Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  “So you’ve known them for eight years. Wow, that’s a long time.”

  Her head shot up from the cookbook. “I said eight years with Mr. Hohlbrook.”

  I straightened on the stool at the blatant animosity in the woman’s tone. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed that would mean Mrs. Hohlbrook too.”

  Deserey snorted and rolled her eyes.

  I was torn on what to think. Part of me couldn’t overlook the fact that Deserey was obviously not a fan of Mitzi’s. The other part of me was focused on the fact that someone other than me snorted.

  Deserey grabbed a mixing bowl from a cabinet below the island and plunked it on top of the counter. “Mrs. Hohlbrook—this Mrs. Hohlbrook—has only been here for two years.”

  Did she just say this Mrs. Hohlbrook? I needed clarification in case I was hearing things. “Was there another Mrs. Hohlbrook?”

  Deserey nodded, her lip trembling as she measured out flour, sugar, and cinnamon. “Alana. She was Mr. Hohlbrook’s first wife. A woman of class in every sense of the word.”

  I sat on the stool for a moment, the housekeeper’s words washing over me with a host of implications I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Yet.

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “Breast cancer. Took her in less than a year.” Deserey walked over to the first of the two refrigerators, extracted a carton of eggs, and carried them to the island. “Mr. Hohlbrook was devastated. He left the country for a while. Ran his company from overseas. Made a few conference calls from time to time to make sure things were on track, but for the most part he left everything in the hands of a few trusted employees here in town.”

  I considered my next question as she cracked each of the three eggs she’d set beside the bowl, her technique flawless.

  “If the first Mrs. Hohlbrook was so classy, then—” I stopped.

  Deserey was sharp. She followed (and finished) my train of thought. “Then how did he end up with Mitzi? Is that what you were going to ask?” Deserey dropped the egg shells into a trash compactor that looked like an ordinary cabinet from the outside. “Grief? Desperation? The painful knowledge he could never top his wife, so he didn’t even bother trying? I don’t know. Maybe a combination of all of those.” I sat perfectly still as Deserey continued to speak—her words wooden and void of any discernible emotion. “But whatever it was that made him marry her couldn’t hide reality.”

  “What do you mean, Deserey?” I asked.

  “I mean he made a mistake the day he married Mitzi Moore. I knew it. His friends knew it. His co-workers knew it. Even Baboo knew it. In the end, I suspect he knew it too.”

  8

  I’m not exactly sure what I said when Deserey dropped her bomb regarding the Hohlbrooks’ marriage, but I do know one thing. Stools should have sides. Like a chair. You know, to hold a person in place when a possible motive hits them between the eyes.

  Why do I say that? Because it was the sound of me falling off my stool that snapped the housekeeper out of her stream of consciousness and into the present. No matter how hard I tried to pick up where she left off, Deserey wasn’t talking. So I tried another approach.

  “It’s possible I need my eyes checked, but when I drove up it looked as if the next-door neighbors were using binoculars to look over here.” I ran my index finger along the island’s countertop and waited to see if my effort would stick. I could almost hear the sound of the reel spinning as the woman’s stance relaxed and her mouth started moving again.

  Thank you, God.

  “You mean the neighbor on this side?” Deserey pointed to her right, her eyebrows quizzical.

  I turned around on the stool to get my bearings and nodded. “Yes. Those neighbors.”

  Deserey crossed the kitchen to the copper baker’s rack and pulled a 24-cup muffin tin from the lowest shelf. “I figured that’s who you meant. That’s Larry and Linda Johnson. They’re the old money on the street.” She walked back to the island, popped open a tub of Crisco, and began lightly coating the bottom of each muffin holder. “He inherited his father’s business, who inherited his father’s before that, and so on down the line.”

  My stomach churned to life as I watched the housekeeper grab a bag of miniature chocolate chips and sprinkle them into the batter bowl. It took everything in me not to reach across and pluck a stray chip off the island.

  “Are they the only old money on this street?” I noted the oven in relation to the island. Deserey would have to turn around in order to put the tray into the oven, leaving me a clear shot at the chip. I bided my time and waited for her answer.

