Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  I hated the fact that Zander Closet Company had gotten caught up in this whole mess. And if Ms. Rapple was right, I was partly to blame.

  Andy Zander had given me my first real break. Sure, my slogan had been good—damn good. But if he hadn’t hired me (and given me that nice big paycheck), I’d be living on the street by now. Me, my Cocoa Puffs, and I.

  I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I completely missed my door. Doubling back, I went inside and headed for JoAnna’s desk at the end of the hallway.

  “Good heavens, Tobi, what’s going on?” JoAnna came from around her desk to give me a quick hug. Her normal easygoing sparkle was noticeably absent, replaced by a worry that extended beyond her eyes to her mouth and stance.

  “Going on?”

  “I’ve gotten calls from WKTS-5, WJRT-4, Fox-2, and some ham radio operator up north. Moscow Mills, I think. They all want to speak to you. And some of them were rather rude and pushy.”

  I peeled off my thin, black leather coat and draped it over the crook of my arm. “Oh. That.”

  “Oh that? To-bi!”

  I sunk into the metal-framed upholstered chair across from her desk and pulled my coat onto my lap.

  “I guess I never stopped to think you wouldn’t know.” I nibbled the inside of my left cheek for a moment then went the way of a rhetorical question. “You didn’t read the paper this morning, either?”

  JoAnna shook her head slowly, leaned back against her desk, and waited for me to continue.

  “When did you hit the road on Friday?” I asked.

  “As soon as I left here at five.”

  “So you didn’t see the newscast that night?”

  “No. How did the segment look?”

  “Great. Corrine Martin, the reporter for Channel 2, started the story outside the Hohlbrooks’ home with a Zander truck in the driveway. She interviewed the president of the Home Showcase who used the popularity of our slogan to entice people to the event. And she talked to Gary on-camera too. He was fun to watch because he was so jazzed about everything. It was all very exciting.”

  JoAnna smiled at me. “And you? How did you look?”

  “Okay. Professional.”

  “You didn’t snort, did you?”

  I leaned my head against the wall behind my chair and looked up at the dot pattern on the drop ceiling. “No, I didn’t.”

  JoAnna laughed. “Good. Did you tape it for me?”

  “Of course. And if my copy breaks, my mom’s got about fifty more.”

  “So? What’s happened since?”

  I forced my gaze off the ceiling and back onto my secretary. “You really want to know?” At her raised eyebrow, I filled in the dreaded blank. “Well, I guess you could say my slogan hit a little too close to home.”

  JoAnna stared at me, her eyes squinting as she appeared to process my words. “How so?”

  “Remember the skeleton part?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Well, apparently a Zander closet can actually, in fact, house a dead body. In some of their taller, more expensive cabinets, of course.”

  Seeing the confusion on her face in the wake of my half-story, I cut to the chase. “While Sam was taking shots of the Hohlbrooks’ new closet, I asked Andy about a particular cabinet. He said it was for an ironing board but when he opened it, Preston Hohlbrook’s body fell out.”

  JoAnna gasped. “You can’t be serious.”

  I looked at the floor and nodded, tried to think of something else to talk about. Of course, there was nothing. So I offered a few more revelations.

  “He was strangled with a drape cord. Sometime between Friday evening and when we found him.”

  “Strangled by whom? And why?”

  I shrugged. “All good questions. As of now, there are no answers.”

  “So why are the stations calling here?”

  I dug my fingers into the glass jar on JoAnna’s desk and slowly unwrapped a mint. My mouth was dry, real dry. “The media is having a field day touting my slogan as some sort of foreshadowing.”

  She gasped again. Only this time it wasn’t a gasp of surprise.

  “Oh, come on. They can’t possibly believe—” JoAnna’s pallor drained to the color of chalk as she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “JoAnna? Are you okay?”

  “It makes sense now.” She pushed off her desk, walked around to her chair, and peeled a pink while-you-were-out sticky note off her calendar.

  “What makes sense?”

  “These.”

  “What is it, JoAnna?”

