Remington Steele signed the last report and placed it into the file. Closing the folder, he smiled in relief, placing it on top of the others. Paperwork was something he hated almost as much as legwork. But with things as they were…
He sat back and put his feet up, content to laze about for a moment, to have a chance to reflect, to think about the matter at hand. The door to his office opened and Mildred Krebs entered, her arms laden with yet another stack of folders.
"Ah, Mildred, no more, please!" he begged. "My fingers are worn to the nub as it is. And at this rate, I'm going to have to set up an appointment with an optometrist to get glasses-"
"Sorry, Chief," she apologized, placing the folders on the right side of his desk. "But the case files HAVE to be updated before the end of the month. Miss Holt usually does it, but, since she's always out these days-"
"Hmm," Remington murmured sourly. "Becoming quite the little homemaker, our Miss Holt, wouldn't you say, Mildred?"
"You're telling me," Mildred confirmed with a nervous laugh. "Abigail told me that she called this morning asking for her recipe for peanut butter cookies. I thought Miss Holt didn't like to cook."
"Oh, she doesn't MIND cooking, precisely," Remington corrected. "It's just that she's not very good at it. Tends to leave things out of the mix. She'll probably forget the peanut butter," he muttered. "And when did you talk to Laura's mother?"
"This morning. She and I kinda- keep in touch. She's worried about Miss Holt, Mr. Steele."
"As are we all," Remington sighed, picking up a folder from the new stack.
"What are we going to do, Boss?" Mildred asked.
"I wish I knew, Mildred. I'm not sure what else I CAN do to make her snap out of this ultra-amenable mood that she's been in since her father's death. 'Kindler and gentler' is one thing. Loosing all interest in the agency and becoming a doormat is another thing entirely."
"She hasn't lost ALL interest," Mildred insisted. "She still comes in-"
Remington pinned her with his blue gaze. "Mildred, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of days she's been here more than four hours at a stretch during the last month. Suddenly she's caught up in becoming a clone of her mother. It's almost frightening."
"I'm sure she'll snap out of it eventually, Mr. Steele. She just needs time. It's only been a month. Besides, it's gotten you and she -closer, hasn't it?"
"Has it?" Remington responded with a question of his own.
"She asked me to call an agent about subletting her loft," Mildred told him. "I just figured that meant that you and she were going to be sharing your place-"
"Bloody hell," Remington sighed, tossing the folder onto the desk as he rose from his chair. "We discussed it, yes, but nothing was decided-"
"HOW was it discussed?" Mildred asked him.
"Well, she asked me if I wanted her to move into the condo, I said that it would save time-but that it was HER decision."
"Guess she decided." Remington shoved his hands into his pockets as he looked out of the window. While he and Laura had finally crossed that invisible line into a physical relationship, there was something missing. The passion which had always made Laura the woman he adored was muted almost into nonexistence by her unceasing agreement to anything and everything he suggested. All he had to do was MENTION something, and she'd see that it was done. She had even agreed to the long awaited trip to Hawaii before Remington had convinced her that it wasn't the time for them to go anywhere. "You don't look too happy, Chief." Mildred's observation brought him back to the office.
"It's like living with one of the 'Stepford Wives', Mildred," her told her. "Do you know that she hasn't raised her voice ONCE since her father died? Not even when I bought her that diamond bracelet and charged it to the agency. I almost expect her to have my pipe and slippers waiting at the door when I get home at night!" he declared.
The telephone rang, distracting them. Remington stood at the window as Mildred answered. "Remington Steele Investigations. . .Miss Holt." He turned to look at the receptionist. "Uh- well, yes, I…Are you sure you didn't leave something out? Peanut butter cookies are pretty easy…" Remington shook his head in disbelief. "Uh-huh," Mildred was saying, nodding into the phone. "That's right… what about the peanut butter?" she asked, smiling. Remington sat down heavily in his chair. "Well, that explains that, then, doesn't it?…Knitting? I'm sorry, but no. I've never learned how…oh. I misunderstood…Yes, I'm sure Mr. Steele would LOVE it if you were to knit him some socks…" Remington shook his head again, burying his face in his hands. "Just a minute…He was busy signing the monthly reports." She put the line on "hold". "She wants to talk to you, Chief."
