Gerry parked his car, hopped out and wriggled into the coat jacket he'd tossed onto his back seat. It was a fine day. Last night's pitch to Huffy Tractor Lites had gone very well. He'd been in his best form, anticipating questions, offering suggestions in an "even-if-you-don't-hire-us-as-your-agency" manner--ingratiating and fluid. He had felt only a little nauseated in retrospect. It used to help that his wife didn't take his business seriously, even if he had to. Darla was a light touch in a feverish world, gorgeous, bright, witty, and--odd for this day and age--devoted to him. He knew, in his own defense, however, that the feeling was absolutely mutual.
Darla had always teased him about the amount of "servicing" his clients required. Lately, her teasing was becoming laced with less humor and more irony.
"You hate being a slimy weasel, Gerry," she had said this morning before his lips had even touched his coffee cup. "Why do you do it?"
"Oh, that's nice. Please, let's bring the children in to hear this, shall we?"
"We only have one child."
"Thank you for that information, Darla."
"Gerry, I'm just teasing you, but it really is a nasty business."
"Darla, do you mind? It's still what's putting the curl in your coif, the Oil of Olay on your dermi, you know?"
"Surely, I could afford to get my hair permed if you worked as an accountant or something. In fact, I know a woman whose husband works at the hardware store down here on Edgewood? And she always has great looking hair."
"I like my job."
"You don't like having to make like a vacuum cleaner, do you?"
"Very pretty, Darla. Very nice. And besides, you don't know anything about it. It's called 'value-added,' and it's what makes the difference from one ad agency to another. Anybody can whip up an ad and call up the right TV and print people. But it's service that keeps your clients coming back for more."
"You used to like your job when you came up with ad ideas and stuff. Now that you own the company, all you do is kiss people's bottoms and smile in the spots that used to make you yawn."
"Whatever you say, Darla."
She'd gotten right up his nose this morning. Why was she pulling all that crap? Did she want him to quit his job? Give up the business?
"I know!" he'd said to her, "I'll start a new business concept in advertising! I'll call it the Fuck-You school of client servicing."
"Don't be vulgar."
"It'll be great! When a client asks if I can get him tickets to a Braves game, I'll just say: "What do I look like, you grubby-fingered slime-bag? Like your baseball pimp?!?"
"All right, Gerry..."
"And besides, ball-bearing face, what does baseball have to do with your product, anyway, you sleezoid, blood-sucking, filth-ball...?"
"Perhaps there's a happy medium..."
Gerry entered the elevator and punched the floor button. Didn't he make a good living? How many thirty-two year old guys owned their own company? Sometimes he didn't understand Darla. Did she think he was unhappy? He wasn't unhappy. He was very damn happy.
He marched off the elevator and nodded curtly to the receptionist positioned like a marine in her guard box just inside the foyer of Selby and Parker's.
"Maggie in yet?" he called over his shoulder as he thundered down the hall to his office.
"Yes, Gerry," the receptionist chirped. “She signed in an hour ago."
Gerry stopped at one of the offices, his briefcase dangling from one hand. He pushed open the door and put his head inside.
"You're back?"
Maggie turned in her chair and swiveled away from her computer screen. She was wearing a deep, emerald green suit that dramatically accentuated her coal-colored hair pouring off her shoulders. He was surprised to see her looking so pretty. Usually, as fond of her as he was, he neglected to notice her in the physical sense. Today, she seemed to radiate allure. He found it quite unsettling. She smiled up at him.
"I'm back."
"You look good. What's the deal?"
"What do you mean, 'what's the deal?' Oh, I'm getting married at lunch, that must be it."
"No kidding, you look really good. Did something happen?"
"Will you stop being so offensive? Do you mean, did I have a religious experience or something that's given me an extra glow? Or, am I pregnant?"
"You met somebody over there."
"You're amazing."
"I'm right, aren't I?"
"You're incredible."
