“All those positions are filled. I thought you were applying for the receptionist job.”
I don’t have much in the way of office skills, but how hard can it be to answer the phone, greet people, and file your nails? If I had any nails, that is. I keep them short. Too hard to draw with long nails. Okay, full disclosure, I bite them. But in my defense, it really is too hard to draw with long nails.
“I guess I could do that. Where’s the temp job?”
“Here. And it’s permanent unless you drive me crazy like the last gal, I mean girl, uh, lady—woman—person. She kept telling me I’m not PC and she was right, I’m not. Can you live with that?”
“Yeah, no biggie, but I’m really an artist, and I’m just looking for temporary work to fill in between graphic gigs.”
“It pays thirteen bucks an hour.”
I charge seventy-five bucks an hour—when I actually have work. But thirteen bucks beats no bucks.
“Okay, but only temporarily. Until you get someone else hired.”
“Fair enough.”
“So when do you want me to start?”
“Now’s good. How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
“Remember, I like mine black. Each office has its own cupboard in the kitchen. I think we still got some Fig Newtons if you want some.” He went into his office, leaving the opaque glass door cracked.
I glanced around the shabby room. My new desk was an ancient oak monster, probably once a schoolmarm’s desk in a one-room schoolhouse out on the prairie. There was a coat rack, and a threadbare, mauve plaid love seat fronted by a water-ringed blond oak table. A Motel 6 oceanscape hung crooked and off-center over the couch.
I sat at the desk facing the “art” and wondered what had just happened. One minute I’m thinking I’m going to be an ice cream tester and the next thing I know, I’m a receptionist in this dreary agency.
Coffee! Evidently that is part of my job description. Making coffee. I can do that. And then I thought, Is that demeaning? I pondered this for a moment and decided it wasn’t, especially since I have no real office skills. It’s just coffee. If I’m making some for me, it’s only polite to make some for Paul.
In the kitchen there was a cupboard labeled “NLF.” Inside I found a humongous red plastic jug of Folgers with a “Good until December 2008” expiration date on it. I brewed a pot in the crusty old Mr. Coffee and poured a cup for Paul and doctored a cup for me with generic powdered creamer and clumpy sugar.
Back in the office, I interrupted my new boss’s online poker game to hand him his coffee and a couple of petrified Fig Newtons, which he accepted with a grunt. I returned to my new domain and yanked up the dusty mauve mini-blinds to brighten the gloomy room. The sunny day filtering through the filmy window only made the space more dismal.
The phone rang and I waited for Paul to answer. When he didn’t, I realized receptionists answer phones. “Nothing Lasts Forever,” I said cheerily. “How can I help you?” In my head, I heard my seventh-grade English teacher, scary Mrs. Wade, correct my bad grammar.
“Hello, dear. My name is Beatrice Johnson, and I’m looking for a dog walker,” said a thin, tremulous voice. “I recently broke my hip, and poor Fifi and Babette are going crazy stuck in this house. Do you have anyone nice who could walk my babies once a day until I’ve recovered?”
“Uh, um.” Now what? Hello! A little training would be nice here. “Let me take your name and number, and my boss will get right back to you.”
I took her info, said goodbye, and went to Paul’s open door.
He was glued to the computer and didn’t look up, so I stepped in front of his desk and stared at him.
“Darn!” he slapped the desk and glanced up. “Sorry. Just lost ten big ones. Do you need something?”
I repeated Beatrice’s request. “I told her you’d get right back to her.”
“That’s your job.” He scratched his shiny head. “I don’t think we have any qualified dog walkers on file. That’s more of a big city gig. Maybe you could take it. You like dogs?”
“I love dogs. I have the sweetest yellow Lab. Daisy. I got her at the pound and—”
“Sounds great. I’m more of a cat person, myself. Low maintenance.”
“Oh, I have a cat too. Tabitha. I got her from—”
“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes slid back to the computer monitor, clearly wanting to get back in the game. “So you want the job or not?”
