If anyone else had given me the nickname Tobes, I’d have put the kibosh on it from day one. But Sam was different. From him, it was cute—like a pet name. “Work. You free for a photo shoot this Saturday? Around eight?”
“Sure! More closet shots?”
“Yup. We need to get moving on this brochure.”
“Okay. But I got my memory card back from the cops today if you want to use those shots.”
I twirled the phone cord around my index finger and tried my best to ignore the insistent gurgling in my stomach. “You saw the police today?”
“Uh-huh. They came to the shop. Said they copied the pictures onto their hard drive and that I could have the originals back.”
“Okay, but I think it would be best if we took all new pictures.”
“Makes sense. So where are we gonna shoot the new ones?”
“Andy’s office. He has closet demos.”
“But if they’re demos, won’t they be empty?”
“They will, but I’ll bring some outfits, some shoes, some purses, and Andy will bring some of his stuff. We’ll stage the shots.”
“Sounds good as long as I’m back to help Mom before things get busy around here.”
The busiest time at the pet shop was from eleven until about two on Saturday. That was the day everyone seemed to stock up on their pet supplies or opt to bring their pet in for a bath and groom. “That’s not a problem. We’ll make a point of being out of there by ten and back at the shop by ten thirty.”
“Cool! I’m pumped.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his choice of words. Most guys his age reserved those words for passing their driver’s test or landing the girl they’d been drooling over for weeks. But not Sam. He had a two-track mind. Photography and helping his mom. And in staying true to those tracks, he inspired me. Pretty neat trick.
“Thanks, Sam. So am I.”
“Mom says we can use her car on Saturday.”
I made a mental note to add accommodating and selfless to my list of Mary Fran’s amazing attributes. “That’s awesome. Tell her thanks for me.”
“I will, Tobes. See you soon.”
“Say hi to Baboo for me and—” I felt mischievous-me rearing its head and decided to go with it. My energy was returning along with my almost insatiable desire to torture Mary Fran with the unknown (purely in fun, of course). “And tell your mom I’m going out tomorrow night. To a night club. I’ll see you soon, hon.”
Then I ran over to my backpack, pulled out my cell phone, and set it to ring straight to voicemail. I suppose, on some level, I should feel a little guilt, but I didn’t. Mary Fran, after all, was responsible for foot-fetish guy, wasn’t she? I allowed myself the shudder that always accompanied that memory and then dialed Andy’s number. He picked up on the second ring.
“Zander Closet Company, this is Andy.”
My heart rate quickened, and I shrugged out of my jacket. For some strange reason I tended to feel warmer than normal when Andy was around—or on the phone . . . or in my thoughts . . .
“Hi Andy. It’s Tobi.”
“Hey! How are you?”
“Good. Busy.” I pinched myself in the arm as payback for the robotic-sounding answers and tried again. “I got your message. I think shooting the demo closets is a wonderful idea. I’ve already contacted Sam, and we can be at your office at eight o’clock sharp on Saturday. Will that work?”
“Absolutely. That’s perfect.”
My stomach tightened and I glanced at the clock on my desk. That green pepper beef was taking its sweet time. “We’ll see you then. Thanks, Andy.”
I was about to bid farewell when he spoke again, the topic changing along with the tone in his voice. He’d been enthusiastic when I’d identified myself at the beginning of the call, but now his voice had taken on a deepness that made my stomach flop around. (Where was the delivery guy—hunting down the cow?)
“Wait! Don’t go yet. What were you dancing to at that traffic light?”
I grabbed the electric bill and used it as a fan. “Dancing?”
Andy laughed, a deep sound that echoed across the line. “Yeah. You were actually listening to music, weren’t you?”
He had me. If I denied listening to music, he’d think I was nuttier than he already did. So I caved. “Dancing in the Dark,” I whispered. How he heard me, I don’t know, but he did.
“Know it well. Love Bruce.”
I sat straight up in my chair. Okay, so Andy Zander was good looking, sweet, drove a nice car, was willing to overlook the negative attention my slogan was creating, and liked Bruce Springsteen? Torture. . . that was what this was, pure torture. Mary Fran must be using those voodoo dolls again. I nodded at the phone.