  “When I came in this morning there were messages from both A-1 Garage Door Company and Murphy’s Bar & Grill.”

  I saw the way she looked at me, saw the pity where disbelief had been just moments earlier. “And?”

  The quick jump of her throat told me what I needed to know. I gulped as tears sprang to my eyes. “They’ve canceled, haven’t they?”

  JoAnna reached across her desk and patted my hand while I fought the urge to bawl like a baby. How could things go from so awesome to so crappy in such a short amount of time?

  We sat that way for a long time. In silence. Each of us deep in thought and at a loss for how to fix something so far beyond our control.

  In fact, it’s how we still were when the front door opened ten minutes later. I looked up, hoping to see one of our canceled appointments with a change of heart. Instead, I caught a glimpse of a crew cut behind an enormous floral arrangement the likes of which I’d never seen.

  “Can I help you?” JoAnna asked while I continued to stare.

  “Uh. Yeah.” The twenty-something male set the cardboard-protected vase on a corner of JoAnna’s desk and reached for the delivery slip in his back pocket. He pulled it out and turned it over. “Yeah. These are for some guy named Tobi. Tobi, uhhhh, Tobias. He here?”

  I shook JoAnna off. The assumption that I was a man was something I’d dealt with since childhood, thanks to my parents. The fact that my first name was simply a shortened version of my last name just made me even more of a curiosity. How my parents could have been so clueless to the hell that awaited me on the school bus, and in the lunchroom, and on the playground, was beyond my ability to comprehend. But somehow, along the way, after years of taunting by my elementary school classmates, and inaccurate profiling by most of the colleges I’d applied to, I’d gotten to a point where I actually liked my name. It suited me.

  I reached up, pulled the French clip from the back of my head and let my blond hair fall onto my shoulders. I ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them and stood.

  Delivery Guy looked up from his sheet and met my eyes. I saw his Adam’s apple move up and down while his eyes ran from the top of my head to my sling-back shoes. Slowly.

  Then, just as that look of male appreciation crept across his face, I spoke. “I’m Tobi Tobias.”

  The look that followed was one I knew well—surprise fused with a mixture of embarrassment and posturing. The fact that I took such great enjoyment in it these days was simply a commentary on my current pitiful existence rather than any residual childhood trauma.

  Delivery Guy coughed, swallowed, and coughed again.

  “Mint?” JoAnna offered.

  Judging by the way his face reddened, Delivery Guy knew he was being mocked. And, being the lightweight that I am, I finally let him off the hook. “It’s okay. Really. I’ve gotten that my entire life. It’s not your fault. It’s my parents’.”

  He nodded slowly. His caught-in-the-headlights expression slowly faded. “I bet I looked like quite the idiot just now, huh?”

  “Really, it’s okay.” I pointed at the arrangement on the desk. “Those are really for me?”

  “Uh-huh.” He handed me the delivery sheet and then slapped his hands against the pockets of his jeans and coat.

  “Pen?”

  He flashed a sheepish grin in JoAnna’s direction and took the ballpoint from her outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

  I signed my name besid
e the black X and handed the pen back to JoAnna. “They’re beautiful.”

  “It’s one of our nicest arrangements.” Delivery Guy gave me the once-over one more time. “You must be pretty special.”

  I waited until he left before I pulled the card from its plastic fork-like holder.

  “Did something else happen while I was away this weekend?” JoAnna asked.

  “You mean did I find a man and fall in love sometime between discovering Preston Hohlbrook’s body and walking in here this morning? Um, that would be a no.”

  I tore open the tiny white envelope and stared at the inscription.

  It’s time for you to go back to school, little one.

  You’ve got a lot more learning to do.

  John Beckler

  Now I’m not one for cursing. Really. I see the use of obscenities as a reflection on the lack of literary creativity in our country. But, like all things in life, there’s an exception to everyone’s personal beliefs. John Beckler was mine.

  When I was finished with my diatribe (which, in all fairness, would have made a career-curser laugh) I looked at JoAnna, her mouth open wide enough to catch a swarm of summer flies.

