That embarrassing interruption weeks before, catching me shirtless in my office, did Miss Teasdale catch a glimpse of my tattoo?
I curse myself. It is Elsa playing games. I told her of the encounter. I am sure she expected the end of this little amusement to be my retrieving the tag and shrugging off the oddly colored patch of paper thus putting the hound off the scent.
But instead Miss Teasdale’s curiosity is too piqued.
“I have no idea. But if you don’t know the sender you’re best to destroy it. Remember there can be problems with kooks sending stuff through the mail,” subtly referencing the anthrax terror of years before.
“If that’s the case, the harm is already done,” turning to depart, “and it is best neither you nor anyone else touch it.”
That brings some relief. Should she show