  “Yes. Everyone else got theirs the old fashioned way.”

  I grinned. “They earned it?”

  “That’s right.”

  As Deserey filled the final muffin cup with batter, I leaned forward on my stool, ready to move as quickly as possible in my pursuit of chocolate. But I was thwarted. Instead of putting the muffins in the oven and then cleaning up, Deserey set the batter-filled tin off to the side and grabbed a damp wash rag from the sink. My heart sank into my empty stomach as she caught the chip up with the stray sprinkling of flour and sugar that had missed the bowl.

  So much for lunch. My stomach gurgled.

  “The funny thing is, it’s not the ones who bust their backs for this lifestyle that walk around with the sense of entitlement. It’s always the ones who were handed it on a silver spoon. Isn’t that strange?” Deserey dropped the wet rag into the sink and carried the tin over to the oven. “Even Mr. Hohlbrook used to say rich folks didn’t make much sense.”

  I eyed the housekeeper as her voice faltered when she spoke of her late boss. “You two were close, weren’t you?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes moist once again as we made eye contact across the island. “He never treated me like his employee, never talked down to me. Nor did Mrs. Hohl—I mean the first Mrs. Hohlbrook.”

  I leaned forward against the island and lowered my voice to a near-whisper. “Mitzi talks down to you?”

  “Talks down to me?” Deserey echoed, cocking her left eyebrow at me. “How about looks down at me? Snaps her fingers at me? Glares at me? Take your pick.”

  I sported what I hoped was my best mortified expression and threw in a snort of disgust to boot. “So why are you still here? Making muffins? Cleaning up?”

  “Out of loyalty to Mr. Hohlbrook. If I ran out now, before the facts are found, I’d feel like I was dishonoring his memory and letting the little hussy win.”

  Hussy? Did she say hussy?

  I took a moment to compose my thoughts. “I imagine it must be awfully hard to remain professional when you have such strong feelings against one of your employers.”

  Deserey nodded. “It is. But I still have it better than Glenda does.”

  “Glenda?” I asked, searching my memory back for an explanation as to why that name sounded vaguely familiar.

  “Larry and Linda Johnson’s housekeeper.”

  Ah. That was it. Mitzi mentioned Glenda when we stood out front Saturday morning. Something about the Johnsons and a jealous china-throwing hissy fit.

  “They treat her badly?” I asked.

  Deserey laughed, rolled her eyes, and threw her hands up. I was impressed. “Like yesterday’s trash.”

  That would certainly qualify as badly.

  I got down off the stool, wandered over to the window, and looked out at the stone patio that sported the kind of uncomfortable backyard furniture I doubted anyone ever actually used. I found this whole lifestyle unsettling, I really did.

  As I gazed past the patio to the squirrels darting up and down the trees, I found myself voicing questions for which I had no answers. “Then why does she work for them? Can’t she find a different family? One who would treat her like a human being?”

  “They pay better than the devil.”

  I tried that statement on for a while as I caught sight of a pair of cardinals peeking out from atop a low-lying branch. The male cardinals were alwa
ys breathtaking with their flaming-red feathers and regal faces. The females were so drab, decked out in a muted brown with just a hint of red. It was funny how the males were always the best looking in the animal/bird world. Of course, they didn’t have couches and remote controls to upset their beauty regimens . . .

  “Mrs. Hohlbrook said the Johnsons were jealous of the attention she and Mr. Hohlbrook were getting after my slogan took off.” I leaned my forehead against the window and peered at Larry and Linda’s backyard. They had traded their lookout spot on the front porch for a pair of chaise lounges in their French garden out back. “Is that true?”

  “Was it ever. They got so upset after that feature story on the news Friday night—you know the one, you were on it—that they started screaming about the Hohlbrooks and how they have the entire town in their pocket.” Deserey came up behind me and lowered her voice. “Glenda said Mr. Johnson called Mr. Hohlbrook a no-good, lousy upstart. Can you imagine?”