  I apologized and then handed her the card.

  I watched her eyes scan the note. I watched her lips tighten in disgust. And then, shock of all shocks, she let her own string of obscenities fly. Only the career-cursers would have applauded her effort.

  “Who the hell does he think he is?” she asked.

  I took the card back, placed it on top of the envelope, and shoved it between the plastic fork thingy. “Who he always is. A boil on the backside of mankind.”

  JoAnna grabbed the arrangement off her desk and started for the back door.

  “Wait. Where are you taking that?” I asked.

  “The dumpster.”

  “No. Don’t.”

  JoAnna spun around, her mouth wider than it was during my verbal descent. “Good heavens, Tobi. Why on earth would you want to keep them?”

  I tugged my jacket down and squared my shoulders. “Motivation.”

  “Motivation?”

  “That’s right. Motivation. John Beckler would love nothing more than to see me fail. And the weekend’s news tying my slogan to Preston Hohlbrook’s murder had to be music to his ears. I should have known the flowers were from him. It’s got his MO written all over it. He takes great pleasure in pouring salt in people’s wounds. Especially people who threaten his ego by daring to think they can make it on their own without him.” I took the flowers from JoAnna and headed down the hall toward my office. “Don’t you see? Our success the past week has gotten to him. Gotten to him good. So I’m going to put these on a shelf where I can see them. Where they can motivate me to make Zander one of a long list.”

  I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to see JoAnna’s smile. I knew it was there. I was just glad she couldn’t see my shoulders slump when I walked into my office and out of her line of vision.

  As true as the whole John Beckler motivation thing was most days, today it was different. I’d gotten in his head all right—for a grand total of four days. And then reality dropped in.

  I set the arrangement on my bookshelf and glanced at my desk. The pile of bills had definitely shrunk over the past few days, thanks to my first Zander check, but it wasn’t completely gone. In order to accomplish that feat, I needed to hold on to them and secure more clients.

  My mind wandered to Mitzi’s living room and the conversation with Andy. Specifically, the part about Craig Miticker and New Town. Landing a powerhouse account like that would mean the end to virtually all my money worries.

  But Beckler and Stanley wouldn’t give up their bread and butter without a battle—a battle that would be a lot easier to engage in without the deadly premonition tag hanging over my latest work. In a parallel universe, I would pick up the phone and call Mike. After all, he was my first and only mentor in this business. But since the universe I resided in had me wanting to swipe one of his company’s biggest clients, I knew that option was off the table.

  Instead, I grabbed a pen and some paper from the top of my filing cabinet and walked over to my window. You’d be surprised what lines in a parking lot can do for one’s thoughts.

  Okay, maybe not.

  But it didn’t really matter because my creativity was somewhat stifled at the moment. A dead body and less-than-desirable news coverage had a way of inhibiting stuff like that.

  My intercom buzzed.

  I walked over to my desk and pressed the black button atop my phone. “Yes, JoAnna?”

  “Mr. Zander is here to see you.”

  I gulped.

  JoAnna, being JoAnna, anticipated my mental question and answered it with finesse. “Would you like me to settle Andrew in the conference room or send him to your office?”

  My gaze flew around the room, skirted my relatively clear desk (JoAnna had been busy before I showed up), and rested on the decorative mirror to the left of my fake—but tasteful—silk palm tree. I spread my fingers, worked them up my hair to the roots, and gave a gentle tug upward (gotta love Carter and his grooming tips). I puckered my lips and was pleasantly surprised to see that the soft champagne hue I’d forked over six bucks for did, indeed, live up to its claim of unsurpassed staying power. Unfortunately, nothing in my makeup bag had worked on the dullness in my eyes. I mean, really. When are these cosmetic firms going to wake up and create something to reverse the effects of finding a dead body? Sheesh. Other than the absence of a sparkle, though, I was pleased enough with the face I saw looking back.

  “My office is fine, JoAnna, thank you.”

  Now that he was on his way, I allowed my mind to process what this unexpected meeting could mean. And I didn’t like where my thoughts jumped.

