Death of the Office Witch by Marlys Millhiser

sororities or all of the above and that your dinner will be unique.”
    â€œNow that you mention it,” he said when the feast was set before them. “I don’t believe I have ever had Dom Perignon with macaroni and cheese before.”
    â€œThere was a bottle left over from a party we had last night.” She added quickly, in case he thought Libby was right and she really did like to cook, “Sort of a potluck with the neighbors … to celebrate.” Then, of course, she had to go into her work and the agency and the Alpine Tunnel project and the murder—wishing all the while she hadn’t started this in the first place.
    But Ed Esterhazie was flatteringly attentive. All Charlie knew about him was that he and his ex had split the children, Ed taking Doug and she taking a daughter. The ex had remarried and lived in Florida and Ed and Doug lived with a housekeeper in a house, worthy of Bel Air, a few blocks away. He traveled extensively, mostly for pleasure as far as she could tell. Anyway, he was not the macaroni and cheese type.
    She broke off finally with, “You know, actually you’re lucky? I make Libby cook dinner one night a week, and it’s almost always beanie wienies.”
    â€œWith ketchup?”
    â€œOf course with ketchup. You can’t eat beanie wienies without ketchup. But I do think we might be wise to make our own coffee.”
    When they carried their dirty dishes inside, the kids were in with the TV and didn’t even notice.
    â€œWhat’s that smell?” Ed asked.
    â€œJust rotten bananas,” Charlie assured him.
    â€œDon’t you ever pull a trick like that again,” Charlie rounded on her daughter when they were alone. “I’ll make my own social arrangements, thank you.” God, my life’s a sitcom.
    â€œNo you won’t. You don’t ever go out with guys. All you do is work and complain that I cost too much money. Do you know that Doug’s father belongs to the yacht club?”
    â€œI am not the yacht club type, and I like my work, Libby.”
    â€œHere I go to all that trouble and planning. I was just thinking of you. But do you appreciate it? Noooo.”
    â€œYeah, well you’ll notice who’s doing the dishes.” Charlie straightened from bending down in front of the dishwasher, wanting to take back that last remark but knowing it was too late. You didn’t get a second chance with Libby Greene. Charlie realized again and with that same little shock that Libby was taller than she was.
    By the time she reached the office the next morning, Charlie was still drained from the verbal knock-down-drag-out she and Libby had had the night before and the icy stone-cold silence of mutually hurt feelings instead of breakfast.
    Libby had finally come up with the ultimate weapon … well no, that would have been, “Guess what, Mom, I’m pregnant.” What she had come up with was a new euphemism for Charlie, “UM.” It stood for unwed mother.
    Charlie’s mood was foul. Maurice Lavender was fortunate not to share the elevator and his friendliness with her on this morning, and Lieutenant Dalrymple was lucky he wasn’t lurking outside the public door with a breakfast invitation. There were already five or six manila envelopes leaning against the door, and an intense young man with a juvenile mustache and sparsely bristled chin lurking near the public restrooms at the end of the hall. He did not look like a reporter.
    He started toward her as she pressed the buzzer. She was frantically searching her purse for the card that would gain her entrance when the Vance asked who was there.
    â€œIt’s Charlie, and I’m being followed.” The latch clicked open and she slipped inside but then couldn’t close the door behind her because there was a boot in it. Charlie shrugged an apology to Irma and raced to the back corridor to her office while the formidable executive