  I eyed Larry Johnson in his perfectly pressed khaki trousers and starched, white, button-down dress shirt as he lounged in his chair, his arms bent behind his head, his gaze trained in my direction.

  “What difference did it make?” I asked.

  Deserey laughed. “Difference? It’s the difference between being noticed first and being noticed second. And between the Hohlbrooks and the Johnsons, that difference was everything.”

  But was it enough to murder someone?

  It was a valid question. Especially when its answer could be the thing that saved my agency. However, in the interest of keeping our gabfest on track, I opted to let it go. For now.

  “Does Mr. Johnson have a temper?” I asked instead.

  Again, the laugh. I was beginning to realize that the housekeeper had a few distinct laughs. The most notable, by far, was the stupid-question laugh. I’d gotten it a few times now.

  “Mr. Johnson apparently got so upset at the prospect of the Hohlbrook house being the talk of the Showcase that he destroyed an entire Limoges service for ten,” Deserey said.

  Ahhh, yes. The china-throwing incident . . .

  I turned my gaze onto Linda Johnson. She had a brittle, uptight look with facial features that were too rigid to be natural.

  The timer sounded, and Deserey headed toward the oven. “According to Glenda, a new set arrived by limo the next day. While the coroner was here.”

  “Do you think I could meet Glenda one day?” The question surprised me. But I let it hang out in the air anyway.

  “I don’t see why not. We have the same night off each week. Wednesday. If Mr. Hohlbrook’s body still hasn’t been released—and I’m not knee-deep in preparation for a memorial reception—you can find us at the Car Crash in Westport. Do you know it?”

  I turned from the window and gawked.

  Deserey at the Car Crash?

  And that’s when I really looked at the woman. If she released her hair from that tight bun and put on something less, well, maidish, Deserey would not only be pretty, but younger than I realized. Mid-forties at the absolute oldest.

  Interesting.

  “I know the place. I’ll be there. Sounds like a great stress-reliever.” I returned her smile and then looked back outside. The Johnsons were gone—their previous Hohlbrook watching spot abandoned in favor of another, no doubt. I moved my gaze across the backyard to the driveway and the Zander truck parked under a leafless Bradford pear.

  “Is Andy here?”

  “Who’s Andy?”

  I turned from the window and walked over to Deserey. “Andy Zander. The owner, well, actually he’s one of the owners of Zander Closet Company.”

  Deserey mumbled under her breath as she yanked open a smaller pantry door and extracted a mop and bucket. “That sleaze?”

  She may as well have hit me with a left hook the way her words blindsided me. Andy, a sleaze? Sure, my good-guy radar was still missing parts, but had I missed the boat again?

  She had to be wrong.

  I tried again. “Andy. Tall. Sandy-blond hair. Emerald-green eyes. Dimp—”

  “Ohhhh. No, not him. He’s sweet. And oh, so cute.” Deserey waved her hand in the air. “I’m talking about the other one. The sleazy one that has the hots for Mrs. Hohlbrook.”

  I thought about that for a moment as my heart rate returned to normal. And then I remembered. The cell phone call that very first day. Mr. Hohlbrook had been complaining about Andy and Gary’s cousin, Blake. Gary wanted to fire him, take over the closet installation himself.

  “You mean had the hots, right?” I looked back at the truck quickly and then met Deserey’s darkened eyes as she straightened up, the mop handle clutched in her hand.

  “No. I mean has the hots. As in ongoing. As in reciprocated.”

  “They have a thing going on?” I heard the disgust in my voice, felt the sympathy for Andy as the meaning of what was being said hung in the air like a storm cloud waiting to break open and unleash its fury.

  “You bet they do!” Deserey picked up the bucket, dropped it into the corner sink, and flipped up the faucet handle. “And you wanna know the worst part? Mr. Hohlbrook knew.”

  9

  My Grandpa Stu taught me a lot of things when I was growing up. Because of him, I know to give up my bus seat to anyone older than me. Because of him, I can distinguish between a phone solicitor and a legit call before a single word is uttered. And because of him, I had always known to tell my grandma her cooking was the best even when it wasn’t. I listened to everything he told me and committed it to memory, certain that what he had to say was akin to the Gospel. But, of course, there was one lesson he desperately tried to teach me that I just couldn’t master. The poker face.

