The Wedding Dress Mess       Who in their right mind would have offices down here?        Vicky Deidrich, Senior Adjuster for the Denver, Colorado branch of Global Fidelity Mutual Insurance Company contemplated that question as she prowled the dark underbelly of the Horace Whitfield Museum on very uncertain credentials in search of an elusive claimant.       And feeling just a tad jumpy about it too.  She stopped for a second, giving her tired feet a rest from the beating they were talking from the concrete floor and looked down at the purloined list in her hand.  There it was.  Dr. Duncan Mulcahey, Room B-33.  This was the place all right.        It figured. The upstairs of the museum was so cheerful and airy, especially now with the colorful Valentine’s Day display, but the man she was hunting chose to work in the dungeon.  Just her luck these days.       She slipped the employee list back into a pocket on the outside of her briefcase and was about to move on when approaching  footsteps sent her into a panic.  The "Guest/No Escort Required badge clipped to her lapel didn’t give her license to be in the basement, so she flattened her body behind a particularly spider-webby concrete post and waited for the person to pass.  In the dim light cast by the bare overhead bulbs, she saw a man rushing toward her with his head cast down.  He passed quickly, hurrying in the direction of the stairwell so fast she only caught a few quick impression.  A forward leaning, perpetually rushed demeanor, a small half-moon-shaped birthmark on the jawline, a jutting, hawklike nose.        Then he was gone.        Vicky let out a disgusted sound.  Why, that could have been the very man she’d come to see!  Ida had been right about her after all.  She lacked daring.  Nerve.  Guts.  And whatever else it took to get a claim form signed.  Good heavens, she didn’t deserve that promotion.  Didn’t deserve it at all.       Reminding herself that self-abasement wasn’t helpful, she brushed a lingering web off her Evan Picone jacket with just a minor shudder, and decided her only course of action was to keep searching for Dr. Mulcahey’s office.        She marched ahead purposefully, looking left, looking right in search of an office door.  Her footsteps echoed dangerously off the dank walls, adding to her jitters, but also providing her with sullen satisfaction as she countered Ida’s accusations in tune with each angry tap of her heels.        Click, click. Lacks initiative. . .  Grossly untrue!       Click, click, click.  And daring.  True, but grossly unfair!       Click, click, click, click.  Must take more risks.       Her boss had followed this with some gobbledy-gook about Vicky being too respectful of authority and needing too much direction.  Fine qualities for an adjuster, she’d added, but not necessarily for an investigator.  If Vicky wanted that promotion she had to become more forceful, develop guile.  She had to bend the rules sometimes.  And the still-open Whitfield wedding dress case was an example of how she’d failed to display these traits.       Vicky liked her boss most of the time, but Ida had taken qualities she thought were assets and turned them into liabilities.  Level-headed and steady, that’s how Vicky viewed herself, and until this last Monday morning she’d been proud of it.  But then, she’d also thought the promotion was in the bag.       Wrong.  Not unless she got the claim signed this week.        Well, she’d been by the museum so often this week that guy at the reception desk greeted her by name even as he politely denied her access to the director.  Here it was Friday already, and she still hadn’t gotten in to see Dr. Mulcahey.       This unfortunate fact had driven her to a desperate act.       Poor Greg.  The image of his worried face when she’d spilled the contents of her briefcase on his reception desk still haunted her.  If anyone discovered she’d used that staged accident to sweep up a guest identification badge and the employee name list, he’d be in big trouble.     She guess she’d shown initiative and daring, all right, and it definitely didn’t seem like the real her.  Instead of feeling good about it, she had a swirling sensation in her stomach, as if she’d just cross a line and now there was no turning back.       This promotion meant everything to her.  While she was reasonably certain it didn’t rest on closing this single, insignificant claim, it sure seemed like it.  In fact, she was almost convinced if she failed today she’d be throwing her whole career into the dumpster.        