Forget to Remember

she found out. She locked the car and walked into the building. On Saturday she’d purchased a knee-length blue business skirt and a compatible white shirt. She could pass for an office worker.
    Carol scanned the list of tenants on the wall until she spotted the Weatherford Foundation. It was on the second floor. She was still wary of elevators; she walked up the open stairs. The door with Weatherford Foundation painted on it was closed. Was it locked? She paused in front of it long enough to take a breath and then tried the door handle. It turned. She opened the door and walked in.
    She was surprised at how small the office was—just one room, containing two desks, file cabinets, and a few chairs, but none of the kind usually found in a waiting room for visitors. Maybe they didn’t have visitors.
    The only person Carol saw was a woman dressed in slacks and an unbuttoned sweater over a casual top. She wasn’t young or old, but Carol was certain her hair, which was all a single shade of brown, had been dyed. It didn’t look natural. She was placing a folder in an open file drawer. She didn’t look up when Carol entered.
    Carol waited for the woman to notice her. She glanced around, seeing the usual office gear: computers, phones, and papers on the desks, with swivel chairs behind them. Something was missing. She figured out what it was. The office had no outside window. This must be the cheapest office in the building, not befitting a soon-to-be-well-endowed foundation. Or at least that was apparently Michael’s hope.
    The woman rolled the metal file drawer closed with a rumble and a clank and turned toward Carol. “Morning.”
    “Good morning.” Carol had a pitch planned. “I’m Aiko Murakawa. I have a small nonprofit that works with disadvantaged girls. Like any small nonprofit organization, we’re always looking for money. I’ve heard your foundation makes grants—”
    “You need to talk to Katherine.” The woman snapped a stick of gum she was chewing. “She’s the big cheese. She usually wanders in about ten. I’m just the volunteer.”
    “Katherine…?”
    “Simpson. Young gal—beautiful—that is if you like platinum blonds.” She laughed, harshly. “But she’s pretty smart.”
    “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”
    “I’m Betty.”
    “If you’re a volunteer, you must be dedicated.”
    “Yeah, well my kids are grown and I was looking for something to do to help people. I heard about this place. They do good, and the work’s easy—answering the phone, writing letters, filing.”
    “Do they have a lot of money to give away?”
    “Just between you and me, they don’t have much right now. But they’re expecting a truckload of it. My advice is, come back in six months. They may not have the money by then, but they’ll have a pretty good idea whether they’re going to get it. We’re beneficiaries of a large estate. The executor’s supposed to be looking for an heir, but Katherine said the girl they found is bogus.”
    Oh yeah? Carol had to choke back a retort. “What kind of a person is Ms. Simpson?”
    “She’s okay. We get along fine. You might think by looking at her that she’d be an airhead, but she’s not. She’s got a law degree.” Betty looked as if she might say more but apparently decided against it.
    Carol looked at her watch. “You said she’ll be in at ten?”
    “She might be. I can’t count on it. Sometimes she doesn’t show up. She goes to meetings and stuff like that. You can wait if you’d like. Tell you what, I’ll give her a call and try to find out her schedule.”
    As Betty picked up a phone, the door opened and a man walked briskly into the office. They both turned toward him.
    Betty said, “It isn’t often that we have two visitors in one morning. This place is getting to be Grand Central Station.”
    The man held a manila envelope. “Delivery for Katherine Simpson.”
    He was dressed in casual work clothes, including a sport shirt, slacks, and loafers. His short hair was graying. He must be in his fifties. He wasn’t bad looking, but his lined face wasn’t quite symmetrical. He wore a mustache Carol suspected hid some sort of scar.
    Betty held out her hand. “I’ll be glad to give it to her.”
    He kept hold of it. “I have to deliver it in person. When will she be in?”
    “Like I was telling her ,” Betty gestured toward Carol, “she might be in at ten—or she might not. I was just about to call her.”
    She called a