Jim, meanwhile, had another tool to use against her. It was a nuclear weapon, really. She did not believe that he would use it unless truly cornered. But if she did back him into a corner, she had no doubt that he would pull that trigger.
12
Jim Lindsay had acquired his leverage over Jennifer not quite two years ago. It happened on the night of the company holiday party, the year before last.
This had been a difficult time between her and Clint. Clint had been going out with some of his old college friends several evenings per week, sometimes returning home late at night, beer on his breath.
On these nights, Clint lapsed into the college boy patois that she found so annoying in a grown man. One night, arriving home at 1:00 a.m., he informed her that he would have come home earlier, had not the band at the bar been “so righteous”, and the lead guitarist’s solos “so bitchin”.
During this period, she sometimes suspected that he might even be cheating on her. She knew that if Clint spent enough time hanging around bars, sooner or later the opportunity would present itself. (Since then, she had concluded that this probably hadn’t been the case. But that didn't make his insistence on acting like an overgrown adolescent any less frustrating.)
She had wanted him to accompany her to the Ohio Excel Logistics company holiday party that year. The prior weekend, she had dutifully gone with him to Glutz Machinery’s annual shindig, a dull yet noisy affair held in the ballroom of a Holiday Inn. She knew that her company’s holiday party would be equally uninteresting. As she told her husband, “Nobody really likes going to company holiday parties. They’re just something we have to do.”
What she didn't say was, It’s part of being an adult.
But Clint had begged off, pleading the need to go out with several of his friends that night. At the last minute he said that it was someone’s bachelor party. Jennifer suspected that this was a lie.
“Company holiday parties suck,” Clint had said, intensely annoying with his tone and adolescent vocabulary.
“You’re right,” she said. “But everybody goes to them. It’s what’s expected, one of the things that we need to do to get ahead in our jobs. And didn't I attend the Glutz party with you just last week?”
“Well, you don’t have to go next year. In fact, I’m not sure that I’m even going to go next year.”
She hadn’t pressed him further, deciding, resentfully, that her husband would either support her in her career willingly, or not at all. She had no intention of dragging him to the party, only to watch him spend the entire night sulking.
So instead she went to the party with Julie Davenport and her husband. Julie (who had since left Ohio Excel Logistics) was probably her best friend at work. If she had to go without Clint, then Julie was the most palatable second choice.
It was, of course, somewhat humiliating to walk into the Radisson Hotel ballroom with Julie and her husband Dan, the unescorted third wheel. This was exactly the sort of thing that would get the company rumor mill going: People would wonder if she was divorced, if her marriage was on the rocks. Why else would a married woman attend the company holiday party stag?
Jim Lindsay certainly noticed that Jennifer was unescorted. At this time, Jim had been the manager of another department. Jennifer had known him only in passing. Once or twice they had chatted at the copier, and he had been amiable and gentlemanly enough.
She noticed Jim noticing her throughout the evening. Jim’s divorced status was common knowledge around the company. He had dated one of the female managers for a while during the previous year.
Towards the end of the party, Jim finally caught her alone at the table where she had spent most of the evening. Julie and Dan Davenport were indulging in one of the night’s last dances.
“Is this seat taken?” he’d asked. He gestured to the empty folding aluminum chair to the right of hers. There was something almost gallant about the way he put the question, chivalrously asking her permission before sitting down.
She knew, of course, that the chivalry was largely tongue-in-cheek. But after Clint’s recent binge of partying, it was nice to be noticed in way that was neither presumptuous nor overtly sexual. It was nice to talk to an adult man who seemed to realize that he was an adult.
She told him that it would be fine for him to sit down, of course. Even then, she experienced that first twinge that told her to be cautious. She knew from a lifetime of experience that men often allowed wishful thinking to lead them into over-interpreting neutral friendliness.
But on the other hand, that was silly: They were here at the company holiday party, and out in the open. There was no rule that prohibited her from talking to a polite, charming man who wasn't her husband. Besides, she had practically begged Clint to accompany her tonight.
Jim asked her how she liked her current job at Ohio Excel Logistics. She told him that she was working as a logistics planner, and he nodded, already knowing this. She admitted that she found the job a bit tedious: It involved endless hours of staring at spreadsheets and double-checking trucking routes. She revealed her intention to seek a transfer into the sales department. In sales, she said, she would be able to work directly with the customers, and spend less time trapped behind a computer.
Jim listened to her plans with the same polite interest. Then, out of the blue, he dropped a bombshell.
“I shouldn't tell you this, but there is a big reorganization coming.”
This surprised her, and worried her, too. She couldn't afford to be laid off. Clint’s compensation at Glutz was based almost entirely on sales commissions, meaning that it could vary widely from year to year. This year his sales income had declined slightly against the previous year.