This thought spurred her to picked up her pace.  She winced each time a foot struck the floor, and tried to ignore the pain by again taking solace from the sound.       Click, click, click.  Forceful and daring.       Click, click, click.  Daring and forceful.       Yes, that was her.  Daring and forceful, forceful and daring.  Wasn’t it?        Of course it was.       Crossing her fingers, she ordered her feet to move even faster.  The day wasn’t over yet.  And she sure wasn’t about to let some high-blown intellectual who thought he was too important to take care of business stand in the way of her hard-earned promotion.  * * *       Where the hell was that letter?       Duncan Mulcahey tore though the folders in his desk file drawer yet another time, although he had no real hope of finding the document in question. A single sheet, that’s all, and he just knew he’d filed it in this drawer.  So why wasn’t it there?       Not surprisingly, he still didn’t find the letter.  Frustrated, he slammed the drawer closed.  He’d checked everywhere, even under his computer and monitor.  And the stray papers jutting from the closed drawers of his filing cabinets were testimony to his hasty, but thorough, search.        He found himself irrationally angry at Horace Whitfield for dying so inconveniently last summer.  If the old man were still alive, this current misery wouldn’t exist.  Horace’s heirs wouldn’t have sold the museum to Calwood Entertainment Ltd.--a soulless corporation if he’d ever come across one--and Duncan wouldn’t have been forced to take the acting director position just to make sure Alistair Shields didn’t get the job and destroy everything he and Horace had built.        Speaking of Shields.  The man had stormed in and out of here like a dust devil, evidenced by the pink message slips scattered across Duncan’s roll-top desk like giant confetti.  He wearily collected them into a haphazard stack, then absently slipped them under the shrunken head he used as a paperweight.  He had no need to thumb through them.  The messages were identical–-all twenty-something of them–-and came from the same person, a Vicky Deidrich from Global Fidelity Insurance.        Get this claim settled, Shields had demanded, as if Duncan worked for him instead of the other way around.  Well, he’d be damned if he’d add insurance fraud to the possible charges he might end up facing.        The missing wedding dress was causing him more heartache than Shields, Calwood, this paper-pushing job, and a whole tribe of headhunters put together. And now Meg was up in arms because he refused to let her wear it during the reception.       He was bone tired, and he put his elbows on the desk, then rested his head on his hands.  The almost back-to-back trips he’d taken over the last month and a half had given him a serious case of jet lag.  He needed a breather, but there wasn’t time.  He’d just received an urgent call from the Colorado historical society alerting him of a historic house in Idaho Springs about to be demolished.  Several calls later, he’d gotten the demolition company to agree to halt work for the day so he could examine the site.  He’d better get himself in gear.       Three more days, he told himself, only three more days.    It would be over Monday.  All he had to do until then was avoid the insurance adjuster, and since he’d be in Idaho Springs most of the day, that shouldn’t be too hard.       Evasion wasn’t his preference, but, then again, the situation wasn’t a matter of choice.  After all, no Irish son worth his salt turned in his own sainted mother for grand theft.        With a heavy sigh he reached for his hat, preparing to leave the building.  Just then he heard his door open.  Only one person he knew entered his office without knocking, and the man had already done it once today.  Duncan wasn’t about to let him get away with it a second time.  Getting a firm hold on his anger, he slowly swiveled his chair around and found himself staring into the face of an angel.  * * *       The instant Vicky met those scowling electric blue eyes her heart skipped a bit.  Her stomach tumbled.  She found herself unable to speak.       Good heavens.  Was she awestruck about meeting this famous archeologist and anthropologist?        No denying it was a possibility.       She’d been attending night school at Metropolitan State in Denver for several years, studying art, antiquities, and insurance law in preparation for her promotion.  