‘You didn’t hear me come in. You didn’t hear me calling your name.’
‘Sorry,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘Must’ve been daydream ing.’
Millie winced. Probably because she thought Charlotte had been spending a little too much time in that state of late.
‘What’s up?’ said Charlotte, determined to forestall any actual complaint about her not entirely firm hold on reality.
Millie hesitated. Millie fidgeted. Millie was not in a good place right now and Charlotte didn’t quite know why. Time to ask Millie what was wrong and see if there was any way in which she could help. Good friend, Charlotte. Good friend.
‘Don’t kill me,’ said Mille anxiously.
‘O-kay,’ said Charlotte carefully. Not quite the response she’d been expecting.
‘I was only trying to help,’ said Millie next.
‘And?’
‘And I emailed the Research Institute in PNG to see if they had a photo of Gil anywhere that they could send to you. A memento. Something tangible for you to remember him by. I, ah, signed it in your name.’
‘And?’ said Charlotte, with an impending sense of doom.
‘And his secretary wrote back and said she’d see what she could find and was it okay to send everything to your university address. To which I said yes.’
‘And?’
‘And there’s a huge packing box downstairs, addressed to you from PNG. I think it might be Gil’s effects.’
Charlotte blinked. ‘His … effects?’
Millie nodded. ‘I swear all I asked for was a photo. I never once implied that you were his next of kin or that you wanted all his stuff. I mean, he does have other family, right? Parents and so forth.’
‘Right,’ said Charlotte faintly.
‘And you know how to contact them, right?’
‘Er … right.’
‘So, do you want the box up here or in your car? At the moment it’s sitting by the stairs on the ground floor.’
Charlotte blinked again. ‘I think I need to see it.’ Hopefully the trip down two flights of stairs would give her time to think.
A dozen flights of stairs would have been better.
All too soon, Charlotte and Millie stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at a large removalist box with her name and university address on it. A nervous giggle escaped Charlotte. She countered by putting one hand to her mouth and the other hand to her elbow. The Standing Thinker pose.
‘So …’ said Millie. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘I’m thinking we take it upstairs for now,’ Charlotte muttered finally. ‘I may need to send it … on.’
There was no lift in the building.
‘I’ll get a trolley,’ said Millie. ‘And Derek.’
‘Thanks,’ murmured Charlotte, still staring at the box.
They got the box upstairs and into Charlotte’s office eventually. Neither Millie nor Derek seemed of a mind to linger. They fled.
Charlotte tried ignoring the box, at first. That didn’t go well.
The compulsion to open the box and find out exactly what the good souls at the PNG Research Institute had seen fit to send her took control. A pair of office scissors later and the flaps on top of the box sprung open. Tentatively, Charlotte folded them back.
The first thing she saw was a man’s collared business shirt, the really expensive wash-n-wear kind of dress shirt that didn’t need ironing and always looked fabulous. Size: Large. Colour: Ivory. A hat came next, an honest to God, Indiana Jones-style Akubra that looked as if it had been trampled by a herd of elephants and then dragged through a river backwards. Well-worn jeans came next, the kind that had earned their faded knees and ragged hems the old-fashioned way. Then some scuffed leather walking boots and thick socks. No other smalls whatsoever. Commando Indy.
Books came next, an extensive library of botany books and journals. Then came file upon file of research papers in haphazard order. A laptop had been tucked in between them. There was a round wall clock that still worked but told the wrong time. A handful of USB storage devices had been sealed inside an envelope. She unearthed a plastic takeaway container full of the stuff one might find in an office drawer. There were no photos.
The last thing she pulled from the box was a door tag with the name Dr G Tyler printed on it, the lettering no-nonsense black on a white background. A similar contraption graced her own door, and almost every other door in this building.
Charlotte stood back, ran unsteady hands through already wayward curls and surveyed the items strewn around her. She didn’t need to be an archaeologist to know what she had here.
Heaven help her, they’d sent her someone’s office.
The first thing to do was not panic.
So what if Dr G Tyler was going to be mighty unhappy when he discovered that his research wasn’t where he left it? That someone had packed up the contents of his office and shipped it off to … her? Belongings could be returned. Repacked and returned to sender with a brief note of apology for the confusion. Email! His computer would have his email address on it. She could send him an email and let him know that his office was on its way back to him. Of course, said email might not be received by him given that she also had his laptop, but surely the man would be accessing his emails from another computer. He’d be doing that, surely?
Unless the man was dead.
‘I did not wish you dead,’ she muttered. ‘Please don’t be dead. You’ll get your stuff back, I promise. Or if you do happen to be dead, I’ll make sure this gets to your family.’ Only … what if he had a wife? Children! ‘I’ll explain everything,’ she said fervently. No way would she allow G Tyler to emerge from this mess with a reputation as a cheating, lying husband with a mistress on the side. ‘I will come clean.’
I promise.
Greyson Tyler wasn’t an unreasonable man. He understood what it took to get scientific research done in remote locations. He tolerated inefficiency in others, applied leeway when needed, and pressure when needed too. He took his time, worked his way calmly and methodically through the red tape associated with such endeavours, and eventually he got his way. He always got his way, eventually, and he always got results.
He’d known he was tempting fate when he’d boxed his office effects up, ready to ship back to Australia, and hadn’t personally delivered the box into the hands of the freight carrier. He’d thought twice before leaving that task up to Mariah, the latest in a long line of temporary secretaries. Mariah had potential. She might even make a halfway decent administrative assistant one day. Presuming, of course, that she mastered the art of punctuality.
He’d left her a note with the name of the freight company he wanted to use. He’d left ‘Please Send To’ details right there on her desk. He’d set his misgivings aside and departed on his final field trip up-river without talking Mariah through the process.
Bad move.
She had used the freight company he’d recommended, that was something.
But she swore blue that she’d never seen the mailing address Grey had left for her, so when the email from his fiancée had come in—asking for a photo of him—and said fiancée had also been agreeable to Mariah sending the rest of his things her way, well … Problem solved.
A chain of events that showed initiative and even sounded halfway reasonable, except for one small anomaly.
He