Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  “They’re divorcing?” I asked, and did a quick calculation in my head. “They must have been married—forever.”

  “Forty-some years,” Erma said. “So after putting up with that bastard all this time, she’s being pushed aside for a younger version.”

  “Oh my God. How do you know that?” I asked.

  Erma shrugged. “I worked in payroll. I interacted with everyone in the company. I got the dirt on everybody.”

  Wow, cool. Maybe I should get a job in payroll.

  “Arthur is just waiting for his retirement,” Erma said. “He has to keep up appearances, make sure the company’s reputation is unblemished. Any hint of impropriety and the government contracts that are the foundation of Dempsey Rowland would vanish in a heartbeat.”

  “Does Ruth know about the new Mrs. Dempsey waiting in the wings?” I asked.

  “If she suspected it, she wouldn’t believe it,” Erma said. She took another swig of beer. “That’s how obsessed she is with Arthur.”

  Jeremy brought my cheeseburger and another beer for Erma, even though she hadn’t asked for one, then retreated behind the bar again. More customers were in the restaurant now. The noise level amped up a bit.

  “Violet started with the company alongside Arthur—but not as a partner, mind you. She had a big stake in it, emotionally, anyway. She resented Ruth always trying to keep her away from Arthur.” Erma shook her head. “Ah, hell, I told Violet she should leave that place years ago. I begged her to go. But she wouldn’t.”

  I bit into my cheeseburger. Delicious—especially since I doubted it had antioxidants or ancient grains like in the lunch Ty had packed for me today.

  “Violet was loyal—too loyal,” Erma declared. “She thought the place needed her—and she was right about that. Arthur ... he’s a real piece of work. Who knows what would have happened to the company if Violet hadn’t been there.”

  I ate a couple of fries while Erma worked on her beer. I could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, remembering everything that had happened at Dempsey Rowland before her retirement, probably thinking about what had gone on since she left.

  “Violet was a good person, a good friend. She deserved better than to die the way she did,” Erma said, her voice softer. “Hell, after what I did, I should take responsibility for what happened to her.”

  I gulped down a bite of cheeseburger, my senses shifting to high alert. Was Erma about to confess to something? Killing Violet, maybe?

  Damn. I’d really hoped it would be Ruth.

  I leaned in a little and shifted into I’m-your-friend-you-can-tell-me-anything mode, which was totally fake, but still.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  Erma drained half her beer, then shook her head. “You talked to Dale, right? She told you about Violet trying to get her a job at Dempsey Rowland, right?”

  “She said the company wouldn’t hire her,” I said.

  “That’s a load, if I ever heard one,” Erma declared. “It was Arthur. He wouldn’t sign off on hiring her.”

  “Mr. Dempsey himself refused to hire Violet’s granddaughter?” I asked, just to be sure I understood. “She was superqualified. Violet had worked there since the beginning. You couldn’t ask for a better recommendation than that. Why wouldn’t he hire her?”

  “Because Arthur liked throwing his power around,” Erma said. “And because—”

  Erma clamped her mouth closed.

  I hate it when people do that.

  “Because?” I asked, hoping to draw her out again.

  Erma stewed for a minute or so, then said, “Because Arthur knew Violet and Dale would discuss her starting salary, and Arthur didn’t want that happening.”

  Okay, I was completely lost now.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Erma puffed up a bit, as if she were mad—at what, I didn’t know.

  “I told Violet to quit the company,” she grumbled. “I told her years ago that she should leave, go someplace else. But she wouldn’t. No matter how many times I said it, she refused. She had some ridiculous misplaced sense of loyalty, and she wouldn’t leave.”

  Something clicked into place—and I hadn’t even had any chocolate with my lunch.

  “You worked in payroll,” I said. “You knew how much everybody at the company was paid.”

  Erma nodded. “Yes. And I knew that bastard Arthur Dempsey consistently paid Violet thirty percent less than her peers.”