He told her that this was due to the poor economy, and some clunky product lines that Glutz’s customers simply couldn't be cajoled into buying. Jennifer had accepted this explanation on the surface, but she suspected another cause: A man who spent so much of his available free time reliving his college days wouldn't be inclined to overly exert himself at work. She suspected that Clint was coasting at his job—but she kept these thoughts to herself.
“Oh, my,” she said. “How many are they going to—”
“No, no,” said Jim, waving her worries away and smiling broadly. “It isn’t that kind of a reorganization. They aren’t going to fire anyone. They’re going to be moving all of the managers around. You might remember: They did that a few years ago.”
In fact she did remember a massive shuffling of the managerial staff during her first year with the company. That reorganization had given Jennifer her current team leader, Bill Denning, and her current manager, Laura Muse.
Bill and Laura were great to work for, so practically any change away from them would be unwelcome. But that was life on a company payroll: You had to roll with the changes, whether you liked them or not.
“Do you have any idea who my new bosses are going to be?”
Another broad smile: “Those decisions are above my pay grade. We’re talking the VP and director level. And to tell you the truth, even if I did know—which I don't—I wouldn't be able to tell you.”
Jennifer later surmised that Jim had been lying to her. He must surely have known that within a matter of a few weeks, he would become her departmental manager. He would also have known that the easygoing and supportive Bill Denning was going to be swapped with the notoriously difficult Angela Bauer.
“But enough work talk,” Jim said. He gestured toward the dancing couples out in the middle of the ballroom floor. “You know, I haven’t danced like that for years, maybe not since high school. And here we are, the both of us without dance partners. It sure would be nice to have just one dance before leaving the holiday party.”
It took her a moment to realize that Jim Lindsay was asking her to dance. Her first inclination was to politely decline. That really would be too much. She could tell him that she was a horrible dancer, or that she had had too much to eat and drink, or that she was exhau
sted. There were any number of tactful ways for her to beg off.
Then she reconsidered: Why should a single dance be such a big deal? It wouldn't be the first time that she had innocently danced with another man since Clint had come into her life. For that matter, she had danced numerous dances with both of his brothers at their wedding reception, with her husband of a few hours looking on, smiling in approval. A dance didn't have to mean anything; it didn't have to lead to anything.
And besides, Clint had been given an opportunity to be here with her. She would much rather be sitting here talking to Clint, versus Jim Lindsay.
“Okay,” she said, decided. “That would be nice, I guess.”
“Excellent!” Jim rose from his seat, and in another display of mock gallantry he bowed his head and extended his hand. Then he spoke with a fake French accent that made her chuckle. “May I have zees dance, mademoiselle?”
“Sure, sure! Why not?”
To her mild surprise, Jim Lindsay turned out to be a good dancer. Out on the dance floor, he made no attempt to cop a surreptitious feel, or to hold her more closely than was appropriate. Mostly they just had a good time. The holiday party committee had selected a batch of lively songs, including a few that she remembered from her own high school days: They laughed at some of the old clichés thrown into the mix: Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart”, “Macarena” by Los Del Rio.
She was having fun, still hurt by what amounted to Clint’s dismissal of her needs; but she had decided that the evening need not be a total loss. Here was a somewhat dashing, somewhat older man who was paying so much attention to her. Jim Lindsay would be old enough to know that there was no way of this coming to anything, her being married and all. But there was nothing wrong with them harmlessly enjoying each other’s company. It wasn't like they were alone in one of the hotel’s guest rooms, after all.
Then, at the end of one song, she felt someone tap her on the shoulder and she heard Julie Davenport call out her name above the din of the music.
She turned and saw Julie and her husband Dan, the former looking pale and apparently sick. Neither of them could avoid revealing their surprise at Jen and Jim dancing, almost as if the two of them were a couple. But it was clear that neither of the Davenports was going to come out and ask what she was doing.
“I’m feeling awful,” Julie said, rubbing her hand across her stomach in a gesture that indicated nausea. “Might be the flu, might be food poisoning. I’m not sure. Do you mind taking off now?”
But Jim immediately interjected: “Hey, Julie, how are you doing? Sorry you aren’t feeling so hot.” Then he turned to Dan Davenport. “Why don’t you take Julie directly home? I can give Jennifer a ride.”
Julie and Dan took in Jim’s suggestion and then waited for her to make a decision, obviously not sure what was going on here, or what Jennifer expected of them. Jennifer would later realize that this was the point where she should have called it a night, should have simply gone home with her friend and her friend’s husband.
Had she done that, the subsequent disaster would not have happened. She might now be working in the sales department of Ohio Excel Logistics, or she might be working for another company. Jim Lindsay would have no leverage over her marriage, and the holiday party would have gone down in her memory as just one more evening out.
But that was not what she chose. She was having fun, in spite of Clint dropping the ball on her.
“Are you sure you don’t mind, Jim?” she asked.
“Mind?” Jim made an expression of mock surprise. “Of course I don’t mind! I’m having a blast out here! Like I said, I haven’t danced for years.”
