His eyes narrowed. “How?”
“By finding the killer.”
“Whoa. No way. You concentrate on my print brochure and creating a commercial script. I don’t need to be worrying about you, okay?”
My face grew warm again. Worry? Did he really say worry?
Seeming to sense the sudden charge in the room, Andy leaned quickly to his side and plucked the lavender bag up off the floor. He set it on my desk and smiled. I remembered that bag. It was in his hand when he returned from his car just before the photo shoot we never finished.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“My way of saying thanks. For all your hard work.”
He could have knocked me over with a feather at that moment. Andy was thanking me? I sat there, dumbfounded.
He scooted the bag closer. “Open it.”
I always wondered what it meant in all those novels when a character swallowed around a lump in their throat. Now I knew. I had a lump. And I swallowed around it.
I reached into the bag and pulled out a small wooden box.
“Turn it around,” he urged.
I shrugged my shoulders and turned the box around to reveal a glass front. Beyond the glass was a miniature closet system with a tiny skeleton neatly stored inside an opened cabinet. Across a gold plate at the bottom, engraved in cursive, was my slogan: Zander Closet Company. When we’re done, even your skeletons will have a place.
I swallowed around that same lump. Only the lump had grown bigger. I blinked quickly against the sudden moisture in my eyes.
“I wanted to give this to you on Saturday, but never had the chance. For obvious reasons.” Andy shifted in his seat, his eyes never leaving my face. “Then I debated all weekend whether I should still give it to you. I was afraid the skeleton would upset you. But then I decided that would be letting the media win. Your slogan was, is, dynamite. And you have a right to be proud of it.”
My voice was barely audible when I spoke, the emotion running through my body like none I’d ever experienced. “Thank you. I love it.”
Tiny red points spread across his cheeks as he smiled. I caught sight of a dimple in his chin I hadn’t noticed before, and my heart sunk. “Again, I’m so sorry about this whole mess, Andy. I really am.”
He reached across my desk and patted my hand, my skin tingling at his touch. “Tobi, none of this is your fault. Put that out of your mind. Okay?”
How could I argue with those eyes? That dimple?
“Okay.”
He rose to his feet. “I guess I should leave you to the onslaught of prospective clients who want a piece of what Zander has.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Not now.
I pushed my chair back and followed him to the door. “Thanks for stopping by, Andy.”
“My pleasure.” He took a step toward me, his breath warm against my skin. I stifled a shiver as he continued. “Now remember, no snooping into Hohlbrook’s murder, okay? Let the cops do their job.”
I think I nodded. I’m not exactly sure. I was still focused on the warmth of his breath and the scent of his cologne. Yet, as he turned and left my office, I knew I couldn’t honor his request.
7
Most of the time my decision to be car-less wasn’t an issue. My neighborhood offers virtually everything I need (a market, Laundromat, coffee shop, restaurants, and a quaint little mystery bookstore to satisfy my unhealthy reading addiction). And what isn’t right around the corner can be reached from the bus stop that is right around the corner.
Unfortunately, today wasn’t most of the time.
If I was at my apartment, I’d hit up Carter or Mary Fran. Sometimes the decision on who to ask was based purely on who was home when I needed wheels. Sometimes it was based on my mood. Mary Fran’s car was classy—a bright red Beamer she’d been nursing for fifteen years. It was fanatically clean and turned heads. Carter, on the other hand, drove a 1975 Ford Granada (surely the only remaining one left on the road) that had been repainted a powder blue and boasted a set of coordinating throw pillows on the back seat. It, too, turned heads, but for a very different reason.
But I wasn’t home. I was at the office. Which left me just one viable option: JoAnna.
In theory she should be easy since she adores me. But I’d never asked to use her car before, so I wasn’t certain what she’d say. In order to increase my chances for success, I opted to try a few of my best begging faces in the mirror before asking. There was the don’t know what I’m gonna do face. That required the corners of my mouth to droop and my eyes to well, just a little.
I tried it out. Not horrible, but I could do better.
