Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  It felt good to laugh out loud, to goof off without worrying about my company, or Zander’s reputation, or who killed Preston Hohlbrook. It was done. Over with. Time to move on.

  “C’mon, Tobes. Cut me some slack here. I’m hungry.”

  I flicked on my blinker and exited onto Brentwood Boulevard North. “You’re always hungry, Sam.”

  “Now you sound like my mother.” The teenager wiped his face with the napkin and tossed it into the empty sack.

  “There are worse things than that.” I stopped at the first of three lights that stood between us and the offices of Zander Closet Company. “Anyway, yeah, I was right. Mike didn’t want to lose the Hohlbrook account. It was one of the agency’s biggest cash cows. He saw it as the card that would make the entire house tumble. He knew that kind of loss would be devastating. Get this, he even tried to blackmail Preston into staying with Beckler and Stanley, but it backfired. Blackmail only works on people who have—”

  “Skeletons in their closet?” Sam interjected, a face-splitting grin moving across his face in tandem with the mischievous sparkle that danced in his eyes.

  “Yeah. Skeletons.” It was hard to ignore all the ways my slogan fit into the goings-on of the past week. But it was a coincidence. And I knew that. Or, at least, I kept telling myself that. “After Mike killed him, he actually thought he still had a chance at keeping the Hohlbrook Motors account at Beckler and Stanley. Thought his chances were better in fact, because they could start fresh with a new CEO. Can you believe that? And that’s not all. He claims he didn’t set out to tie the murder to my slogan, but when he decided to shove the body in the closet he realized the potential it created and the clients it would help them keep.”

  “Go, Tobes.”

  “Huh?” I looked my confusion at the tow-head in the passenger seat.

  He pointed out the front windshield. “It’s green. You can go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tobes?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “There’s something I don’t get,” Sam said as he looked out the window at the cars and buildings.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where was Mike’s chew? The stuff he spit out? Why didn’t the cops find it in Mr. Hohlbrook’s room?”

  I grinned. Sam was smart. Like his mom. “He didn’t need chew to spit. Never did. It had become such a habit that, oftentimes, he simply did an air-spit. I suspect that’s what Baboo heard.”

  “An air-spit?”

  “Yeah. Same basic noise but only air comes out.”

  Sam nodded and then posed yet another question as he reached down to his camera bag and hoisted it onto his lap. “Is Mitzi going to face charges for not telling the police she saw Mike that night?”

  “I don’t think so. She was scared. Mike had left her a voice mail that same night, threatening to tell everyone he saw Gary waiting in the driveway for her.” I pulled into a parking spot by the front door and shifted into park. “She knew Preston was suspicious but didn’t want to give him concrete proof. She was afraid of being tossed out on her ear without so much as a penny.”

  “So why didn’t she blab when she realized Preston was dead?”

  “Because somehow, Mike had convinced her that the affair with Gary would nullify anything Preston had left her in his will.” I grabbed my purse and reached for the door handle.

  “She believed that?”

  “Yeah. Believability was one of Mike’s biggest assets. Trust me, I know.”

  “He sure must have been desperate, huh?”

  Desperate didn’t begin to cover it.

  We climbed out of the car and walked side by side up the front steps.

  “Rich people can be kind of screwy, huh?” Sam pulled open the door and motioned me in.

  “Some, I suppose. But Preston Hohlbrook was a good man. And even Mitzi is okay. She was just out of her league. What’s really screwy is someone who is so competitive and so desperate that they’d take another person’s life to keep their edge.”

  I stepped into the elevator, with Sam in tow, and pushed number three. “Time to focus. We need great stuff today, okay?”

  Sam flexed his right arm and puffed out his thin chest. “No problemo, Tobes. We’ll light it on fire.”