"Wonderful," he sighed. Taking the telephone from her, he pushed the button. "Laura. What a surprise. Managed to tear yourself away from General Hospital, eh?" He frowned at Mildred's soft laugh. The woman picked up the first stack of folders and exited his office.
"Oh, darn," Laura said, and he could see her glancing at the clock. "I missed it again."
"You know, I could use your help here with these reports, Laura- you know how much I hate doing paperwork. Do you have any idea how much paper cuts hurt?" he asked.
"I'll kiss it and make it all better when you get home," she promised. "If you really need me up there, I can come in. But I have to fix dinner-"
"Why don't you come to the office and help me with these, then we can go out to dinner?" he suggested quickly, before the thought of another of Laura's "dinners" could turn his stomach. "I think I can get a reservation at Che Rive."
"If that's what you'd rather do, okay. I'll be there as soon as I clean up around here."
"Clean up?"
"I made a surprise for you- or, rather, I TRIED to. The kitchen's in just a BIT of a mess, I'm afraid." Remington's fingers tightened on the phone as he imagined his usually spotless counters covered with dirty bowls and baking sheets, flour everywhere. "But don't worry. I'll have it all cleaned up-"
"That's okay. We'll do it later. Right now, I really need you here, Laura."
"I'm on my way," she told him. "Is there anything that I can bring-?"
"Just yourself," he said.
"Give me fifteen minutes," she said.
Remington stared in disgust at the telephone after he hung up. She'd done it again. Played the doormat, agreeing to everything he said without any hesitation or argument.
He rose and went to the window again. It had been a novelty at first, having Laura agree with everything he said, not arguing with him over the slightest little thing. The only thing she had pushed at all about was the change in their relationship.
When Laura had practically thrown herself at him a week after Edward Holt's death, Remington had tried gently and firmly, to push her away, not wanting to take advantage of her confusion. But, Laura had refused to let him take the high road this time, and in the end, had won that battle.
It was the other battles that she WOULDN'T fight which bothered Remington. She had taken to calling her mother at least once a day to talk to her. "We've so much more in common than I realized," Laura had informed him. "I don't know why I never saw it before."
And she seemed to be taking lessons from her sister Frances as to how to be the perfect housewife- dinner on the table at six, breakfast every morning-. At least her coffee had improved, Remington thought, even if he WAS worried that he might starve to death or die of food poisoning before Laura returned to normal.
He refused to consider the idea that she might never return to normal.
But it was her attitude toward her career, toward the Agency, that troubled Remington more than anything. Laura Holt's work ethic had been one of the things that he most admired about her. It had been damnably inconvenient at times, but her dogged determination had been like a shining beacon, keeping Remington out of the rocky shoals of trouble on more than one occasion.
Now, unless he specifically ASKED her to come into the office, Laura showed absolutely NO inclination to do so. Whenever he tried to discuss a case with her, she would politely listen, then change the subject to something domestically mundane, such as needing to darn his socks- or if he minded that she folded towels in thirds length-wise and then in half. Or she'd slide her arms around his neck and lead him toward the bedroom.
In that room, Remington could almost- ALMOST pretend that it was the old Laura that he was with. She was so uninhibited, so free with herself, unable to refuse him even there. Whenever he reached for her, he found her willing.
TOO willing, perhaps.
Picking up the phone, he called Che Rive to make a reservation for dinner. At least he'd be able to eat tonight without having to choke down his food. He had tried letting Laura know that he couldn't eat her cooking, hoping she'd lose that once reliable temper- but she had looked so distraught and unhappy that he'd taken it back and forced himself to eat the burned meatloaf and never mentioned it again.
***
"Hello, Mildred," Laura said as she entered the office. She glanced at Remington's doorway. "Is he busy?"
Mildred frowned, taking note of the woman standing before her. She didn't LOOK any different, really. Unless you looked at her eyes. The sparkle that had once been there was gone. She reminded Mildred of a beaten puppy, somehow. "I think he's expecting you. Poor man. He's up to his neck in case reports."
"You'd think he would have learned to do them by now, wouldn't you?" Laura asked with a conspiratorial grin. She took the lid from a round tin that she was carrying. "Here. See if these are better."
Mildred looked askance at the odd shaped cookies with criss-crosses on them. The edges were black. "I thought you forgot the peanut butter?"