There was the my business is about to go belly up if we don’t fix this face. All I needed for that was a majorly stressed-out look, complete with hand wringing and a little stuttering.
Nah, not right either. Too dramatic.
There was always the how can you tell someone with freckles no face. It was the same one that had gotten me away with murder when I was growing up. But would JoAnna fall for it?
I tilted my head to the right and flashed my biggest smile with a few extra blinks thrown in for good measure.
“If you need my car that bad, why don’t you just ask?”
I gulped, turned, and met JoAnna’s amused expression with what I imagine was a variation of the infamous completely caught in the act and now I feel like a fool face.
She smiled.
“How on earth did you—” I stopped, shook my head. “You scare me sometimes, JoAnna. Do you know that?”
“Thank you. I think.”
I grabbed my coat and backpack and turned off the overhead light. “So it’s okay? For me to use your car?”
“Of course.” JoAnna followed me out of my office and down the hall. “Does this have something to do with the body in the closet?”
“It’s got everything to do with the body in the closet.” I pulled my jacket on and hiked my purse onto my shoulder. “It might be a few hours; is that okay?”
“How long is a few hours?”
I looked at the clock on her desk. It was almost eleven. “Back by three?”
“That’s fine.” She looked at me, her eyes studying my face intently. “He sure is cute.”
“He?”
“Mr. Zander. Andy Zander.”
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed.” I grabbed a mint from her jar and unwrapped it quickly.
“Denial is always a sign.” JoAnna walked around her desk and pulled out her chair.
I started to pop the mint in my mouth but stopped. I was sensing a trap but, as always, I stepped right in anyway. “A sign? Of what?”
“That you’ve got it bad.”
I snorted. Minus the laugh.
“Don’t you snort at me, Tobi Tobias. Don’t think I wasn’t aware of the faces you were trying out before I sent him down to your office this morning,” JoAnna said, her eyes trained on my face like a dog waiting for a treat to emerge from its owner’s pocket.
“So much for your psychic ability. I didn’t try out a single face thankyouverymuch.”
“Okay. Bad choice of words. But you did examine your face from top to bottom.”
“I . . . wanted to make sure I didn’t have anything stuck in my nose.”
JoAnna sat down, opened her filing drawer, and pulled out a folder marked Invoices. “Why don’t you just admit you think he’s cute? I mean, after all, the man brought you a gift.”
Was there anything that got past ol’ eagle eyes?
“Gift?” I tried for a hint of surprise in my voice but got something closer to a coughing choke as the last of my mint got sucked down my throat. I grabbed another mint and undid the wrapper.
“The purple bag, Tobi. He had it when I sent him down to your office, he didn’t when he left.” She opened the file, thumbed through the outgoing invoices (which, of course, consisted of two—Zander’s slogan and the photo shoot), and then carefully stamped each sheet with a single red word: Pai
d.
I thought of the shadow box Andy had given me, my slogan cleverly depicted behind the glass. Truth be told, a dozen roses wouldn’t have meant as much as that box did.
“Okay. Okay. Yes, he gave me something. It’s on my desk. Take a peek when you get a chance. It’s very cool. But it was merely his way of saying thank you for the slogan. Really.” I dropped down onto the edge of the nearest chair. “I just wish it hadn’t brought him so much grief.”
JoAnna looked up, her eyes solemn. “Your slogan?”
I nodded.
“What happened at the Hohlbrooks’ is not your fault. You know that, right?”
Twirling the mint between my thumb and index finger, I pondered JoAnna’s words for a moment. “I want to know that. And I do know that, most of the time. But it doesn’t necessarily make things any easier. Some people are going to forever associate Zander’s slogan with a dead body if I don’t do something to change their perception. That’s why I’m heading out to the Hohlbrooks’ house now. Because there’s got to be something that will get everyone’s focus off me and onto the truth.”
JoAnna separated the correct key and handed me the ring. “I just filled the tank this morning, so you’re good to go. Just be careful, okay?”
