The Burnt House

“You mean Ms. Pratt?”

“She seems a little humorless.” She drank the cup dry then moved on to the rest of the bottle. “Or maybe it’s just that WestAir has been under tremendous tension.”

“That’s for certain.”

Oliver joined in. “And when everyone gets testy, I bet I know who they take it out on.”

The blue-black eyes became wary. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“What’s your name?” Oliver asked.

“Henson.”

“Okay, Mr. Henson. I’m Detective Oliver and this is Detective Sergeant Dunn. Now we’re officially introduced.”

“Nice to meet you, but my first name is Henson. Henson Manning. My mother was a big Muppets fan and had a whacky sense of humor, ha ha.”

Poor kid, Oliver thought. Not only was he saddled with no muscle and bad acne, but he also had a weird name.

Marge gave him her most sincere smile. “Henson, thank you very much for the water. You’re the first smile we’ve seen all day.”

Henson nodded. “You polished that off pretty quickly. Can I get you another bottle?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Marge said. “But you look like you want to ask me something. Are you wondering why the police are here?”

Henson’s shrug was noncommittal, so Marge had to talk fast. “We’re looking for the work assignment schedule for a flight attendant named Roseanne Dresden. Supposedly, she was on flight 1324 but wasn’t is sued a ticket.”

Oliver added, “Any ideas?”

“Flight attendants aren’t issued tickets.”

Marge said, “She wasn’t officially working the flight but was en route to work in San Jose.”

Oliver said, “All we need is her work schedule and we’re out of WestAir’s life.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Insurance fraud,” Oliver lied.

“I thought you were from homicide,” Henson countered.

“Slow week for murder, we’re moonlighting,” Oliver said. “The point is we tried getting the paper faxed to us, but no one can seem to find Roseanne Dresden’s work schedule.”

“Or doesn’t want to find it,” Marge said. “Did you ever meet Roseanne?”

“No.”

“Shame. I hear she was a lovely person.”

He stood guard by the door, looking sideways as he talked to the detectives out of the corner of his mouth. “Company policy is that if anyone asks us about flight 1324, we should direct them to the special flight task force.” He dropped his voice. “Management doesn’t want any of us talking about it.”

“Lots of lawsuits, I bet,” Marge said.

The kid didn’t bite. “I’m sure the task force will find what you’re looking for.”

“I’m sure it could if they made it a priority,” Marge said. “But I don’t think they will.”

Oliver said, “Just too many other issues to worry about. Would you know who keeps the paperwork for job assignments?”

“Everything’s computerized here. I’m sure they could find it easily.”

“If they want to,” Marge said.

“I’ve got to go.” Henson crooked a thumb in the door’s direction. “Good luck.”

Nancy Pratt knocked into his shoulder as he left. “Ow.” She glared at the gofer. “Could you kindly watch where you’re going?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Pratt.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Henson Manning.”

“Well, now that you dislocated my shoulder, go get me water and an Advil.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Now, please.”

As he left, Nancy muttered “stupid kid,” but none too softly. Then she turned her attention to the detectives. “I’m sorry, but there’s no one on the task force that can help you at this time. I’ve brought in some forms. If you’ll fill them out, giving us a written request of precisely what you’re looking for, someone more knowledgeable than I will get back to you with some answers.”

Marge said, “Actually, all we need is written verification that Roseanne Dresden was assigned to work in San Jose and was on flight 1324. That shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but I can’t help you. You can fill out the forms and mail them back to us. I’ve enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope for your convenience.”

“That was thoughtful,” Oliver said.

Nancy took his words at face value even though the tone was snide. “We try our best.” She opened the door as wide as she could, almost smacking Henson in the face. “Well, you’re just everywhere, aren’t you.”

The young man looked mortified. “Here’s the water and the Advil.”

“Thank you.” She popped the pills in her mouth and swallowed, giving him back the paper cup. “Now could you be so kind as to show the detectives to the exit?” She smiled tightly at Marge and Oliver. “Sometimes when people are distracted, it’s hard to find.”

She departed in a huff, leaving them with Henson and the paper cup.

Marge whispered, “Cheer up. You’ll probably outlive her by a good thirty years.”

For the first time, Henson gave a genuine smile. “Do you need your parking validated?”