  I leaned my head against the elevator wall and sighed. “No fire, please. Murder was enough.” The chime for the third floor sounded, and the doors skirted open in front of us. I stepped out and eyed Zander’s door at the end of the long hallway. In all the drama of the past day, I hadn’t stopped to wonder if Andy would be mad. Until now. He’d specifically told me to stay out of the investigation and I’d pretty much (okay, out and out) ignored him. But he had to understand, right? I mean, his company’s reputation wasn’t the only one on the line. And besides, once I got to know Deserey and Baboo, Mitzi and Blake, and yeah, even Gary, I couldn’t walk away. It just wasn’t what I was about. I could only hope Andy would understand.

  “Eight o’clock on the dot,” I mumbled under my breath as Sam pushed open the door and strode into the waiting room. The office was silent except for the quiet hum of the fluorescent overhead light. “Andy? Are you here?”

  “Yup. I’ll be right there.”

  My skin tingled at the sound of his voice, and it didn’t scare me any longer. It was as if finding Preston’s killer had given me a courage—a belief in myself that I’d allowed Nick to squelch. And that was my fault.

  I flipped open a magazine and stared, unseeingly, at the first page. My thoughts had wandered me back to one of my grandfather’s fondest sayings: Every experience in life makes you who you are, Tobi.

  And, once again, he was right. The breakup of my engagement with Nick had been devastating. It had made me judgmental, wary, and even a little cynical. But I’d allowed it to have that effect. Nick was one guy. Just like Mike Stanley was one guy. There were far more good people in my life than there were clunkers. I just needed to find a way to learn from all of them, because in learning I would grow stronger. Better.

  I was just making a mental note to give my grandfather a big hug when Andy came around the corner. I immediately noticed the way his hair glistened from the overhead light, the way his hand touched Sam’s shoulder as he passed by, the way his tall, lean form moved across the waiting room and stopped in front of me.

  “I told you to stay out of it. To let the cops do their job.” His emerald-green eyes searched my face, worry etched into the lines that framed them. “I felt sick to my stomach when Gary called and told me last night.”

  “You talked to Gary?” I asked in a soft voice.

  “Yeah. He told me everything.” His eyes bore into mine, and I looked away.

  “He’s okay, you know. Sometimes things just click between people.” I heard the words as they flowed from my mouth, words I never thought I’d ever say, let alone believe. But I did. I’d learned a lot the past week. About greed. About deception. About appearances versus reality. And about love.

  “Yeah. I know they do. Trust me.” His words caught me by surprise. I pulled my gaze off the floor and put it back, squarely, on him. But it wasn’t his eyes I saw. Or the way he set his mouth. In fact, I didn’t see anything. I simply felt the strength and warmth of his arms as he pulled me into an embrace. “I’m glad you’re okay, Tobi.”

  I knew my cheeks had to be red when he eventually let me go and stepped backward. I tried to think of something, anything, to say that would ease the electric charge in the room. But truth be told, I didn’t want the charge to go anywhere. It felt too good.

  “So, should we get started?”

  We both turned and looked at Sam, the sheepish smile on his teenaged face virtually impossible to ignore.

  I cleared my throat and walked around Andy. “Yeah, we probably should. We don’t want to keep Andy all day. I’m sure he wants to get home.”

  Home to his roommate, the one who keeps him up all night . . .

  The thought was no sooner making a lap through my thoughts when
I felt ashamed. Just because I was ready to start living again didn’t mean I had the right to begrudge someone their happiness. There’d be another Andy out there for me. Somewhere. Someday. I knew that now.

  “I’m not in any rush. I figured I’d be fielding some phone calls after the article in this morning’s paper so I brought my roommate here. She’s back in my office. Although, what, exactly, she’s doing in there is anyone’s guess.” He stopped, his eyes widening as he did. “Hey, you wanna meet her? She’s real sociable.”

  Sociable?

  Without waiting for an answer, Andy took hold of my hand and led me down the small hallway toward his closed office door. “She’s real sweet. An amazing listener. Poor thing’s gotten quite an earful lately.”

  I willed myself to be pleasant as he turned the knob and motioned me into his office. A flash of white and orange jumped down from the desk, ran over to me, and brushed lovingly against my legs. And, as I stood there speechless, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who it was.