I jumped up and headed toward the back door, talking over my shoulder as I walked. “Thanks. I will. Don’t you worry.”
My hand was on the door when she threw her final shot. A three pointer from way outside the line . . .
“Oh, and Tobi?”
“Yes?”
“I’m well aware of the fact that you dodged the whole cute thing.”
I didn’t look back. I mean, why bother? That woman knew me inside out and backward. In just six months. Besides, now was not the time to remind her of Nick’s betrayal. Nor was it time to fill her in on Andy Zander’s ultra-cuddly roommate. I had a murderer to find.
JoAnna’s car wasn’t hard to spot in the lot. In fact, even if it had been a huge parking garage I could still pick it out. Because it was, well, JoAnna—hip and fun. Pressing the button on the key fob in my hand, I unlocked the driver’s side door and slid into the black Miata, my knees practically cutting off air flow in and out of my mouth. I pushed the seat back a few inches and turned the key, the engine and radio springing to life simultaneously.
I cringed as a medley of elevator music surrounded me from all sides. Everything about JoAnna was fun except her choice in music. It simply didn’t fit. Which is why I was always half expecting to walk into the office some morning and find her listening to, I don’t know, something from the last couple of decades? But no such luck. I’d yet to catch her doing any closet bebopping.
Closet. Ugh.
I slid the car into reverse, backed out of the parking spot, and headed toward Kingshighway. A few traffic lights later, I merged onto Highway 40, westbound. Of course, this was when I decided to change stations. But I was at my best when I was multitasking. That and I was going to go loopy if I had to listen to beat-challenged music for another nanosecond.
A Bruce Springsteen tune came on (doesn’t matter which one, because, after all, Bruce is Bruce) and I started belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. I opened the power moonroof with my right hand while I tapped out The Boss’s rhythm on the steering wheel with my left.
The parking lot of the St. Louis Zoo was packed when I drove by. School buses, mini vans, and SUV’s were jammed together like sardines in the North lot, everyone—young and old—eager to enjoy some of the last decent days before winter rolled in.
I’ll admit, the car had serious thoughts of getting off the Brentwood exit for a pit-stop at the Galleria Mall (Dillards was having a shoe sale that would blow your mind), but I resisted with all my might and kept us moving in the right direction. Fortunately, at this time of day, traffic was virtually nil, which meant I crossed over the 270 loop without stopping and encountered smooth sailing all the way to the Woods Mill exit.
And that’s when I started to panic.
What exactly did I think I was going to find? The killer as he snuck out of the house after hiding in an empty room for two-and-a-half days? Since the likelihood of that happening was, well, impossible, I needed a plan. Fast.
I headed down the same tree-lined roads and winding curves that I’d driven just two days earlier in Mary Fran’s Beamer, with her son riding shotgun. Things were good then. Hopeful. Exciting.
As I pulled the Miata into the Hohlbrooks’ circular drive, I was aware of three things. First, the contractor vehicles that had been scattered around the neighborhood in preparation for the Home Showcase were gone; in their place, a series of white panel vans representing every news station in the metropolitan St. Louis area. Second, Larry and Linda Johnson were no longer standing at the end of Mitzi’s driveway, pointing. They’d changed geography and were now sitting on their front porch sharing what appeared to be a tiny pair of binoculars trained in the direction of the Hohlbrooks’ home. Third, a Zander truck was parked behind the house.
I pulled to a stop near the front steps and climbed out of the car, unsure of what I was going to say and how I was going to explain my being there. I suppose that’s why I was mumbling as I climbed the stone steps. I tend to mumble when I’m thinking. Drives JoAnna nuts.
And then it hit me. Or, rather, I should say, Rudder-inspired genius hit me.
God, I love that bird.
I pushed the doorbell and waited as a series of chimes sounded throughout the house—low, booming ones that I could hear from the doorstep. Less than five seconds later the door opened, and I came face to face with the Hohlbrooks’ housekeeper, Deserey.