Not really, but poor Beatrice’s broken hip. “I guess. What about my job here?”
“This must be your lucky day. Now you got two jobs.”
I drive a 1976 orange Volvo 265 DL wagon that I christened Veronica when I was eight years old. On my seventeenth birthday, Mom begrudgingly gifted her to me. Cup holders, GPS, a CD player, no—make that an MP3 player—would all be nice, but I love my car and would never think of parting with her. Besides, I can’t afford a car payment.
Beatrice’s address was in the senior living complex where Grandma Ruby lives. After getting grilled by skinny George at the Shady Acres security booth, I drove a sedate fifteen miles per hour, knowing he would turn his radar gun on me the moment I passed through the gate.
I parked Veronica next to an old Ford Fiesta and rang the cottage’s doorbell, causing a thunderous chorus of barking. I’d assumed that Fifi and Babette would be tiny little things, like Yorkies or Teacup Poodles. But from the sound of those woofs, I’d assumed wrong.
The door opened a crack and a dead ringer for Mrs. Claus peeked out.
“Hi. I’m Katy. The dog walker.”
“Hello, dear. I’m Bea. Hold on.” She unchained the door and ordered the dogs to stay back. The door creaked opened and sitting obediently behind Bea were two enormous snowy-white Great Pyrenees.
I edged around her walker, and she introduced me to Fifi and Babette. Twins, three years old. Bea had to be ten years older than my seventy-four-year-old grandma. What was she thinking, living with these two polar bear wannabes?
I strolled the girls around the senior community with several stops along the way to sniff lampposts, mailboxes, and flowers. I had no intention of charging Bea, so at 5:15, I told the well-mannered dogs it was time to head home.
The word “home” triggered the dogs into a race to see who could get there first, dragging me full tilt through the neighborhood. At Bea’s front door, it was a tie with me in second place. I sagged into a rocker on the porch, trying to catch my breath while the dogs pawed at the door.
“Katy! What are you doing sitting on Bea’s porch?” hollered Grandma Ruby from her 1963 Triumph Spitfire convertible.
“Hey, Ruby.” Everyone calls her Ruby. Even her grandkids, although I tend to flip-flop, between Granny, Grandma, and Ruby, depending on the occasion.
She climbed out of her little red roadster and joined me on the porch. “I didn’t know you’re friends with Bea.”
“I’m her dog walker,” I said between gasps for air. Make that—was her dog walker.
The cottage door opened and my petite, stiletto-queen granny said, “Beatrice! If you need your dogs walked, you could have called me, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother. I called a temp agency, and that’s how I found Katy. I had no idea she was your granddaughter. You look far too young to have such an old grandchild, dear.”
The compliment mollified Ruby and her tone softened. “You work for a temp agency, Katy? This is the first I’ve heard about this.”
“Actually, I’m the office recep-uh-administrator. I took this dog-walking job because we have no qualified dog walkers available.”
“How much is Bea paying you?” asked nosy Ruby. “And tell me more about this temp agency. You know I’m looking for a job. Maybe you can line me up something.”
Gramps left Ruby a hefty insurance policy, plus his teacher’s pension, and she collects social security. But she worries, so she supplements with multilevel marketing home businesses. Her latest had been EZ Lips.
Stenciled-on, semipermanent lip color. What a fiasco that was. Even worse than Rubberwear—clothes and purses made out of old tires.
“You know what, Ruby? I think my administrative position would be a better fit for you than me. How about I pick you up on my way to work in the morning and I’ll see if I can work something out for you.” This will be perfect. I’ll give Ruby my lousy job, and then I’ll have the inside track for any cool jobs that come up.
Chapter Four
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
THURSDAY • JUNE 13
Posted by Katy McKenna
“What do you think of my outfit?” Ruby twirled at her cottage front door when I picked her up this morning. “It’s business casual. But is it too casual?”
In my world, business casual is sweats, and her outfit would be White House attire.
“You look like a CEO, and remember, I get those shoes.”