"So, what, did you... like, meet some frog, boff him, have his child, win over a small village and then think you could just show up for work like I wouldn't notice or something?" He moved into her office to get a better look at her. "Who is he?"
"He's a Frenchman."
"No shit. And I was gonna ask if he was Iranian, but then I'm no good at guessing games. I figured he'd be French, Maggie.”
"He was really something, Ger. Do you want to hear about him?"
"Yes, yes, how about lunch? You can tell all. Just remember, nothing gross or anything that involves describing the swapping of body fluids while I'm trying to eat, okay?"
Maggie rolled her eyes at him.
"Noonish, okay?" Gerry smacked a rolled-up sheath of papers against his thigh. "Meanwhile, let's do traffic. Would you get Dierdre or Jenny to call the meeting over the PA? I haven't even had coffee yet." He hurried on down the corridor to his office while Maggie dialed the front desk to talk with Jenny.
She'd stopped at her apartment on the way to work that morning from her parents' house to see if Laurent had called. He hadn't. There had been a couple of hang-ups on her answering machine that she chose to believe were Laurent's refusals to talk to a machine. She was irritated with herself that she hadn't insisted he write her in French. She could always have dragged her College French textbook off the shelf and figured it out.
In spite of that, she was aware that a part of her was gearing up to forget him, a thought that would've been unthinkable at any time yesterday. Today, she let open a small window of possibility that she might never hear from him again.
"Staff traffic meeting in the conference room, please," the public address system whispered in wall-rattling tones. Their receptionist was new.
Slowly, Maggie gathered up her work diary and the week's photocopied schedule of jobs in-house and proceeded into the conference room.
Selby and Parker, once Selby and Associates, was a friendly little ad shop of ten employees and 1.2 million dollars in billings. None of them were going to retire any time soon on the fees of their clients but they were comfy for the moment. Up until last year, Gerry had been just another copywriter, like Maggie. But the death of their then president, a nefarious, wheeler-dealer Australian by the name of Nigel Barnes, had left a clear path for someone with guts and initiative to take over the helm. So, with the bulk of his life savings and the support of his wife, Darla, Gerry had stepped in to fill the void.
Gerry and Maggie sat down at the small conference room table. Gerry nodded for Jenny to close the door as she left. In addition to Gerry and Maggie in the conference room, there was the agency art director, Bob Mason, the senior art director, Pokey Lane, the media buyer, Dr. Patricia Stump, and the traffic manager, Dierdre Potts.
Gerry, seated at the head of the table, began the meeting by indicating that he wanted the meeting short, to the point, and everyone back at work racking up those billable hours as soon as possible.
"All right, Dierdre," he said briskly. "What have we got on schedule for the week?"
2
Gerard Dubois slammed the gear into place and accelerated loudly up the steep incline. So, Elise's sister has been and gone, has she? He sped up the rough-stoned pavement that skirted the little village of Mandelieu, narrowly missing an old woman and her flower cart coming down the same road. She's taken her precious niece and vanished. Skulked off, like the thief she is, thinking she had fooled Gerard Dubois! Thinking she had cheated him of his own daughter. The arrogance of the bitch! To believe that her Ame
rican dollars could buy her anything she wants. He would kill that bastard Englishman for his part in this. Shake every centime out of him that he earned in the deal and then cut his stinking English heart out of his breast with his own pen knife.
3
"I'm afraid it's going to take awhile." Elspeth Newberry spoke quietly into the phone, as if worried her little granddaughter seated next to her could understand her words. "She's very unresponsive. Mostly just sits by herself and stares. She doesn't even seem to want a toy or a stuffed animal to cling to."
"What did the doctor say?" Maggie shifted the phone receiver to her other ear and absently pushed the shift key to bring the document she was working on back to the screen.
"He said she's basically fine, a little undernourished--"
"Surely he commented on her mental state."
"He recommended she be seen by someone."
"Someone."