  If I had a secret, everyone knew. If I aced a test, everyone knew. If I had a crush on someone, everyone knew. Grandpa Stu, being the smartest man I know, recognized a lost cause when he saw one and adjusted his teaching accordingly. Which, simply put, means he taught me ways to compensate for my shortcoming.

  Today’s compensation? A sudden coughing fit the likes of which would have made him beam with grandfatherly pride. I almost felt sorry for Deserey as her eyes widened in worry. But I didn’t stop coughing. I almost cried uncle at the way she pounded my back in case I was choking (on what, I have no idea since the chocolate chip I’d been eyeing was in the trash can instead of my stomach). But I didn’t stop coughing.

  It worked like a champ.

  I’d created such a commotion that all talk of jealous neighbors, cheating wives, and suspicious husbands flew out the window as I excused myself to the bathroom. Once inside the same room from which Gary had emerged with unbuckled pants just two days earlier, I looked at myself in the mirror. Thankfully, the two-minute coughing spell had left me no worse for wear (probably because it wasn’t real—but we won’t dwell on that). I splashed a little water on my face to complete the show and then killed a few more seconds (dotted with a stray cough or two, of course) by freshening my makeup and hair.

  But even as I did that, my thoughts were on the enlightening conversation with Deserey. I had come here hoping to unearth something—a few clues, a possible motive, and yeah, a killer. Deep down inside, though, I’d known the likelihood of that happening was pretty nil.

  Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I had known Preston Hohlbrook was a wealthy man. I had known he had a strong footing in the local community, thanks to a number of placards and bricks in many of St. Louis’ most beloved locations over the years. I’d known that his fleet of car dealerships represented an advertising empire for one lucky local firm (not Tobias Ad Agency).

  But now, thanks to Deserey, I knew a few things I hadn’t known before. Like the fact that Preston Hohlbrook was in a less-than-ideal marriage in more ways than one.

  Granted, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see Mitzi wasn’t in Hohlbrook’s league. I knew that the second she opened the door Saturday morning. How he couldn’t have realized that from the get-go was beyond me, but I suppose grief and loss could
create a rose-colored desperation. And it certainly sounded as if the death of his first wife had been truly devastating for the poor guy.

  I leaned against the wall and coughed a few times as a picture began to form in my head. If Preston Hohlbrook had finally gotten himself to a point where he could see that his marriage to Mitzi had been nothing short of a badly fitting Band-Aid, what did that mean? For him? For Mitzi?

  More importantly, did Mitzi know? Was that why she had developed a thing for Andy’s cousin, Blake? Or was Blake just the most recent in a long line of play toys for a woman who so obviously didn’t match her surroundings?

  And if she did know, was Blake her only revenge? Or was murder? I shivered. Mitzi Hohlbrook wasn’t the only one with a motive. Blake Zander had one as well. Humiliation and a change in job status had certainly driven people to kill before, right?

  I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. Coming here, to the Hohlbrook house, had been a good call. It had given me a chance to place a piece or two in the Who-Killed-Preston-Hohlbrook puzzle. But I needed more. A lot more.

  I pulled open the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. It was time to start wrapping up my visit to the Hohlbrook mansion. I had a cousin to meet. A Zander cousin.

  “There you are. Deserey said you weren’t feeling well.” Mitzi Hohlbrook came sauntering down the hallway in my direction. She wore spandex workout shorts and a sports bra that did little to corral her superstructures. Of course, the shorts and bra were black, lest anyone forget the wealthy widow was in mourning . . .

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she came to a stop between me and the window. I was just about to utter something about allergies when the sound of a car engine rumbled to life.

  I stepped to my left, peered around Mitzi, and strained to see past the flaming red sugar maple that blocked my view of the service driveway. But it was too late. The white truck was gone (and, with it, any visual confirmation of Blake Zander’s inappropriate behavior).