  I bent down and scooped her up, held her to my face as the tears began to flow. “Oh, Sadie. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “What? You know Sadie? How? Why?” Andy’s hand rested on the small of my back as he led me over to his desk.

  When I found my voice, it emerged from my mouth in a quiet, raspy sound. “Yeah, I know Sadie. And you’re right, she’s an amazing listener.”

  “Hold the phone. So you’re the guy? The grungy one my mom’s always telling Tobi about?”

  I looked at Sam standing in the doorway, but I didn’t really see him. My mind was already trying to piece everything together.

  “Okay. I’m confused,” Andy said. He leaned against the desk and pulled me alongside him. “How do you know Sadie? And”—he swung his gaze onto Sam—“who’s your mom and why did she call me grungy?”

  “Mary Fran Wazoli. She owns the To Know Them Is To Love Them pet shop,” Sam answered as I rested my head on Andy’s shoulder and tried to drink up everything that was happening.

  Grungy was not a word I’d ever use to describe Andy or his choice in attire. I couldn’t imagine a drop of paint on anything he wore.

  “Mary Fran is your mom? Wow, she’s a great lady. A little persistent, but great.”

  And then it hit me. His off-duty Saturdays. Blake teaching him to build . . .

  “Remember the lopsided dollhouse? That’s Andy’s attempt at building one. He put himself on painting duty after that one.”

  “Persistent, how?” I asked, though I knew the answer before he uttered a word.

  Andy’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he continued to hold me with his right arm. “Every time I go in there, she keeps telling me about this woman she wants to fix me up with. I keep telling her I’m not a big blind-date kinda guy. But she keeps trying.”

  “She’s relentless,” Sam and I said in unison.

  Andy nodded.

  I set a squirming Sadie down on the ground and smiled as she ran to Sam. “She’s been after me to meet a man that came into her shop not long ago and took home one of the cats. I told her no way. I’ve been on one of her blind dates before.”

  “They can really stink, huh?” Andy said, his hand still lingering across my waist. “It’s kind of funny she’s been after us for the same thing, don’t you—”

  I turned my head to the left and met his rounded eyes with a knowing smile. The reality bus had finally pulled into his station, too.

  “Wait. Are you the one she’s been trying to fix me up with?” he asked, his voice a curious mixture of surprise and excitement.

  I felt my cheeks warm as I slowly nodded. “You’ve got Sadie. And that’s the man she’s been carrying on about.”

  “Wow.”

  We both stood there in silence, each alone with our thoughts and the odd way that things had come together.

  “Well, should we let her?” he finally asked.

  I looked back at Andy, at his questioning eyes and their undeniable sparkle. “Let her what?”

  His left hand rose up from its perch on the edge of the desk to brush a stray piece of hair from my face, my skin tingling at his touch. “You know. Fix us up. On a blind date. With each other.”

  The earnestness with which he spoke brought a school-girl flutter to my stomach, and I knew without hesitation what my answer would be.

  “Can I borrow your phone? I left my cell out in the waiting room.”

  He searched my face for a long moment then pushed off the desk. “Sure can. Press nine for an outside line. I’ll get Sam going out by the displays and give you a little privacy.”

  “No. Stay.” I picked up the phone, punched in the familiar number, and motioned for Andy to come listen. I held my breath at the feel of his face so close to mine as I waited through one, two, three rings.

  Maybe she’d headed into the pet shop early.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mary Fran, it’s Tobi.”

  “Are you and Sam okay?”

  I felt the phone move with my grin. “We’re fine. Great, in fact. But I have a question.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Remember that guy you wanted to fix me up with? The one who took Sadie?”

  I swear I could hear the woman jog in place on the other side of the phone.

  “Yes . . .”

  “Let’s do it. I think I’m ready.”

  Andy and I both jumped back from the phone as screeching filled our ears. Happy, excited screeching.

  “Really? What’s the catch?” Mary Fran finally asked when she’d gotten her enthusiasm in check.

  I threw a gentle elbow at Andy as he laughed too close to the phone.

  “No catch, Mary Fran. I’m just ready for a little fun. That’s all.”