"A psychiatrist."
"He thinks she's damaged goods."
"Maggie, please. She's been through a rough few...well, her whole life has been rather unfortunate, I'm sure."
Maggie scrolled down on the letter she had started to Laurent and leaned back in her swivel chair.
"So, if the doctor thinks she would benefit from it, are you going to find someone?"
"I don't know. I'd like to wait and see what a stable home life and love will do for the child."
"Could take years."
"Maggie, you know I don't believe--"
"I know, Mom. You don't believe in psychotherapy, but Nicole isn't some shallow, self-absorbed teenager who's trying to rebel against her folks, or some bored housewife who needs to have a nervous breakdown to get some attention. She might be seriously ill."
"She's only five years old."
"I don't know what to say. The doctor recommended--"
"We're going to keep her with us for awhile."
"Mom! I'm not saying send her to a loony bin, I'm saying--":
"Margaret, I know what you're saying and I am saying that I am not convinced the child needs to be examined by a psychiatrist just yet. Am I being clear?"
Maggie turned away from her computer terminal and glanced out her office window. The sky was a hard wash of blue-gray with a battalion of puffed-wheat clouds moving quickly across it, their edges heavy with the promise of rain. "How's she been this morning?" she asked.
"Well, she ate her cereal and she seemed to like that. And she responded briefly to Butter. Now, I thought that was a very good sign."
Maggie tried to picture the child attempting to play with the Newberry golden retriever. The image wouldn't gel.
"Responded how?"
"She looked at Butter. Butter bounded through the dining room and Nicole turned her head and watched her for a moment. It’s just going to take a while."
"Do you get any sense of Elise in her?"
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, Mother, you know what I mean. Does she feel like she's Elise's daughter to you?"
"Well, of course she does."
Yeah, whacked-out and difficult, Maggie thought before she could stop herself.
"Well, anyway, keep me posted, okay? I’m sure you're right. Bit by bit, day by day she's bound to start trusting you and coming out more.”
"I'm sure of it. Will you be coming by for dinner tonight, dear?"
"No, I'm seeing Brownie, but maybe tomorrow, if that's okay."
"Tomorrow will be fine. Oh! I'm having your father add another security system to the house and we want to talk with you about adding one on your apartment too, Maggie."
"I don't need it, Mom."
"I know you don't, sweetheart. It's not for you, it's for me and your father. We have trouble sleeping knowing you're in mortal danger."
Maggie laughed and so did Elspeth.
"Come over tomorrow if you can. And don't worry about Nicole, Maggie. These things have a way of working out."
"I know, Mom. Love to Dad and Nicole."
"I will, darling. Good-bye."
"Bye."
Maggie hung up and turned back to her document on the screen. What had Gerard done to her? She sighed and rested her fingers on the keyboard. Come to that, what had Elise done to her?
Between poor Nicole and what was starting to look like a Franco One-Night Stand, Maggie felt the beginnings of a bone-wracking fatigue wash over her. Would raising a handicapped child in their twilight years serve to assuage the guilt her parents felt about their younger daughter? Would it help them pay enough dues for a good night's sleep? Maggie rubbed her eyes wearily.
"Ready to talk about Hi-Jinks Kiddee Wear?" Gerry poked his head in her office door, a pair of disposable diapers pulled down over his face.
Maggie smiled and slowly gathered up her notebook.
"Product testing?" she said as she followed him into the conference room.
Chapter 5
1
The summer passed in Atlanta in a steamy swelter of wilted magnolias and scorched traffic knots. Polo ponies fainted from the heat in Alpharetta, church picnics never began before sundown, and hundreds of the city's children found themselves in emergency rooms suffering from dehydration or heat stroke.
The humidity was an amazing eighty percent or more nearly every day, and this without a single drop of rainfall. Roses shriveled up like insect husks draped on a fence, and the Georgia Power electric company became richer still as air conditioning units operated at full bore all over the city.
