“Hi, Toby?”
He looked up and I stuck out my hand.
“Pepper Pomeroy of Perfect Proposals.”
“Right,” he said and stood, taking my hand and giving it a quick shake. “So, you’re a redhead.”
“Yes,” I said with a nod. It was usually the first thing people noticed about me. The next was my long, thin Olive Oyl frame. “Shall we get some coffee and talk?”
“No need for coffee,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’m interested in the movies.” He took me to the back where the wall of movie racks sat. Strangely he went right to the B-movie action-adventure DVDs and started stacking them up on his arm.
“Um, okay.” I watch as he pulled at least five out at random, but flipped past others. Then I noticed one I’d actually seen. “Hey, that one was pretty good,” I said in an effort to be helpful.
“Got it,” Toby said. “I own most of these. I’m looking to fill the gaps with the ones I don’t have.”
“Right, okay, so about the proposal,” I pulled my pen and notepad out of my purse and wrote his name across the top. “Wait, I’m sorry, what is your last name?”
“Mallard, Toby Mallard, with two l’s.” He pointed at my notebook.
“Thanks, Toby Mallard with two l’s. Now, what kind of proposal are you thinking of?”
“Oh, something out of this world, you know, romantic and magical and certain to make my love say yes, yes, yes.” He didn’t even look at me as he continued to peruse the movies.
“Okay, well, what kinds of things does your, er, love think are romantic?”
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff.”
I winced and wrote down usual stuff. “Well, see, that’s a problem. I deal in the unusual stuff. For instance, Warren Evans proposed to his bride-to-be in a private plane filled with memorabilia from their dating life.”
“I know. I heard them tell Amy Hanson all about it.”
“Then there’s the guy who did this scuba proposal because he and his fiancée loved to travel and scuba together. I have a client right now with a parachuting proposal. Do you see how it’s the unusual and grand gesture that makes it a Perfect Proposal? It’s something that you and your love do together that binds you to one another and reflects the type of couple you are.”
“Right.”
This wasn’t working. “How long have you been going out?”
“The usual amount of time,” he said.
“Okay, how old is she?”
“The right age for me.”
I was really getting frustrated. “Can you at least tell me her name?”
“Her name is Laura.”
That was something. I wrote it down. “Good, Laura, that’s good.”
Toby continued to shop, not making eye contact. I tried to remain professional. I had a bad feeling that he might be wasting my time.
“What kind of hobbies does Laura have?”
He shrugged. “Girl hobbies, you know, shopping and such.”
“Does she like to shop for anything in particular? For example, you have an action/adventure movie collection—”
“How did you know that?” He frowned.
I pointed to the stack in his hands. “You told me.”
“Huh.” He glanced down at his hands then moved on to looking through the vinyl album section. I presumed he was a vinyl record album fan. Some people collected old records because they swore the sound was better than the new digital recordings. I was happy not to have stacks of records in my house collecting dust. All my music was stored online.
The vinyl album section was thankfully smaller than the movie section. There was a long silence while he quickly went through the records. Clearly he wasn’t going to answer the last question. Time to be more direct.
“Does she collect anything? Anything at all? Dolls, elephants, cookie jars?”
“I doubt it.” He frowned as he pulled out an old Guns N’ Roses album, flipped it over, read the songs, and put it back.
Time to quit being nice and get down to brass tacks. “What is it that you want to hire me for?”
“I need a girl’s point of view,” he said as he dug through the old covers. “You know, I want a fancy restaurant, but I’m not really into that, so I need someone to pick one out.”
“You want me to pick out a fancy restaurant?”
“Yes, and I want the place decorated with Laura’s favorite flowers . . . whatever those are.”
“You need me to find out and book her favorite restaurant and order her favorite flowers?”
“Oh, and I want the place all to ourselves.”
“Buying out an entire restaurant will be quite costly.”
“I told you money was not a problem. It’s the details and such.”
“What if it cost, oh, I don’t know, fifty thousand dollars?” I threw a big number out there to test him.
He didn’t even flinch. “Okay,” he said, and moved on to the books. “Oh, and I need you to pick out a ring.”
“Pick out an engagement ring,” I stated and wrote nuts in my notebook. “Do you know her ring size? What kind of stone she wants? What cut she prefers?”
“That’s what I’m paying you for,” he said.
“How am I supposed to do any of that if I don’t know anything about Laura?” Seriously, was I supposed to become a private detective?
He stopped shopping and looked at me. “I’m rich. Like very rich. Make it happen for me, okay?”
I was so frustrated I’d decided to quote him triple my current rate. Let’s see how rich he really is. “Fine, can I see a picture of Laura?”
“What’s that going to do?”
“It will allow me to see her style, her coloring, so I can help with the ring.” I half wondered if he was making the whole thing up.
“Okay.” He pulled out a top-of-the-line iPhone and scrolled through it. “Here. This is Laura.”