“Well, okay, then. Julie, Dan, I’ll let the two of you go straight home. Jim and I will dance a few more songs, and then he’ll give me a ride home.” Lest anyone misunderstand her intent, she added: “Clint should be home by then, too.”
“Okay, Jen,” Julie said. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Sure. Thanks for bringing me here tonight—both of you. Jules, I hope you feel better soon.”
She and Jim danced only a few more dances, so they were able to leave well before the mass rush to the parking lot. He was discreet enough to recognize that it might be better for them to walk out separately. When they returned to their table, he slid an Audi key fob across the tablecloth to her.
“My car’s parked right outside the main exit, three rows over. You can’t miss it: a maroon Audi with the license number: ‘Jim Lind’. You can go ahead and start the car with the remote. Then wait for me in the passenger seat; I’ll be along in a few minutes. Just don't give me a hard time about the vanity plates.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” she laughed, picking up the key fob.
He played his final gambit on the way home.
“You know, Jen,” he said. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there’s a chance that I might be able to view the new organizational chart on my computer tonight. Top management was supposed to post it in the managers’ area of the company intranet sometime this afternoon.”
“Really?” she asked, not sure where this might be going.
“Yeah. Well, that means that I can look at it with my login. I take my company laptop home each weekend, you know—just in case I need to log in over the weekend.”
“And?”
“Well, what I’m saying is, if you’d like to take a peek, we could stop by my place really fast and I could let you look. But I’d have to swear you to secrecy.”
She seriously considered declining his offer. It was one thing to dance with him, one thing to accept a ride home from him. To drop by his house late on a Saturday night was another.
“Well, gee, Jim, I don’t know. Do you think we should?”
Her question was ambiguous, of course. It could be interpreted either as, Do you think we should look at the new organization chart? or Do you think we should go to your house alone? Together? At night?
“It’s up to you,” he said. “It’s just that you need to understand: this is a one-time offer. If you repeat this conversation at work, I’ll have to deny it ever occurred. I could get fired, you know. But I had such a great time cutting the rug with you tonight, I feel like I ought to give you something in return.”
There was not the slightest hint of sexual innuendo in his voice. And she was truly curious. Did she want to spend the rest of the weekend—and possibly the entire next week—not knowing who her new team leader and manager were going to be? All she had to do was agree to stop by his house, wait for him to log on, and then take a look. She would be alone behind closed doors with him for no more than fifteen minutes.
Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe she should just get over herself, already. Jim Lindsay was a middle-aged manager at a large company, a man who had been married and divorced. He had children in college. He wasn't some horny young man who was eager to carve his first notch on his bedpost.
This is a unique opportunity, she thought. Inside information. You’d be an idiot or a coward if you didn't take advantage of it.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s go ahead and take a look, then—if you’re sure it’s okay.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s okay. It’ll be our secret.”
His house was less than she had expected: For some reason, she had anticipated something plush and two-story. But Jim Lindsay lived in a little ranch house in a working-class subdivision that had seen better days. Then she thought: Jim Lindsay was divorced, and he had two children. He didn't keep his entire paycheck.
He parked in the driveway and she followed him in. As he jiggled his key into the front door lock, she began to have second thoughts, and realized that it was really too late: A few minutes ago, she could have easily begged off with the excuse that she needed to get home. Connor was spending the night with Clint’s parents; but Jim Lindsay didn't have to know that. She could have claimed that she needed to go directly home so that she could release the babysitter. But that excuse would ring hollow now, a trans
parent lie.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jim said, standing back and holding the door open for her.
He followed her inside. His house smelled vaguely musty, but its odor was not overtly offensive. She could make out the rough shapes of furniture in the near total darkness. For a few seconds, there were only the sounds of their breathing, and a sudden awkward silence. She was waiting for him to turn on the light.
“I can’t see anything,” she prompted.
He flipped a switch on the wall. A dim overhead light came on in the foyer. “Have a seat on the couch,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
She took a seat on the adjacent couch, and saw her reflection in a long coffee table. She would have appreciated more light.
Jim returned a few minutes later holding his company laptop horizontally in both hands, like a pizza box. He sat beside her on the couch and placed the laptop on the coffee table. She noticed immediately that although the couch was wide enough to comfortably seat three people, he had sat down right beside her, their legs almost touching.
I’m not sure yet, she thought. But this feels like a huge mistake. She also realized, belatedly, that she had consumed a few too many glasses of wine between their dances.
He opened the laptop and pressed the power button. There was an electronic buzz, and the clicking of the machine’s internal parts. The laptop was booting up.
“I had a great time dancing tonight,” he said, while they were waiting for the Windows operating system to load. “But is it okay if I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she said tentatively.
“Why wasn't your husband in attendance? Wait—that was too personal, wasn't it? It’s just that—if a guy had a beautiful, intelligent wife like you—who is also a great dancer, I might add—it wouldn't make sense for him to let you go to a party like that by yourself.”
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 7