  “Thirty percent?”

  Oh, yeah, that was crappy, all right.

  “Just because she was a woman,” Erma said.

  That was double crappy.

  “Did Violet know?” I asked.

  “Of course not. She thought Arthur paid her fairly because she started the company with him and worked like a dog to keep the place going,” Erma said.

  Something else clicked into place.

  “You told Violet that she was being underpaid?” I said.

  “Hell, yes, I told her,” Erma declared.

  She was fired up now—and I don’t think it was from all the beer she’d been drinking.

  “Violet knocked herself out for that company, year after year, decade after decade. There wouldn’t have even been a company if that power-hungry, egotistical, self-centered, underhanded Arthur Dempsey had run it by himself,” Erma said. “Then, when he refused to hire Dale and Violet was so devastated, I told her about her salary. I thought it would make her—finally—see the truth and leave. Just take her retirement and go, enjoy her life and have some fun, for a change. But instead ...”

  Neither of us said anything for a few minutes while the weight of Erma’s words hung over us like a bad haircut.

  “You want to hear something else?” Erma asked softly.

  I wasn’t sure if I did or not—which wasn’t like me, but there it was.

  “Arthur is retiring with a four million dollar bonus,” she said.

  Okay, now I started to fume.

  “He cut Violet’s pay for years, and now he’s getting a huge bonus?” I asked.

  “You got it,” Erma said.

  “Did Violet know about his retirement bonus?” I asked.

  “I told her everything,” Erma said. She shrugged. “At that point, I figured what the hell, why not?”

  Jeremy brought our check over and I presented the Dempsey Rowland corporate credit card. I figured if the company could give Arthur Dempsey a megabonus, it could pay for our lunches—along with a huge tip for Jeremy, of course.

  “Here. I brought this for you,” Erma said. She dug into her tote bag and handed me a folded piece of paper. “It’s the names you asked for. People who retired who’d want to come to Violet’s memorial service. I added the names and contact information of people who worked for companies we did business with. Some government people, too. Violet knew everybody. They’d all like to be there for her.”

  I put the list in my handbag.

  “Thanks,” I said, and rose from my chair. “I’d better get back to the office.”

  Erma nodded. “Sure thing, honey. I’ll see you at the memorial service.”

  As I turned to leave, I was surprised to see that the restaurant was full now, and that people were lined up for tables. I’d been so caught up in what Erma was saying, I hadn’t noticed.

  A face in the crowd caught my attention. One of the Volturi—I mean, Ruth—stared straight at me. She shifted her gaze to Erma, then back to me, giving me serious stink-eye. I glared right back and walked out of the restaurant without speaking to her.

  I hit the street desperate for a breath of fresh air, some time to think about everything Erma had told me—and a mocha frappuccino, of course.

  By the time I walked down the block to Starbucks, I decided the whole office could use a treat. Sipping my frappie, I went a few doors down to the bakery and ordered two hundred cupcakes to be delivered to Dempsey Rowland tomorrow. That should sure as heck give the employees a boost and improve office morale.

  And m
aybe it would cut into Arthur Dempsey’s bonus a little.

  I took my time getting back to the office. Everything Erma had told me kept running around in my head and I needed some time to process it all.

  Violet’s beloved granddaughter had been denied a job at Dempsey Rowland, then Violet learned from Erma that she’d been significantly underpaid for decades. Iris claimed she saw Violet coming from the Executive Unit the day before her murder, looking absolutely furious.

  Had she had a confrontation with Arthur Dempsey? Or maybe with Ruth, since she kept everyone away from Dempsey at her own whim, it seemed.

  And, regardless, was it a motive to murder Violet?

  I took the elevator up to five. Camille waved to me as I stepped off. Thankfully, she only had some messages for me. No sign of another guy waiting to sing a love song in the lobby.

  “I’m having cupcakes delivered tomorrow at noon for the entire staff,” I said. “Let me know when they arrive, will you?”