He showed me a picture of a gorgeous young woman who looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was slim, dark haired, and the photo looked like it had been taken when she was crossing a marathon finish line. Sweaty and all, she was still beautiful.
“Where does she work?” I asked. She looked like a model or a television personality. If that were the case, I might be able to find out more about her online.
“She’s a partner at Marley and Thomas, LLC. It’s a law firm.”
“Yes, I know the firm.” They handled all the big political cases in Chicago. “I thought I recognized her.” Most likely I had seen her on television after all.
“You can’t visit her at work. No one gets in there without an appointment.”
“I bet,” I said, and frowned. “Wait, you can. How about you bring me in to meet her and I’ll pretend that I’m just a friend.”
He shook his head. “Won’t work.”
“Lunch then, you can tell her you went to college with me and I’m in town for a day and you want her to meet me.”
“No.”
“How am I supposed to meet her?”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” He went to the cashier to pay for his stack of purchases.
“That’s going to take time and I get paid by the hour,” I said. “In fact, I’ll need a retainer up front.”
“I figured,” he said, and fished his wallet out of his back pocket. “I got you a cashier’s check.” He pulled out a folded check and handed it to me.
I opened the check and blinked at the amount. I confirmed that it was a cashier’s check made out to Perfect Proposals.
“I assume that will cover your down payment,” he said, and pushed his movies and books toward the bored-looking kid behind the counter.
“Yes,” I said as I stared at the check. “This will cover it.”
“Good. I look fo
rward to hearing your ideas.” He paid the bill, and when he put his credit card back in his wallet, he pulled out a card and handed it to me. “You can reach me here.” He gathered up his bags. “Talk to you soon.”
I watched him leave the bookstore and looked back down at the check. It was for ten thousand dollars. He hadn’t even asked me to sign a contract or a quote or put in a bid.
“You okay, honey?” The manager came up to the counter. She was a middle-aged woman who studied me through her cat-eyed reading glasses.
“Yes, I am, thanks.” I carefully put the check in my purse along with my notebook and pen, and pushed through the bookstore door. Toby might turn out to be a difficult client, but every business owner had their price, and right now mine was going straight to the bank.
Chapter 11
I stopped by Gage’s prop warehouse on my way back to my apartment. Well, it wasn’t exactly on the way, but I was in a happy mood. The moment I had gotten in my car, I drove straight to an ATM machine and deposited that check. There was no way I was going to be robbed with a ten-thousand-dollar cashier’s check in my purse. I’m sure it would take a few days to process, but at least it was in a safe place.
Don’t get me wrong, Mom had been correct when she told Vidalia that Warren had helped me start Perfect Proposals, but this was my first big client check. I still didn’t quite believe it. In fact the whole thing was so odd, it certainly felt too good to be true. If Todd decided he wanted his money back, or I discovered I couldn’t figure out how to make his proposal perfect, I could still give him a refund. If I lost the check or worse—got mugged—then I would be in a bad, bad place.
I parked in the lot at the side of the warehouse, checked my hair, slicked on some fresh lipstick, and went to see Gage. The prop warehouse catered to the Chicago theater and movie scene. Many movies were shot in town, and we had a very active commission for the arts that ensured we were, if not world-class, then nationally known for our theater and film support.
The doors were rigged with bells that went off when you crossed the threshold. There was a young guy sitting at the desk that served as a reception area. He looked about nineteen with floppy light brown hair, a generous nose, dark brown eyes, and a thin build.
“Hi,” I said.
He put down his graphic novel. “Hey.”
I stood for a moment, awkwardly expecting him to ask if he could help me. Finally, I gave in and spoke. “Right, I’m looking for Gage. Is he around?”
“Sure.” The kid went back to his novel.
I guess that was my cue to go back into the warehouse proper and look for my boyfriend. Gage had taken me through the place a couple of times with my first two jobs, but I had followed him like a little puppy, not really paying that much attention to where we were going and how we got there. That happened sometimes when I was around a handsome guy.
“So, he’s in the back?” I asked, and pointed to the door that led to the rest of the warehouse.
“Yep.”
I moved my gaze from the kid to the door and back a couple of times, shrugged, and made my way into the back. The bay doors must have been open because there was the distinctive smell of diesel from a truck. I heard the beep, beep sound of someone backing up a forklift. It was a lot dimmer in the huge warehouse than in the front office reception space. I stood there a moment, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
Between the scent of dust, the diesel, the dimness, and the beeping of the forklift, I found it difficult to get my bearings. Someone put their hand on my shoulder and I may have screamed a little.
“Whoa, it’s okay, it’s me,” Gage said with a big grin.
I put my hand on my racing heart. “You scared me silly. My heart is going a mile a minute.”
“I’d rather it was desire that got your heart racing,” he teased, and kissed my cheek. “It’s nice to see you. What brings you by the old prop house?” He waved his hand at the racks of warehoused furniture and crazy props of all shapes and sizes. Just for the treasure hunting alone, I’d love to have the time to go through the place. It was like the city’s giant attic.