“Tobi, you still there?”
“Um, yeah. I-I’m sorry you had to witness that this morning.”
“What? The dancing? I loved it. Started my day off with a smile.”
I set my fan down and wiped my hands on my jeans. “Glad to help.”
Andy laughed. “What kind of car was that?”
“Oh no! Carter’s car!” I jumped to my feet, nearly strangling myself with the phone cord.
“Carter? Who’s Carter?”
“My upstairs neighbor. He lent me his car, and I completely forgot to bring it back.” My eyes flew to the clock and I stared at the soft green numerals that made up the time—7:05. Carter was due at the theater at seven-thirty. “I’ve got to go, Andy. I’m sorry.”
I think he said he understood. That he’d see me on Saturday. But I’m not entirely sure. I kinda hung up without listening for his response. Just like I kinda knocked the Chinese food delivery guy over when I ran across the parking lot to Carter’s powder-blue 1975 Ford Granada.
18
I’d hit the hay shortly after handing Carter his keys and eating my takeout dinner, exhausted after a zany day. It was like my mind was doing everything in its power to ignore the bits of information I’d gleamed but not yet processed. And I was good with that. Avoidance is a marvelous coping skill.
Even when I awoke at six, to Gertrude’s incessant yapping, my thoughts refused to linger on the Hohlbrook mess. Instead, they jetted their way to Slogan Land, which is where I’d been ever since, with the lone exception of a brief working-from-home-today phone call to JoAnna. She didn’t question why; I didn’t offer an explanation.
I sat down at my draft table, munching my Puffs, and letting my gaze travel across the countless scribbles and balled-up pieces of paper that represented nearly eleven hours of brainstorming, mumbling, jubilation, frustration, and—finally—creative, usable ideas. The same sun that was rising when I started was now setting for an early autumn slumber.
A soft tap at my door yanked me from my special place and dropped me into reality. Or as close as 46 McPherson Road was to reality.
I carried my Puffs to the door, cheeking several that weren’t quite ready to travel the esophagus-slide just yet. When I reached the door, I opened it to find Carter on our shared doorstep. A very bald Carter. As in no hair. None. Zip. Nada.
“Hey, Sunshine.”
I was truly speechless. I had absolutely nothing to say to, or about, his baldness. So I just stared.
“What’s wrong?” Carter scrunched up his face and studied me, much like I imagined vegetarians would scrutinize me and my carnivorous ways, if given the chance.
I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my pajamas (so I opted for creativity over cleanliness that day—sue me) and stifled a belly laugh. “Well, Daddy Warbucks, how ’bout you tell me?”
Carter’s hand flew to his head and felt around his scalp, his cheeks turning the same shade of crimson as the housecoat I spied lurking on the other side of the bushes. I, of course, laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It had to be a full minute before I gained enough control over myself to hear Carter’s response.
“Ah geez, I forgot to take it off before I left. I was just trying out some new theatrical glue to see how it held.” He pe
eled back his fake skin to reveal the Annie-red he’d yet to change. “Better?”
“Much.” I motioned him out of Ms. Rapple’s eavesdropping zone and into my apartment, stepping back so he could pass.
“So what time do we head out?” he asked, looking around, his eyes coming to rest on the fruits of my labor.
“Head out? What are you talking about?” I shoveled the last spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into my mouth and followed him over to the draft table.
“The yuppie bar, remember? You’re dragging me there on what I suspect is some sort of recon mission.”
My mouth dropped open. “Oh my gosh, I completely forgot!”
Carter eyed my lavender-colored satin pajamas and nodded. “I can see that. You sick?”
I waved my spoon-holding hand in the air and quickly crunched the last mouthful of dinner (actually that’d be breakfast, lunch, and dinner in one bowl). “No, I’m fine. I’ve been working. Trying to come up with something that’ll knock their socks off.”
“And who might they be?” Carter asked as he stuck his fake scalp into his back pocket.