  “Of course,” Camille said. She smiled—I think. “That’s so sweet of you, Haley. Constance never did anything like that for the staff. And the birthday club is so much nicer now that you’re running it.”

  I decided to take this opportunity to use Camille’s compliment for my own benefit.

  “Do you remember when I told you about the memorial service for Violet?” I asked. “You were surprised when I said Mr. Dempsey knew about it. Why was that?”

  “Mr. Dempsey and Violet didn’t always get along. I often heard them disagreeing,” Camille said. “It was Violet’s fault, really. She just wouldn’t let things go.”

  “I guess she felt like she should have a say in things, since she helped start the company,” I said.

  “But she wasn’t a partner, or anything,” Camille pointed out. “Ruth told me many times that Violet could be quite pushy and overstep herself, especially where Mr. Dempsey was concerned. Ruth and Violet never really got along either.”

  “I see,” I said.

  I didn’t really, but it was easier to just walk away.

  I headed for my office, the effects of my mocha frappuccino zapping my brain cells like price scanners at a clearance sale.

  If neither Ruth nor Mr. Dempsey liked Violet, why give her a memorial service? Was it just to keep up appearances?

  Or maybe to throw suspicion off of her killer?

  Despite my lack of real evidence, I still hoped that Ruth was the murderer. Violet, according to Iris, was furious with somebody in the Executive Unit the day before she died. It could have been Ruth.

  What about Mr. Dempsey? He wasn’t exactly the nicest man on the planet, but that wasn’t motive for murder. In fact, it seemed like Violet had a heck of a good reason to kill him.

  And why would either of them kill Violet here in the office? A murder and a police investigation sure as heck weren’t good for the company image that everyone was so concerned about.

  Either somebody else had killed Violet—like Max or Tina, my other two suspects—or Ruth or Mr. Dempsey had a megahuge reason to murder her on the spot.

  But what was it?

  I turned the corner and spotted Adela walking toward me. Her pace picked up when she saw me, and I could see that she was in there’s-a-problem mode, big time. She stopped in front of me.

  “I need to speak to you immediately,” Adela said.

  Her jaw was clinched so tight, her lips barely moved.

  Not a good sign.

  Adela whipped around and headed back down the hallway, leaving me to follow her into my office. Inside, I saw that yet another arrangement of roses had been delivered. I knew without looking at the card that they were from Ty.

  It was really sweet of him, of course, but, come on, enough already. My office was starting to resemble a wedding chapel.

  Adela wasn’t the least bit touched by the lovely ambience or sweet floral scent in my office. She turned on me like a soccer mom on double-coupon day.

  “I just spoke with Mildred in accounting,” Adela declared. “What is going on with your corporate credit card?”

  I didn’t think she really wanted an answer, because she didn’t wait for one—which was good, since I didn’t know what the heck she was talking about.

  “According to Mildred, you’re not using approved vendors,” Adela said.

  Vendors had to be approved?

  “You’ve purchased balloons for the birthday club. Balloons aren’t authorized,” she said.

  Birthday club items had to be authorized?

  “And you’re dangerously close to going over budget,” Adela told me.

  There was a budget?

  “What is going on?” Adela demanded.

  It sounded to me as if Adela already knew perfectly well what was going on, thanks to Mildred in accounting—whoever that was—ratting me out. But, luckily, I’d worked in a corporate environment before and was very familiar with the time-honored tradition of passing blame along to someone else.

  Immediately I shifted into I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong mode.

  “First of all, I’d suspected there were some irregularities on accounting’s end regarding the corporate card,” I told her. “In fact, I planned to speak with Mildred this afternoon.”

  Lying was another time-honored corporate tradition—which was really bad of me, but what else could I do?

  “If you’ll recall, Adela,” I went on, “I accepted this position in corporate events planning under extremely difficult circumstances. I’m working with directions, lists, and models put together by Patty and Constance, which concerned me from the start. Now, after hearing of these questions from accounting, I can see that my concerns were well-founded.”

