasn’t acquainted with. I was glad Carly was going to be working another couple of weeks. I could have handled it without her, but everything would run smoother with her and her expertise helping me for a few days yet.

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