I held my breath as he lifted my most recent brain child off the desk. “New Town,” I explained. “It’s that master community out in St. Charles that’s been in all the papers.”
Carter’s eyes nearly doubled in size as he wrapped his arms around my waist and turned me around in a circle. “Tobi, that’s fantastic! You are soooo on your way, Sunshine.”
It was probably wrong that I didn’t correct him right away. I meant to. Really. But there was something about his enthusiasm that I wanted to savor for a brief, shining moment. So I did. When he finally put me down, I fessed up.
“I don’t have the account . . . yet. But I’m going to.”
Carter studied my face for a moment. “Well, okay. At least they’re talking to you.”
I kneaded the spoon handle between the thumb and middle finger of my right hand. “Actually, that’s not really the case either.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning no one from New Town has come near me. Yet.”
“So what are you doing then?”
I turned on my heels and headed toward the kitchen, looking over my shoulder as I walked. “I’m putting together a pitch they can’t ignore.”
A slow, cockeyed smile spread across Carter’s face. “Oh, I get it. You’re gonna do a little client-plucking? You go, girl, that’s the way to play.”
I rounded the corner into my kitchen and dropped the bowl into the sink. “It’s not a tactic I’d normally consider. Seems kind of underhanded, you know? But when you consider who they’re working with, it doesn’t bother me so much. In fact, it kind of lit the fire.”
Carter’s laugh carried into the kitchen (not a tough thing to do when my entire apartment could just about fit into the Hohlbrooks’ closet). “Let me guess. New Town’s rep is John Beckler?”
“Uh-huh.” I pulled a glass from the cabinet, popped open a can of Carter’s can’t-live-without-it cherry soda, and carried it back into the living room. “Unfortunately, by stealing from John, I steal from Mike. But Mike’s okay. He gets it.”
“Thanks, Sunshine.” He took the can from my hand and took a long, slow gulp. “Is New Town a big moneymaker for Beckler and Stanley?”
I grinned. Carter was a smart cookie. “You bet. New Town and Hohlbrook Motors pretty much write the paychecks over there.”
Carter took another gulp and chased it down with a wide smile. “Good for you. It’s about time you give that slime a run for his money.”
I rose up on my tiptoes and planted a kiss on Carter’s cheek. The guy just understood me 100 percent.
He looked at the papers on my draft table, and I watched as his eyes skirted the curvy words and slogan-created images. “Wow, Tobi, these are good. Really, really good.”
My heart soared. I actually felt it lift in my chest. Knowing Carter believed in me and my talent was both humbling and exhilarating at the same time.
“Thanks.” I pointed at the ad mock-up I’d created—the sketches of the lake, the fishing dock, the bikes, the stage performers. “I went out there yesterday to check the place out, and it was amazing. It had the feel of a quaint vacation town.”
Carter nodded, a smile playing across his lips as he read my pitch ideas. “These slogans are amazing: Paradise without the car ride. Who says vacation has to end? How do you do that?”
I stared at the slogans I’d written and the pictures I’d drawn and felt the familiar twinge of a brainstorm coming on. “Do what?” I murmured.
“Create images with words?”
I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper from the table and started jotting notes. “I don’t know. I just see it. But you’re not so bad at it yourself, Your Simile Highness.”
He took a moment to preen at the title and then leaned over my paper for a closer look. “So what are you doing now?”
“A commercial idea just hit me, and I want to get it down before I forget.” I outlined the concept in my own Tobi Tobias shorthand (translation: gibberish that is understandable by no one else but me).
“What’s that on the car?” Carter swept his hand across my paper, his index finger stopping on the top half of the sketch coming together beneath my pen.
“Suitcases.”
“But I thought you said New Town was the vacation.”
“I did.” I set the paper down on the table and turned to face Carter. “Focus for a minute. Picture a car with suitcases strapped to the top. A family of four inside. Car pulling out of the driveway.”
“Okay. Keep going.”
My heart started to race as the image played itself out in my thoughts, movie-style. “Picture the kids in the back seat, turned around, their arms resting on the shelf by the back windshield. Their heads down, looking forlorn.”
