Wrong Number, Right Koala (Dial M For Mates #9)

Chapter 1 Hari

HARI

“This phone call won’t take long.”

I enjoyed talking myself through my to-do list. It was better than checking off a box or deleting it. And I refused to use the virtual assistant built into the phone. Those tinny voices made me squirm.

A client was supposed to have received a delivery of furniture this morning, but the computer system was showing no confirmation. That should have appeared the second the client signed the tablet.

I peered at the scribbled note Jackson, my production manager, had left before he took off for a furniture exhibition.

He was in the air and wouldn’t answer for hours.

I’d prefer not to bug him because this was his first time leading the team at a major event, and I needed his mind on that and not his terrible handwriting.

But the call rang out, and I left a message, one that was cut off halfway through, so I’d had to call back.

“I’ll try again later.” I tossed the phone on the desk, annoyed that a simple task was incomplete.

The only way to rid myself of the frustration was to perform my daily ritual, and that was to head back behind the showroom/store to the workshop my grandfather had built. My dad had managed the business after Grandpa retired, and I’d done the same when Dad wanted more time to himself.

Opening the door, I closed my eyes and breathed in the aroma of linseed oil and walnut dust. That soothed my irritation, and I strode into the manufacturing side of my small business.

The workshop was nothing like the giant manufacturing hives producing mass-produced furniture that was sold in countless stores across the country. Nope. Each of the pieces we created was made by hand with love and pride.

I approached the first piece, a harvest table sitting on saw horses near the back wall.

The table’s surface was still rough and needed a final sanding.

This was an order from one of our regular customers who was having their entire family for Thanksgiving.

It was still a ways off from being completed, but crafting a unique piece of furniture couldn’t be hurried, as our client was aware.

Next were the credenzas made from maple which were waiting for a coat of finish.

And finally, there was a rocking horse commissioned by someone who’d had one as a child, made by her father.

But it’d been given to her older brother and now his kids enjoyed it.

That rocking horse had taken weeks to perfect but would be shipped out in a few days.

The credenzas were for the showroom. I speculated that this was something customers wanted, because the type of client who liked our furniture used them as sideboards.

Most of what was in the storefront wasn’t for sale.

They were samples of what we produced, but some, such as the credenzas, could be purchased outright and were cheaper than a custom model.

My head craftsmen arrived and greeted me with, “Hey, boss.” They were my father’s age and had been with us since they left. One had learned woodworking in vocational college and the other had been hired by Dad straight out of high school.

I made coffee for us, as I always did, and the frustration over the delivery returned. I excused myself and took my hot brew into the office. But after trying the number three times and getting cut off twice, there was still no answer.

Peering at Jackson’s note, I made out the word “delivery.” Great, that wasn’t helpful.

And the word “Mr.” Again, it didn’t give me any insight into what had happened.

Had the delivery company dropped off the piece without a signature?

It was a large coffee table, and the instructions accompanying it were that it couldn’t be left at the door. It required a signature.

The numbers were illegible. Was that a nine or a zero? Seven or one? I put a slash across my 7s to differentiate them from 1s, but Jackson didn’t.

I shuddered, thinking of what might have happened had it rained, and I checked the weather report for later today.

My frustration finally got the better of me and I sent Jackson a text, hoping he’d respond as soon as he landed.

I headed back to the workshop, as the store didn’t open until eleven. None of our customers or potential clients would venture out before then. For our regulars, I arranged appointments in the evenings, weekends, and holidays because that was the commitment to customer service we provided.

Adrian was preparing to sand the harvest table, and Callum was already working on the credenzas. They’d be photographed when complete and the pics put on our website before being placed in the store.

We had a new commission for a bedroom set in black walnut that I’d be helping with because I was never happier than working with my hands.

Later in the day, Callum’s wife, Sandy, would be in the showroom so I could be in the workshop.

When she wasn’t here, I traipsed between the workshop and the showroom.

The phone beeped and reminded me of the message I’d sent Jackson.

I left you the number to call, boss. Let me know if you need more info.

I sighed. He wouldn’t recall the number he wrote down before leaving work last night. And to relieve my irritation, I pulled walnut boards from the rack, excited to begin a new project. Three hours later, I stood back and eyed the dovetails.

“Not bad.”

Adrian and Callum laughed. They were used to me talking to myself, probably thinking I acted more like a middle-aged guy than one in his mid-thirties.

I washed my hands and told them to cut it out, but they took no notice.

They were more like uncles than employees.

I’d return to the walnut after my craftsmen had left, or before that if no one came into the showroom.

The showroom took up the front part of the building. It was separated from the workshop by a thick wall that muffled the noise. When Dad retired, I’d reorganized it so the furniture was grouped in rooms rather than how a traditional retail store was arranged.

Looking at Jackson’s note, I tried a different combination of numbers, but that was a school, and I’d been assured that this was the client’s personal mobile phone. But I was interrupted by a man coming in and wandering over to a rocking chair, one I’d made on weekends.

Leaving him as he examined the work and ran his hands over the cherry wood, I busied myself in the background. I’d been dealing with people in the showroom since my teens when I helped Dad on Saturdays, and I sensed when he stood up straight and looked around, it was time to approach him.

We discussed the wood, finish, and joinery, as well as how to take care of it.

He sat in the chair and rocked back and forth, saying he remembered his grandmother sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch when he was a kid.

He bought it, and when I entered his details into the computer, I repeated his phone number and address, as I always did. I wanted no more delivery foul-ups.

That took me back to Jackson’s note, and I checked the delivery address on the computer.

They were missing, and that had me scratching my head.

How could that be? Unless there’d been a glitch or the client had called to change the address, and what?

I couldn’t figure it out. I prided myself on our excellent customer service, and this was far from that.

A call from a vendor got me out of my head. He had a delivery of maple, and I left Sandy in charge and headed to the warehouse. Going to the lumberyard wasn’t a chore because reading the wood grain was what I was good at.

Hours later when I made it back, Sandy left to pick up her grandchildren from school, telling me the people who commissioned the bedroom set had called about hardware.

They’d made a choice and sent pics. In the remaining hours before I closed up, I dealt with admin, particularly invoices, which I hated.

It was necessary but boring, and I preferred to be standing in sawdust.

Before I left for the night, I went into the workshop and admired the progress the guys had made. I pressed my palm on the harvest table and checked the temperature of the wood. The rocking horse was in its crate, and I said my goodbyes, telling it to enjoy its new life.

Fingering Jackson’s note in my pocket, I figured I’d drive to the client’s place and check if he received his coffee table. But smacked my brow as I recalled the blank space on the computer where the address should have been. So where was the coffee table?

I texted Jackson again, but he’d be at the exhibition until late this evening and then possibly at dinner with potential clients. He might not see the message until tomorrow.

If the customer left a lousy review on the website, I’d have to make it up to them and gift them something small from the store.