  “Well, it’s about time. We’ll talk about it when you guys get back here, okay? And don’t think for one second I’m going to let you change your mind, got it?”

  I laughed. “Got it. See you soon.”

  I handed the phone to Andy, his hand lingering longer than necessary on mine.

  “This is going to be fun,” he finally said.

  I nodded. And then stopped. A thought had entered my mind that I couldn’t ignore. It was a question that needed to be asked. I crossed my fingers behind my back and jumped right in.

  “Andy?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “You don’t have a foot fetish, do you?”

  Love Tobi?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at 30-Second Death

  Coming soon from Laura Bradford and Lyrical Underground

  1

  Hell had officially frozen over. And, oddly enough, there was no swell of background music, no thunderous blast like I’d always imagined. There was simply crunching. Loud, deliberate crunching.

  In fact, it was the cruncher and the crunchee that had turned the fiery flames of the dreaded underworld into the clichéd icicles referenced at the end of virtually every nasty break-up.

  In English? My best friend, Carter McDade, was standing less than five feet from my sofa eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

  That’s right, the same guy who lectured me daily—sometimes hourly—on the gaps (okay, seismic gulleys) in my eating habits. The same guy who could draw a text-book food pyramid in mere seconds. The same guy who’d willingly and happily choose broccoli in a head-to-head with a Caramello bar.

  Which is why his Puff-crunching pointed to one indisputable conclusion: Carter was stressed. Big time. A rarity in and of itself. In fact, my upstairs neighbor was the most positive human being I’d ever met. One of those happy-go-lucky, always-has-a-smile types. You know, the kind of person everyone needed in their life, but few were fortunate enough to have.

  I was one of the fortunate. I was also dumbfounded. Utterly and completely dumbfounded by what to say and how to say it. So I took the not-so-subtle approach.

  “What’s wrong, Carter?”

  “Uh-in.”

  Now I’ll admit, I have a leg up when it comes to decipher
ing Puff-talk (it is, after all, my second language) but I was feeling pretty proud that I could decode it from even the most novice of crunchers.

  “Nothing? Nothing?! Do you realize what you’re eating right now?”

  Carter looked at the bowl in his left hand and then the spoon moving toward his mouth with his right. “Uh-huh.”

  “They’re Cocoa Puffs, Carter! Co-coa puffs. As in chocolate—or as you call it, sugar central. You know, void of roughage. In fact, if I do recall correctly, you refer to them as the downfall of mankind. The reason for society’s ills.”

  I guess I thought if I berated the point it might sink in. But, then again, I was living proof that that tactic had failed. Just ask my mother. Besides, it was hard to hammer home drawbacks when I didn’t believe a word of what I was saying. Why? Because I, Tobi Tobias, am a chocoholic. And proud of it, I might add.

  So I did what any good chocoholic would do. I sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed my Bugs Bunny melamine bowl and matching spoon, filled it to the brim with the last of the crunchy brown puffs—don’t worry, I’ve got four more boxes in the cabinet over the stove—and headed back out into the living room. I mean, let’s face it: The expression If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em was coined for a reason, right?

  Not that my commiserating helped. In fact, when I returned, Carter showed no signs of having noticed my departure or subsequent return. His facial expression was still void of its trademark smile, and his eyes held a vacant look. Somehow, though, I managed to coax him onto the sofa.

  “C’mon, Carter, spill it. It’s Fiona again, isn’t it?”

  Call it a lucky guess, or simply all I had, but it was worth a shot. And judging by the look of complete mortification on his face as my words (and thus, his choice of food) registered in his subconscious, I’d hit the jackpot.

  “Oh, good God, please tell me I’m not eating what I think I’m eating.” Carter squeezed his eyes shut then opened them slowly, cautiously. A tortured gasp escaped his mouth along with a partially chewed Puff.

  “It’s okay, Carter, really. It’s been a long time coming. I mean, you can’t keep depriving yourself of the finer things in life, right?” I reached out and touched his shoulder, a teasing smile tugging my lips. “Thanks for letting me be a part of your spiritual awakening.”