  A soft tap at my door coincided with the sudden thumping in my chest. He wasn’t coming to fire me, was he?

  I swallowed. Hard. Forcing a smile to my lips, I pulled my door open. “Good morning, Andr—Andy.”

  The deep voice and boyish smile that greeted me caught me off guard, and I lost all business acumen from that moment forward. He, in turn, stood awkwardly in the doorway, a small lavender gift bag clutched in his left hand. “Can I come in?”

  Good, Tobi. Real good. Professional . . .

  A quick flash of warmth spread across my face, and I motioned him into my office. “Of course. Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  As he passed, I poked my head into the hallway and made a face at JoAnna’s eye roll.

  I shut the door of my office and studied Andy Zander for a moment as he peered at the various framed photographs on my shelves. He didn’t look tense like I’d imagined he would if he’d come to fire me. In fact, he looked rather relaxed in a pair of khaki slacks and a navy polo, his tanned chest visible through the unbuttoned neckline.

  “This is Hawaii, isn’t it?”

  I pulled my gaze off his body and moved closer to the shelf, our shoulders brushing against one another for a brief but wonderful moment. “Yes. That’s my brother and his wife.”

  “Have you been?” he asked.

  “To Hawaii?” I laughed. “I wish.”

  “It’s beautiful. You’d love it.” He moved a centimeter to his left, our shoulders touching once again. He pointed to a five-by-seven print in a delicate silver frame with tiny hearts woven into the wire. “Is that your sister?”

  I looked at the picture of the barefoot brunette clad in Bohemian garb. “Yes, it is. How’d you guess?”

  “She has your nose and cheekbones.”

  I stood there for a moment, uncertain how to respond. But of course that didn’t last long. “She’s a hippie.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, like I’m not sure she owns a pair of shoes. Unless you count the rubber thing she ties to the bottom of each foot.”

  Andy laughed. (Have I mentioned the fact that his laugh starts somewhere deep in his chest and makes my heart skip a beat?) “You’ve met Gary. So you kno
w I get the whole different-as-night-and-day sibling thing.”

  I grinned and pointed at the picture of my sister. “My brother and I used to tell her she was adopted all the time. We even had a certificate we showed her as proof. But she never quite believed a judge would sign a document like that with Crayola’s Screamin Green.”

  “Purple Mountains’ Majesty didn’t work with Gary, either.”

  I think we stood there and laughed for five minutes before I finally got with the program and realized he hadn’t come to discuss my family tree, or Crayola’s wide assortment of colors for that matter. So I motioned to the set of chairs in front of my desk.

  “What can I do for you this morning?”

  He strode over to the chair and sat, placing his bag on the floor beside his feet. “Things didn’t exactly go as planned on Saturday.”

  So he was here to talk about my slogan. My deadly slogan. I sat down behind my desk and leaned forward. Despite the confidence I hoped to convey with my voice, all I could find was a single, husky word. “Yes.”

  Good answer, Tobi. Confident. Reflective . . .

  He looked at me curiously. “Are you okay?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I mean, if I went with the truth, I’d be babbling on and on like an idiot. If I said I was fine, he’d see right through my shaky voice and sparkle-less eyes.

  So I opted for the truth, buffered with a little Tobi-esque confidence (that’s what I call that strange calm that envelops me at the oddest of times). “I will be. Once I get the media latched onto the truth.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m so sorry about all of this, Andy. If I’d known this would happen I’d have taken the slogan in a different direction.”

  Andy held up his hands, palms out. “Please. Your slogan is dynamite. It was the talk of the town last week.”

  “And all weekend,” I said quietly.

  “Well, yeah. But I predict the negative aspect will fall by the wayside as the truth comes to light. I’m just hoping for sooner rather than later.”

  “I wish I could share your optimism, but our slogan timed with Preston Hohlbrook’s murder is a reporter’s dream come true.” I picked a pen out of the rectangular holder and tapped it gently on the desk. “But I plan to change all that.”