She was wearing her adorable brown-and-cream spectator pumps circa early 1960s.
“It’s in the will. But you never wear heels, especially size six.” Ruby eyed my eights.
“I still get them.”
“Sweetheart, when I’m dead you can have anything you want. Although your sister may want a few things, too.”
“I was here first, so I get first dibs.” Yeah, I know. Petty.
My soon-to-be-former boss took one look at my gorgeous granny and said, “Okay. She can have the job. But you have to train her. I’m too busy.”
Yeah, playing online poker. “You didn’t train me.”
“What are you talking about? You know where the coffee machine is, right? And the office supplies?” He shrugged his baggy shoulders. “I trained you.” He turned his focus to his computer monitor, clicked his mouse, then slammed the mouse. “Come on! Jack of diamonds! Jack of diamonds!”
“Alrighty, then. We’ll let you get back to your work, and…” I said as we backed out of his office.
“I could use a coffee,” he hollered.
Ruby filled out an application and we commenced training. On our way down the hall to the kitchen, we bumped into my next-door neighbor, Josh, AKA Josh-the-Viking, although he has no clue I’ve dubbed him that. I thought Ruby would have heart failure when she first saw him. Not just because of his movie-star Scandinavian looks, but because she thinks he’s the perfect rebound man for me. We had a date a couple of months ago, at least I thought it was a date, but evidently he considers me a buddy. His words.
I jump-started the conversation before my drooling granny had a chance to open her big mouth. “Josh. What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Katy. Long time, no see. Did you make a decision about joining the police department yet?”
“Nope. Still considering all my career options.” I grinned, rocking on my heels.
He shook his head with a chuckle and turned to unlock a door labeled Draper Investigations.
“This is your office?” Ruby tried to peek inside over his too-tall shoulder.
He turned, leaning his muscular body against the doorframe. “Yup.”
Josh had been a narcotics undercover officer with the Santa Lucia Police Department. According to him, his job had ruined his marriage. Now he’s a private investigator.
“Ruby just got a job at Nothing Lasts Forever.” I caught a whiff of his sexy cologne and felt light-headed. To be honest, he could have been wearing vinegar, and I would’ve thought it was sexy.
“I guess that means we’ll be neighbors,” said Ruby. “Katy was just about to show me where the coffee is.”
“How would Katy know that?”
“I used to work there,” I said. “But now it’s time for me to move on, so Ruby’s taking over.”
“Strange, I never saw you around here.” He twirled his key chain on his index finger, probably wondering how to politely ditch us.
“She worked there exactly one day,” said Ruby, hands on hips. “Yesterday.”
“Actually, it was more like half a day, Ruby, but who’s counting? Would you like a cup of coffee, Josh? I’m about to brew a pot.”
“No thanks. Got my own little setup in the office. Why don’t you come in and I’ll make you a cup.”
Josh’s office is furnished in midcentury modern. Bold fresh colors, cool art, squeaky-clean windows, and not a speck of dust anywhere. I watched Ruby’s expression, knowing she was comparing it to her dismal digs.
“What’s your pleasure, ladies?” Josh stood at a teak buffet.
I glanced at Ruby and could see we were simpatico on that question. Oh yeah.
Josh, oblivious to our lascivious musings, asked, “Latte? Cappuccino?”
He moved to reveal a Nespresso Delonghi Lattissima Pro sitting on the buffet. I have wanted one for ages, but it’s out of my price range. Way out. The investigation field must be a lot more lucrative than freelance graphic arts.
“So this is what it looks like in real life.” My voice husky with desire, I delicately traced its sleek lines with my fingertips. “May I have a latte macchiato?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Ruby, with no clue how cool the machine was.
“I’ve got some fresh cheese danishes, if you like.” In a matter of seconds, Josh handed me a steaming macchiato, and I snagged a pastry from the plate he held out. I was in office heaven.
“Do you need any help, Josh?” asked Ruby. “Like a gal Friday? I could run errands, answer phones, go on stakeouts.”