She’d read his textbook and had even tried to get into one of his infrequent seminars.  What’s more, the tales of his exploits had always intrigued her, even though she regarded them with a degree of skepticism.        Had he really wrestled a crocodile in the Ganges River?       No, she didn't think the Ganges had crocodiles, maybe it was an alligator.  Regardless, the story definitely included a large body of water and a dangerous reptile.       She shook her head.  For heavens sake, she only needed his signature on a routine claims form.  This wasn't a job interview,  the doctor wasn't actually a celebrity, and she really did need her voice back.        "D-Dr. M-Mulcahey?" she finally stammered.       Sometime during the long silent space his scowl transformed to a quizzical expression.  Now he tilted back a soft wide-brimmed hat banded by something snaky and regarded her with curiosity.      "Visitors aren't allowed in the basement, miss.”  His rhythmic voice made the mundane information sound like something spoken by the bard. “Can I show you the way out?"        He stood up, as if offering to guide her, reaching an impressive height that again struck her mute.       Whenever she’d heard Duncan Mulcahey spoken of, two images  came to mind, both of older men.  One was stoop-shouldered, wearing a soft gray sweater perhaps.  Balding, glasses maybe, but very scholarly.  The other image was grizzle-faced from hours under the hot sun in the Australian Outback or Sahara Desert, possibly in fatigues and a safari helmet.  And much more likely to wrestle crocodiles.       This man was definitely not scholarly or grizzle-faced.  Nor was he older.  Close to her age--thirty-five at the most--he was tall, straight-backed, and had a strong, square chin and cheekbones to die for.  His deep tan emphasized a narrow white scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek and gave him a slightly dangerous look.        An open leather vest revealing a soft blue shirt fell to his waist, and Vicky's eyes dropped lower, taking in his slim hips in their tight jeans.  Trying to convince herself she hadn't really paused there, she hastily lifted her head, scanning his broad shoulders on the way up.        "H-Haven't you r-received my messages," she squeaked, wanting to sound authoritative and knowing she’d failed. "I've been trying to meet with you all week."        She opened her briefcase for the folder containing the wedding dress claim.  When he still had said nothing by the time she closed her, she paused, staring up at him. "You are Dr. Duncan Mulcahey?"       "Yes.  And you are . . .?"       With a nervous laugh, she stuck out her hand.  "My apologies . . . Vicky Deidrich.  I’m an insurance adjuster from Global Fidelity Mutual Insurance Company."  His handshake felt warm and personal and made her uneasy and she let go quickly. “Apparently you didn’t receive my messages."        "Messages?"       "The Irish wedding gown . . ."       "You!  Global Fidelity!  The gown!  " He snapped his fingers.  "Sorry if it looks like I’ve been putting you off.  It's only . . . I, umm, I just returned from the Peru -- discovered some magnificent Incan ceremonial ear pieces and a . . ."  He drew his black eyebrows together momentarily.  "But I suppose I'm boring you.  What is it you need?"        "Your signature, Dr. Mulcahey.  Now that I've caught up with you, if you'd just give me a few minutes of your time and sign these forms, I'll be on my way."       "My signature . . .?"  He lifted a hand and idly rolled the brim of his soft leather hat.  "I was going out.  An important site is under the wrecking ball and . . .  Can't we do this another day?  Monday maybe?  Yes, that would be good.  Monday afternoon."       "I've been by dozens of times, and phoned dozens more."        "Have you now?  You're to be commended for your persistence."       Somehow Vicky didn't feel as if she’d been complimented, and not knowing what else to say, she simply stared at him.  Another silence hung heavy in the air.  His excuse for not returning her calls sounded lame.  Very lame.  Was something funny going on?        Of course not.  She was getting carried away again.  Her enthusiasm gave her a tendency to see insurance fraud at the slightest turn.  But what if she were right?  What if she discovered the doctor was involved in something underhanded?  Vicky’s heart leaped excitedly.        My oh my, wouldn’t that give her career the boost it needed? From The Wedding Dress Mess Copyright 2000 © by Constance K. Flynn. All Rights Reserved.