The Secret World of Ophelia Fontaine

Part One - A simple assignment

Darien St. Clare did not enjoy being called into the offices of men who felt the world should revolve around them. The tasks that they expected to be accomplished were usually the ones that landed men like him in jail or in an early grave. But the promise of a fortune that could help him escape the retribution of his latest gambling spree was enough to at least tickle his interest.

He would listen to that man's plight, consider the pros and cons of the dilemma, and should it prove too impossible, he always retained the option of simply refusing the job. If her were honest with himself, he would take into account that his need of quick cash was far more persuasive than anything his potential employer could say. The only determining fact was whether or not the job would absolve his debts with a healthy pay day or a bullet in his back. In this business, trust was never a factor.

While he waited to be called into the office, he occupied his restless mind by studying the woman sitting at the receptionist desk. She wore thick plastic framed glasses that covered nearly half of her heart shaped faced. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in tight ballerina bun that gave her an unapproachable and stern appearance. She nervously chewed on her full bottom lip as she gawked at whatever she studied on her computer scream. If not for her unflattering attire and nervous energy, she could have been considered pretty.

The phone at her desk rang, causing the woman to jump. She quickly pounced on it and brought the receiver to her ear. She said no greeting to the caller, but instead only listened to what was being said; the faint muffle of a masculine voice reaching Darien's adept ears. She gave a sharp response, put down the receiver, and returned her attention to her computer screen.

"Mr. Brackenridge is ready for you," she said after letting several seconds pass. "You may let yourself in."

Always compliant, Darien unfurled from his seat and traipsed across the small room to the door opposite of her desk. He opened the door and stepped into the office of the CEO of Granger Technology Corporation. The office was the epitome of modernity. The furniture was smooth and cold, offering no promise of comfort, unlike the sitting room he had just departed. The walls were a crisp white, the tables were made of glass, and the Varier Peel chairs, fashioned after an orange peel, bore white upholstery. Even the bookshelves beyond the desk were made of cool glass. The ice palace of an office understandably sent a chill down Darien's spine.

The white haired man that worked behind the transparent desk tapped away on his keyboard for two or three more seconds before acknowledging his visitor.

He stood briefly, indicating the matching peel chairs before his desk. "Have a seat, Mr. St. Clare."

Darien carefully slid into the unique chair, fearful that, if not cautious, he may fall through its gaping back. "You wished to discuss a possible job, Mr. Brackenridge?"

After retrieving a paper from his printer, the man gave Darien his full attention. "Yes, I did. You know that my company is the foremost producer of technological advancement in the United States, yes?"

Darien shrugged, silently damning the chair for preventing him from reclining in his characteristic nonchalant manner. "Something of that nature, I presume. I tend to be a bit more old school."

Mr. Brackenridge nodded, folding his arms on the edge of his desk and leaning on them. "That is exactly why we sought you out. It seems that we may have a leak within our company, something akin to corporate espionage. Trade secrets have found their way into the hands of our competitors."

"And you wish for me to fox them out?" Darien propped his elbows on his knees, avoiding as much of his odd chair as he could.

"Not precisely." The man thrust the freshly printed paper beneath Darien's nose. It was a brief employee dossier. The picture clear and surprising.

"The receptionist?" Darien asked, picking up the profile and studying its contents. "She seems harmless enough."

"Our thoughts exactly when we hired her, but I am afraid that such a judgment may have cost us millions in information," said Brackenridge, his brow furrowing. "Her name, as you can see, is Ophelia Fontaine. She was hired two years ago and has proven herself to be a great asset."

"Which all directs you to believe that she is sabotaging your company?" Darien asked, eyeing the man suspiciously. Usually a job well done got a person a pat on the back, not viewed as a potential spy for competing companies.

"I know what it is you are thinking, Mr. St. Clare, but I can assure you that our suspicions are not unfounded. We have investigated within our company to determine who the culprit could be and have come to realize that Miss Fontaine has more to hide than her mousy exterior may imply."

The word culprit did not seem a fitting description for the diffident woman that sat behind the unorganized oak desk just outside the office. She did not blend in with the fashionably attired staff of Granger, thus making herself stick out like a sore thumb. Her frightful demeanor assured her isolation rather than inclusion. How could someone of her ilk possibly hope to gain the kind of information that would potentially destroy the financial future of a corporation as large as Granger? Miss Fontaine could not seduce a pencil, much less any man privy to trade secrets.

"How so?" he asked, eyeing the middle aged CEO sitting across the desk from him.

"Well, for one thing, she knows more about Granger than anyone else since she literally sits in the middle of everything. Being my secretary, she is present at all meetings to dictate and is privy to all of my ingoing and outgoing messages. She also has a strange neurosis when it comes to walls. She will not touch them. One of our employees witnesses an occurrence where Miss Fontaine purposely fell, when all she had to do was brace herself against the wall to steady herself. My onsite psychologist informs me that such a phobia is actually not as uncommon as one would think, but in my experience it is not wise to dismiss such a profound abnormality." Mr. Brackenridge finished explaining the conjecture his so called internal investigation had compiled with a triumphant grin. The man had no idea that the drivel he had just spilled was guess work at its worse.

"So, what is it that you want from me?" Darien asked pensively.

Mr. Brackenridge leaned forward a bit more, as if afraid she may hear him. "The board and I would like for you to follow her. You are a private investigator, right? That is what you do, after all."

Darien considered this. "Follow her, huh? For how long?"

"For as long as it takes. Report back to me by the end of the week with your findings," Mr. Brackenridge demanded, leaning back in his chair. "Should she prove harmless, then you will be paid for services rendered, and we will move on from there. But if you should discover anything out of the ordinary, then, well, we will take what you give us and proceed as needed."

Darien nodded his agreement, folding the piece of paper and tucking it away in his corduroy jacket. Sounded simple enough.