“Yeah . . .”
“The wife is in the front seat, her forehead pressed against the window, a pathetic look on her face.”
Carter laughed. “I want to see you draw a pathetic face.”
I stuck my tongue out quickly and then kept talking. “All of a sudden the husband says, ‘Think it’s too late to cancel Hawaii?’”
Apparently Andy and Carter had both missed the memo about women and the all-important initial response to their hard work, because he stood there, his eyes closed, his mouth motionless. Why didn’t he get it? It was brilliant. Or maybe not.
“Oh my God, Sunshine, that’s awesome!”
“See, I’m thinking if it was so awesome you’d have reacted a little quicker.”
He grasped my arm and shook it. “I was picturing it. And it’s incredible. Tell me you didn’t just dream that up this morning.”
“I didn’t. I came up with it just now, while you were looking at the mock-ups.”
“Unbelievable. Wish I had your talent, Sunshine.”
“Are you kidding me? You have amazing talents. Have you seen the way the cast looks in every single one of your shows? Have you seen how you’ve transformed me in the past?”
“You’re easy. You’ve got the goods and then some.”
The goods? Really? I’ve got the goods? God, I love this man. I smiled. “Thanks.”
Carter’s eyes traveled my unclean hair, my make-up free face, my pajama-clad body. “I still get to doll you up before we leave, right?”
The bar.
I sighed. Getting so wrapped up in Slogan Land had enabled me to momentarily forget the unforgettable. But no matter how hard I tried, there was one indisputable fact I simply couldn’t ignore. All the cutesy slogans in the world wouldn’t mean a thing if I didn’t catch a killer and refocus the media’s attention.
“Yeah, you do.” I pulled a strand of my hair through my fingertips and curled my lip. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”
Carter squeezed my arm and then made his way over to the door. “You, my dear, are beautiful no matter what. Even now—like that?—you’re as delightful as a warm summer breeze across pure, untouched, w
hite sand.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
But he didn’t seem to take offense. He simply grinned back at me and pulled open the door. “Get yourself showered. Put on those chocolate-brown slacks with that goldish-brown crocheted top. Throw on those heels you got a few weeks ago. It’ll be perfect. I know just the hairstyle for it.”
I had every faith in the world that by the time Carter was done, plain-Jane me would be looking like one hot mama. Carter McDade was a miracle worker like no other. (Okay, except God, of course.)
I closed the door and headed for the bathroom, my mind already focused on the warm steam and the shoulder-massage shower setting that had earned its rightful spot on my list of loyal friends.
My fingers had just undone the first few buttons of my pajama top when I heard another tap at my door. I did a quick check to make sure I wasn’t revealing anything (even flat-chested women need to be prudent, according to my mother) then retraced my steps to the front door.
“What’d you forget?” I asked as I pulled on the knob and peeked my head out. Sure enough, there was Carter, his back to me, his Annie-red hair covered, once again, by fake, wrinkled skin. “Something to spit shine that scalp with?”
Daddy Warbucks’s twin brother turned around, his eyes crackling with unmistakable excitement. My mouth dropped open (pretty much to the ground) and I stood there, speechless. A strange reaction, no doubt, to a man I’d seen just five seconds earlier. Only this wasn’t that man.
And no, it wasn’t the real Daddy Warbucks. Or even the guy hired to play his part. It was—
“Grandpa Stu? Are you okay? Did somebody die? What are you doing here? How did you get here? Didn’t you lose your license?” The questions poured from my mouth with no apparent end in sight. “How long are you staying? Does Mom know you’re here?”
Grandpa Stu simply waited for my version of twenty questions to come to a halt. When I finally stopped rambling, he spoke. His voice was soft but strong, the kind of sound that made people sit up and listen. “Goodness me, child. Have I taught you nothing?”
I gave him one of my uh oh this is a trap looks.
He wagged a disapproving finger at me. “Asking the questions and waiting for the answers is never as much fun as deducing them on your own.”
Death in Advertising Page 16