Darla watched the leotard-clad group of women go through their paces, each with a long, fluorescent thong cleaving their pert rear-ends. Darla tried to imagine doing an aerobic workout with a piece of her clothing clamped uncomfortably in this manner and found herself regarding the women with a whole new respect. The music the women were dancing to in the large gymnasium was loud and the words unintelligible to Darla. Their leader, a trim young woman with hair pulled into a ponytail on the top of her head like Pebbles Flintstone, bounced and kicked and squealed her encouragement to the crowd. Her large breasts were just barely restrained in her scant lycra leotard top. They were the only part of her that jiggled, Darla noted.
"Sorry I'm late. Been waiting long?"
Darla jumped at the sound of Maggie’s voice although she'd been waiting ten minutes and expected her.
"God, you're edgy." Maggie and Darla hugged quickly. "I thought suburb living was supposed to be calming."
"It is," Darla agreed, hefting her gym bag to her other shoulder. "It's coming into town I find unnerving."
"Oh," Maggie made a face of understanding. "Coming into Buckhead, huh?"
"Gerry just about shit when I told him where I was meeting you."
"I'm surprised he let you come." Maggie led the way to a set of empty lockers. She tossed down her duffel bag. “He’s so paranoid about the crime in town these days.”
"We had words about it,” Darla admitted. “Maybe it'd be best for my marriage if you and I agreed to have lunch together someplace in Roswell or Smyrna next time, Maggie."
Maggie sat down on the bench in front of the lockers and looked up at Darla. "Is that all that's bothering you, Darl?" she asked.
"It's nothing," Darla said. She placed her bag down and began rummaging around inside it, extricating gym clothes, deodorant, aerobic shoes and socks. "I'll tell you about it sometime when we're both too bored with talking about everything else first."
Maggie continued to watch her friend.
"Really?" she said.
Darla stopped digging in her bag and looked at Maggie.
"Really," she emphasized. "Besides, it's you I want to hear about. What happened in France? Gerry said you met someone."
"I did meet someone but it turned out to be nothing." Maggie pulled off her slacks and folded them loosely before placing them at the bottom of one of the lockers.
"How, nothing? Come on, Maggie, this is Darla, right?"
"Yeah, I know. Well, okay." Maggie held her lycra biking shorts in one hand and lo
oked at them as if doubting the chances of squeezing into them. "He was one of the guys who helped us get Nicole back. He and I had a thing." She shrugged. "I fell for him, Darla," she said, tossing the shorts down and sitting on the little metal bench. "He was so capable and kind. I wish I could tell you. He was soothing to be around but also exciting....and I fell for him. Really hard."
"And you haven't heard from him since you got back."
"It's been nearly three months."
"You really didn't know him very long."
"True."
"Was his English very good?"
"Better than my French."
"But y'all were able to communicate okay?"
"We managed, I'd say, wouldn't you, Darla?"
"Oh, dear. Gerry hadn't mentioned this part. You mean you slept with him?"
"God, Gerry is such a prude. I guess he thought he was protecting my reputation or something by not telling his own wife?"
"You know Gerry."
"Anyway, yes, I slept with him. It felt right at the time."
"And now it feels like you got used. I'm sorry, Maggie."
"Me, too. You know, Darla, I hate to forever destroy the sophisticated image you probably had of me but I haven't slept with a lot of guys and none that I didn't know pretty well."
"So he was special. I can understand that. I don't think the man who preaches the Baptist service at our church would, but..."
"But this one just hit me hard, you know?" Maggie pulled off her blouse and slipped a T-shirt on. "I mean, where the hell am I going these days? I work ten hours a day, work out in an all-women's gym--for what, I might ask?--so I can continue to look good in my Macy's designer dresses to impress clients?" Maggie pulled on her socks and aerobic shoes and began lacing them up. Darla sat down next to her on the bench and put a hand out to calm her.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 5