  Yeah, I know, it was all b.s., plus it was super stinky of me to throw both Patty and Constance onto the sacrificial I’m-desperate-to-keep-this-job corporate altar. But if they didn’t want people talking smack about them behind their backs, they should have come to work.

  Adela didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, then went into back-down mode.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll leave this situation to you. But I expect it to be handled promptly.”

  “It’s been my experience that promptly is the only way to handle an incident of this nature,” I told her.

  “Fine,” Adela said again, then whipped around and left my office.

  I pushed my door closed and launched into full-on, all-out, big-time total panic mode.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

  I could get fired for scheduling lunches at restaurants where the food actually tasted good? And for buying balloons? Balloons?

  If Mildred in accounting was blabbing to Adela now, what would happen when the charges for today’s lunch with Erma and the zillion cupcakes I’d bought rolled in?

  I couldn’t—could not—lose this job. Sarah Covington would find out. Ty would find out. Everybody would find out.

  The pay here was beyond fabulous, and there was no end to all the things I wanted to buy.

  There was no time clock here—something crucial to my employment success. Nobody paid any attention to when I got to work, when I left, or even if I stayed all day, making this my all-time perfect job situation.

  And, besides, I’d bought eight—eight—business suits. Where would I wear them if I didn’t work here?

  I forced myself to calm down. I had to think.

  There was still an outside possibility that whoever was doing the background investigations now might not bother to verify that the UM I’d listed on my résumé was really the University of Mixology and not the University of Michigan. I mean, really, who would question that? I might actually pass the background check and get my security clearance.

  I paced back and forth through my office, my brain pounding, searching feverishly for a solution.

  Wow, could I ever use a Snickers bar or two right now.

  Nobody had asked for my résumé—I still didn’t know why mine was the only one that had been lost—so that meant my backg
round investigation hadn’t actually begun yet. I still had time to redeem myself for my unapproved restaurant and birthday club faux pas.

  I hate the birthday club.

  Now I hate balloons, too.

  Then an idea blasted through my brain. I knew just how to salvage this situation.

  I’d have to do a stellar job on Mr. Dempsey’s retirement party. Yeah, that was it. Any minor screw-up I’d made with the corporate credit card on a few cupcakes, lunches, and unauthorized balloons would be forgiven in a heartbeat once everyone saw what a fabulous job I did on that party.

  My entire future came down to one party.

  Was that crappy, or what?

  Anyway, I heaved a sigh of relief that I’d figured everything out. I had a plan—a great plan—to put into action.

  But first I had to rearrange my office, call a friend—and go shopping, of course.

  I grabbed my purse and left.

  CHAPTER 23

  Five o’clock was the official quitting time at Dempsey Rowland and the place emptied out pretty much on time—I knew this because I was usually among the first wave of employees to hit the elevator.

  Of course, there were always a few kiss-asses who lingered, hoping to be seen by senior management and score some points toward their next promotion and pay raise. Today, I was one of those people who stayed late—but for an entirely different reason.

  I sat at my desk, staring at my watch, willing my phone to ring. Right on cue, at three minutes before the hour, Camille called.

  “You have a visitor,” she said. “I told him the offices were closing, but he insisted.”

  “Thank you, Camille, I’ll be right there,” I said.

  It took everything I had not to run through the halls to the reception area, but I forced myself to walk slowly. In the lobby—looking way hot in jeans, a dress shirt, and sport coat—stood Jack Bishop.

  Wow, what a sight at the end of a long day.

  “Miss Randolph, thank you for seeing me so late in the day,” Jack said as he came forward extending his hand.

  I’d asked Jack to come to my office and pretend he was a visitor during a phone conversation we’d had this afternoon. He’d agreed to do it—but he didn’t know what else I had in mind for him.