“I barely have enough work to keep me busy.”
“Then how can you afford all this?” I waved my full hands, rudely talking through my pastry.
“Inheritance. My grandmother on my father’s side. Oil.”
I glared at my inheritance on Ruby’s feet and snatched another danish. “Must be nice.”
“Be nicer having my grandma still around.”
It would have been rude to eat three danishes, so we departed for the tour of the hall kitchen. After Ruby brewed a cup of sludge for Paul, we headed back to NLF.
“Here ya go, Paul.” She plunked the coffee on his cluttered desk and glanced at his monitor. “The flop is ace, ace, ten? What’s your opponent got?” She leaned in over Paul’s shoulder. “Full house? You gonna raise?”
I tugged her arm. “Come on, Ruby. Paul’s busy.”
“No, wait,” said Paul. “You play poker?”
“Oooh, ya know. Every now and then with the girls at the senior center,” she said, keeping a poker face. “I’m not very good, though. I always lose all my toothpicks.”
Paul’s eyes lit up. “Maybe we can play sometime.”
“Only if you promise to go easy on me.” She winked over his head at me. Ruby is a killer card shark. She and her gal-pals would clean up in one of those Vegas tournaments. No kidding, those ladies are seriously good.
“Maybe I can even teach you a thing or two. You know, to help you hang on to your toothpicks.”
“Paul,” said Ruby, all sweet and sly. “This is going to be so much fun.”
I was home scrounging in the fridge, trying to piece together a semi-healthy dinner when my phone vibrated on the counter.
“So help me, if that’s Chad again, the phone is going in the garbage disposal.” Although I’d rather stuff him down the disposal. Fortunately for my cell phone, it was my best friend, Samantha.
“Hi, Sam. You just saved my phone’s life. If it had been Chad calling again, I was—”
“Are you kidding me? He’s still bothering you? How can he seriously think you would ever get back with him? Best thing that ever happened to you was when he left you.”
“I don’t want to get all riled up, so no more Chad talk. He’s not worth it. So what’s up with you?”
“I got roped into joining a book club and the meeting’s tomorrow. I mean, who has time to read books, let alone sit around with a bunch of people and talk about them? And then I thought of you.”
That miffed me. She assumes I have nothing going on in my life other than reading. I watch a lot of TV too.
“I mean, you’ve always been an avid reader,” she continued. “Even when you were beyond busy running the bookstore and nursing Chad through cancer, you still always had a book going. Remember back in high school when you decided to read every book that Dickens wrote?”
It’s true. I’m a big Dickens fan. “Yeah, so?”
“So, this is a Jane Austen book club, and I haven’t read any of her books, but I’m sure you have.”
“Well, yeah. But it’s been years.”
“Will you come with me? Please? I have to work with these people, and I kind of said I’ve read her books, so I need you to cover for me.”
I really didn’t want to, but back in school, she really didn’t want to play xylophone in the marching band, but I begged her to, and rather than hear about that again, I said, “What time?”
Chapter Five
BETTER DEAD THAN WED
SATURDAY • JUNE 15
Posted by Katy McKenna
“We have some newbies joining our book club today, so let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves,” said a prim, pink-cheeked woman with a faint English accent. “I’ll go first since I’m hosting today. I’m Nora Baldwin. I’m a pharmacist at the hospital. Divorced and mother of fourteen-year-old Elizabeth.” She pointed to a framed photo on the fireplace mantel. “I’m currently reading Pride and Prejudice.”
Oh my God. When Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy looked across the room at what’s-her-name, I thought I would pass out. What was her name? I should know this. I’ve seen the movie at least a hundred times.
The full-figured, forty-something seated on a tasseled ottoman spoke next. “I’m Melanie Ramos. Hospice nurse, married, and proud mother of two teenagers, Cassandra and Charles.” Her startling amber eyes warmed at the mention of her kids. “I’m smack-dab in the middle of Persuasion.”
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 29