Truth be told, I hadn’t really paid much attention to Deserey on Saturday, what with my mind focused on the photo shoot and drooling over the possibility of landing New Town as a client. But today I studied her.
Deserey was a beautiful woman in an uptight, almost stern way. Tiny lines around her eyes and mouth did hint at a sense of humor and an easy smile, but neither were present at the moment.
“Good afternoon, Miss Tobias, what can I do for you?”
I straightened my shoulders and tried to look formidable. Well, maybe not formidable so much as confident. Okay, I was shooting for simply looking like something other than a freckle-faced late-twenty-something-year-old who was grasping at straws to explain her presence at a murder scene.
I eked out an answer. “I was hoping to check on Mrs. Hohlbrook. See how she’s doing. And to offer my help with Baboo.”
“Mrs. Hohlbrook is at the gym. She’s not due back for about an hour.”
I suppose I should have thanked the woman and left. But I didn’t. I think I was more dumbfounded than anything else. The victim’s widow was at the gym? Shouldn’t she be picking out caskets? Selecting flowers?
“Do you think it would be okay if I waited for her?” Where that question came from, I had no idea. But I went with it and waited for Deserey’s reply.
The housekeeper nodded, stepped back, and motioned me into the house.
That was easy . . .
“The police just finished up about thirty minutes ago. The bedroom is a mess from that black fingerprint stuff.”
I tried not to gawk as I looked at her. After all, just because I hadn’t heard her speak more than a handful of words on Saturday didn’t mean she couldn’t.
“I can imagine,” I said.
“It’s funny you mentioned Baboo when you arrived. The poor thing hasn’t been himself since . . . well, Mr. Hohlbrook. He just sits in his cage and plucks his feathers. He makes a sound every once in a while but, for the most part, he’s silent.”
Deserey led me into the living room and then stopped. The stress of the past few days showed in her tired stance and weary eyes. My heart ached for the woman.
Without really realizing what I was doing, I reached out, touched her forearm. “I’m a good listener if you need someone to talk to.”
I saw the tears well in her eyes at my words, heard her gulp as she w
orked to keep her emotions in check. When she finally met my gaze, she nodded and forced a smile. “I’d like that. I really would. But I’m pretty sure Mrs. Hohlbrook wouldn’t like the idea of a guest hanging out in the kitchen with the housekeeper.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll tell her it was my idea.”
She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbed her eyes quickly. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” I followed her down the hall and into the ceramic-tile—whoa. It was like seeing the master bedroom all over again. Never in my life had I ever seen a kitchen so large, so grand. The cooking area had two refrigerators that didn’t look like refrigerators. They boasted cabinet fronts rather than the steel or fiberglass doors native to the rest of the world. There were two sinks, one in the corner with a beautiful bay window above it, the other in the center of the island—only this island was a good six by eight. Two ovens were built into the left wall; a third was housed in the right. The fixtures were all copper, the countertops a marbled mixture of hunter green and brown. A see-through fireplace denoted the separation between the working-area of the room (read: Deserey’s side) and the eating-area of the room (read: everyone else’s side).
I plopped onto an upholstered barstool next to the island and caught my breath. This house was incredible. Selling cars must be big money—money I wouldn’t mind getting a chunk of at the agency. But, as always, the big accounts seemed to flock to Beckler and Stanley. Proof once again that money didn’t mean brains.
I cleared my throat and forced my attention onto the Hohlbrooks’ housekeeper. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her mouth turned downward.
“How long have you worked for the Hohlbrooks’?” I finally asked.
“I started with Mr. Hohlbrook eight years ago.” She busied herself with a cookbook, her fingers skimming the list of required ingredients. “He was a good man. A hard-working man.”
I nodded. She moved effortlessly between the cookbook and the pantry (an offshoot room that, from where I sat, appeared to be bigger than my living room and kitchen combined) retrieving the items she needed. I was reminded of a saying my Grandpa Stu always spouted. Something about the doers and the watchers. Deserey was a doer.
Death in Advertising Page 8
