Chapter One

Ms. Bebe Simmons

Bebe Simmons paused on the sidewalk and stared up at the heavy glass doors. The very heavy glass doors. Even after more than fifteen years of passing through them, they were still formidable. She so longed for a simple employee entrance around the back, one that offered easier access from the parking area.

Her gaze fixed on the bright process blue of The Workflow Editorial Initiative logo and she scowled. “Bloody Monday,” she muttered, mounting the two wide steps to reach the doors.

Her Monday morning had been an aggravating one, beginning with a frayed seam in a favorite blouse. Later, a bread-eating toaster caused her to momentarily misplace her keys, then completely forget her favorite e-reader, waiting patiently on the kitchen counter.

Now this door. Of course, she realized that, for security reasons, this needed to be the only ingress to the building and oh, sure, fire codes dictated the many exits that were available, but they only provided escape, not entry. Ridiculous.

Shifting the strap of her briefcase closer to her neck, she passed her cup of coffee to her left hand, freeing her right hand, and the card key, to tackle the door. Her sunglasses naturally chose that moment to slip from their perch on her head, and instead of opening the door as intended, she was forced to catch the sunglasses with that free hand. Placing the end of a temple piece between her teeth, she finally tapped her card key onto the reader then grasped the door handle and tugged. Even one side of the double doors was hefty and though she was tall enough at sixty-six inches, she didn’t weigh all that much, so she only made a wide enough slit to slip through. Once safely in the entryway, she paused, dropped her card key into the front pocket of her briefcase, and smoothed the blazer collar that had been mussed by the strap.

Bebe noted that the outer door hadn’t been key-locked, which meant that receptionist Ada Lawrence, had already arrived. Which meant small talk. Socializing. Bebe sighed. Not her favorite thing. She much preferred the written word and all the magic that those dark glyphs brought to her psyche. Although she knew, intellectually, that humans were supposed to be social creatures, tribal even, being so never seemed to work for her. It wasn’t fear exactly, only that she found socializing with others to be a nuisance, something that took her away from the written pages that were her passion.

“Oh, honey, I woulda helped you with that mean old door. Why didn’t you push the buzzer to let me know you were out there?” Ada was eyeing her quizzically. She stood, as usual, behind the black half-moon of the counter in the reception area. The TWEI logo was centered on the face of the counter and each end of the half-moon had a crystal vase filled with clear gel beads and fresh flowers. Ada had gone with creamy white Easter lilies as they were just about to step into the month of April.

Bebe smiled and took the sunglasses from between her teeth so she could reply. “Well, seemed to me that freeing a finger to press the buzzer would be just as good as opening the door. Besides, you have enough to do.”

Ada laughed and ran her fingers through her short mop of graying curls, a process that lasted long enough that Bebe was mesmerized. Obviously, the receptionist was making sure her hair was air-drying properly, each curl exactly where it belonged. She was one woman who made sure she was dressed to the nines every day, with the appropriate cosmetics to match.

To the nines. Now that was an interesting phrase. Some people thought that it originated with a British military regiment called The Nines, which in the 1850s was renowned for their smart appearance. Bebe, in her readings, had discovered that the phrase was actually used in the 1830s. The first recorded use, however, was as to the nines, a phrase from the 1700s. Later, to the nines and dressed to the nines were both used to indicate a perfect appearance.

“Barbara? Are you okay? You kinda drifted away there for a minute.” Ada was studying her with a deeply concerned, motherly expression in her dull blue eyes.

Bebe grinned quickly to set Ada’s concern aside. “You know me, Ada. Just woolgathering.”

Ada shook her head and waved one hand, the metal-flake pink nail polish reflecting the bright morning sunlight blazing in through the glass wall of the entryway. “Oh, Lord, child. Don’t I know all about that. My Paulie says I’m a complete airhead most days, off in my own little world.”

“Hmm, between you me and the wall, sometimes our own little world beats the heck out of the real world,” Bebe responded archly.

“You got that right. I think our United States government has plumb done lost its mind, if you ask me.”

She moved from behind the reception desk, her short rectangular body seemingly propelled on wheels instead of plump, stubby legs.

“Let me get the elevator for you, at least,” she said sweetly, pausing at the elevator doors and pressing the call button. The machine whirred to life as Bebe moved closer. She waited, sipping her coffee. She was trying to remember the name of Ada’s son. She knew society’s mores dictated that she ask after him. She gave up trying to remember.

“So, your boy? He’s doing well?”

“Silas?” Ada looked as though a lamp behind her face had been switched on. “Oh, he’s doing great. Suzy, too.”

“And that grandbaby?”

The elevator doors swished open with a loud ding of arrival and Bebe braced them open with her foot. She watched Ada expectantly. She didn’t have to wait long.

“I swear that sweet baby girl gains a pound every couple days,” Ada said, beaming proudly. “Suzy must produce some good, rich milk.”

Bebe hated that the childhood obesity statistics from last month’s Glucose, The Journal of Note were the first thought that popped into her mind. She stepped into the elevator. “Well, you enjoy that baby and keep her healthy.”

The doors closed and Bebe finally allowed relief to flow across her. She leaned her back against the cool elevator car wall and sighed. Alone at last.