“I came to see you, mostly.” I kissed him back and smiled.
“Now that’s the kind of thing a man likes to hear from a beautiful woman. Let’s go into my office and get out of the dust and the noise.” He put his hand on the small of my back and I got all gooey inside. There was something so nice about walking beside him and feeling the heat of his body.
At work Gage wore a pale blue, long-sleeved, button-down shirt with Prop House embroidered over the front pocket. The collar was open showing a snow white V-neck tee underneath. I wanted so bad to bury my nose in the little vee and inhale the scent of cotton T-shirt warmed by clean male with a hint of aftershave. Loose-fitting jeans and Top-Sider shoes finished his uniform.
I was thankful I’d checked my hair, which was in a neat—well as neat as curly red hair could ever be—low ponytail at the base of my neck. Today I wore a floaty floral top over a cotton tank dress and wedge sandals that made me nearly as tall as Gage, who was six foot two.
His office was to the right of the door at the front of the warehouse, so it faced the long rows of shelves and you could almost see the open bay doors. “Have a seat.” He waved toward a plastic chair in front of his desk. “Can I get you some coffee or a bottle of water?”
“Yes,” I said with a short laugh. “I just met with a new client and was expecting at least coffee, but it didn’t happen.”
“No?” he asked as he snagged two mugs from the side credenza in his office.
“No, and I was willing to buy, even.” I shook my head at the memory of the odd encounter with Toby.
Gage poured coffee from a small eight-cup drip maker. “I just made this so it’s fresh. Creamer?”
“Yes, please,” I said as I took the warm mug. The room filled with the rich scent of coffee. “Oh, the good stuff,” I said as I sipped and held out my hand for the two liquid half-and-half servings he gave me.
“I’m not much into house blends,” he said with a laugh.
“I figured,” I said. The coffee was definitely not the standard coffeehouse brew. “No Keurig?”
“Naw, I’m still old-fashioned enough to like a pot of coffee.”
“I agree. There’s something about seeing the full pot sitting there ready for you and watching it being poured into your cup. Gosh, I sound like a nostalgic old person.” I giggled at the thought.
He sat on the edge of his desk and sent me a look. “You really like your coffee.”
“I’ve spent a lot of late nights with just me and my coffeepot.”
“So tell me about this new client,” he nudged.
“I don’t know what to think.” I shook my head. “It’s why I stopped by. The whole thing is odd and I wanted to talk to someone about it.”
“Okay.” He sipped and studied me with his warm gaze.
“I got a call from this guy, Toby, who said he overheard Warren and Felicity talking about their proposal at the country club.”
“Sounds good so far.”
“We set up an appointment at his local bookstore, Centre City Books. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard about it.” He tilted his head, his gaze intent.
“I get there expecting to get some coffee and talk. Instead I find him. He wore a red carnation—”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it was safety pinned to his T-shirt.”
“His T-shirt?”
“Yes.” We shared a smile. “I introduced myself and he got up, asked me to follow him, and started shopping.”
“Shopping?” Gage raised his left brow and took a sip of coffee.
“Right? He pulled an armful of old B action movies from the DVD section. He never made eye contact as he told me he wanted to ask his ‘love’”—I made air quotes around the word love—“t
o marry him and he wanted me to pull out all the stops. But when I asked him some questions about his girlfriend, he wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me anything about her.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, when I pressed him, I got her first name. And he had a picture of her running a marathon. Come to think of it, I should have asked him if he had any photos of them together.”
“I don’t have any photos of us together,” Gage said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Really?” I scrunched my brow. “We’ve know each other for years.”
“And you were with Bobby the entire time.”
“Oh, well, we’ll take care of that right now.” I got up and wiggled in close to him, he put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder. “Smile,” I urged as I held out my phone and took two quick snapshots. “I’ll—”
He snagged my chin with his index finger and kissed me on the lips. The kiss was soft and warm and nearly perfect. In my surprise I made an oh sound and he took advantage to deepen the kiss.
Well, then, I thought. Since that was so nice, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back until my toes curled. Someone knocked on the window of his office and catcalled loud enough that we could hear it through the glass.
“Okay,” I said, and stepped back. “Wow.”
He sat there grinning.
My cheeks flamed bright red. I knew this because the heat in them was intense and I couldn’t stop the pinchy smile that always came on when I was embarrassed. Being a redhead, every emotion showed on my skin. I distracted myself by looking at the pictures on my phone. They were really quite good. “I’ll text these to you.”
“Thanks,” he said, and picked his coffee cup back up. “You were telling me that there was something off about this client.”
“Right.” I sat back down after sending the text. “Toby, that’s his name.”
“You told me that,” he said, and nodded. “Go on.”
Bodice of Evidence Page 10