"That was the first batch. After we talked, I added some peanut butter to the rest of the batter and made the rest while I cleaned up the kitchen and changed. Try one."
Gingerly, Mildred picked up the least-burned cookie and sniffed it. It smelled okay. She took a small bite- breaking the hard cookie just barely before it broke a tooth. Pretending to chew, she smiled at Laura. "Delicious," she managed, shoving the bit of cookie around in a desperate attempt NOT to swallow it.
Laura took out two more cookies, then looked around on the desk for a place to sit them. "Let me find some napkins in the coffee room for these."
The moment her back was turned, Mildred leaned over and spit the uneatable cookie into the waste basket, then quickly sat up as Laura returned. "Here we are," she said, putting the cookie laden napkin on the desk before Mildred. "I'll take the rest into Remington."
"Mmm," Mildred agreed, wishing there was some way to warn Mr. Steele before he was confronted by Miss Holt's latest attempt at baking. She picked up the napkin and put all three cookies into the wastebasket, and covered them with a sheet of paper. She'd tasted better hockey pucks.
***
"Ah, Laura," Remington said, sighing with relief as she entered the office. He noticed the tin she carried. "What have you got there?"
"A surprise," she told him, removing the cover and setting it before him.
Remington looked down at the contents uncertainly. "Umm? Let me see. Peanut butter cookies?"
"You DID mention that you liked peanut butter cookies," she reminded him.
"Yes," he remembered with a sinking feeling. "So I did."
"Aren't you going to try one?"
He put the cover on the tin and set it aside. "Perhaps later," he suggested. "After we finish this," he told her, indicating the mountain of files on the right corner of his desk. "Or after dinner. Yes," he said, grasping at that idea. "Dessert."
Laura stood there, looking at him for a moment. "You don't think they'll be any good, do you?"
"Laura-"
"I made them especially for you," she said in a quiet voice.
Remington fought the urge to reopen the tin and take out a cookie. Instead, he took her hand in his. "I know. And I appreciate all the time and effort that you went to. But at the moment, the only thing I can think about is all of this paperwork."
"You do seem to be snowed under," she agreed, then pulled up a chair. "What do you want me to do?"
Remington took a deep breath, counted to ten. "Read over the reports that Mildred did, make sure there are no errors, and then I'll sign them."
"Okay." She picked up a file and then looked at him. "What are you going to be doing while I'm reading?"
"I'll go get us some coffee," he said, rising and starting for the door. "Won't be a moment."
Laura was opening the folder as he closed the door behind him. "Oh, Mr. Steele," Mildred said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry I couldn't warn you about the cookies-"
"They're that bad?" he asked.
"Awful," she confirmed. "You could use them as bricks." She frowned. "You didn't eat one?"
"Managed to dodge the bullet," he told her. "Until after dinner, at least. Could you make some coffee, Mildred?"
"Sure."
"Thanks." He glanced into the waste bin beside Mildred's desk and dug out one of the cookies she'd given Laura. He tried to break it apart, and found that it wouldn't even crumble, much less bend.
"See what I mean?" Mildred asked as she returned. "You could use those things as mini Frisbees."
"This has got to stop, Mildred," Remington said, tossing the cookie back where it belonged. "One way or the other, it has GOT to stop." He paced across the reception area while Mildred went to get the coffee. His glance fell on a copy of the paper that lay folded on the table beside the reception area sofa, and he began to smile.
Mildred came back, and seeing that smile, asked, "You've got an idea, haven't you, Chief?"
"Perhaps, Mildred. Perhaps. Listen, I need to make a telephone call. Could you go in and keep Laura occupied while I use the one in her office?"
"Sure. Who are you going to call?"
"The one person that I can GUARANTEE to raise Laura's hackles enough to restore her to her normal, controlling self." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and went through to Laura's little used office.
Picking up the telephone, he quickly figured the time difference. When the telephone on the other end was answered, Remington gave a quick sigh of thankfulness. "Hello?"
"Hello, Daniel."
"Harry, my boy," his mentor said in a warm tone. "I must say, this is a surprise. A pleasant one, to be assured-" Daniel Chalmers paused, as if he'd just heard something in Remington's voice that registered. "Harry, is something wrong?"
"I need your help, Daniel. Can you come to Los Angeles for a few days?"
"I'll be on the next flight out, Harry," Daniel promised.
To Be Continued…