Cover copy
The Tobias Ad Agency is in the running for the coveted Golden Storyboard, and Tobi couldn’t be more thrilled—until she discovers it’s literally an award to die for.
It’s an honor just to be nominated. But, let’s get real, Tobi wants to win. The St. Louis Advertising Awards are like the Oscars for her field, and Tobi is up for its most prestigious prize, Best Overall Ad Campaign. The competition is always fierce, but this year it’s killer . . .
Despite her high hopes, Tobi isn’t exactly shocked when she doesn’t win. But she is shocked when the winner, Deidre Ryan, takes the stage only to plummet to her death as a platform suddenly gives way. After the police discover foul play, Tobi’s Grandpa Stu wastes no time in nominating suspects. But was Deidre the intended victim—or was someone else meant to take the fatal fall? Now it’s a race to catch a killer in the spotlight, before another nominee gets the booby prize and Tobi gets trapped in a no-win situation.
Books by Laura Bradford
And DEATH Goes To…
30 Second Death
Death in Advertising
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
And DEATH Goes To...
A Tobi Tobias Mystery
Laura Bradford
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2017 by Laura Bradford
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First Electronic Edition:
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0210-5
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0210-X
First Print Edition:
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0211-2
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0211-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Joe…
Thank you for helping me see the shoreline at a time it seemed so very far away.
~Chapter One~
You know the kid who lurks at the top of the stairs, listening to adult conversations they’re not supposed to hear? Or the one who rummages through the closets in the weeks leading up to Christmas because they have to know what Santa is bringing?
Yup, that was me.
And while I no longer qualify as a kid (freckles be damned) and now live alone in my own one bedroom apartment, I still lurk (only now it’s from behind curtained windows) and I still peek (or try to) every chance I get.
Unless, of course, my best friend, Carter McDade, is running the show.
You see, Carter is the epitome of the surprise-loving, rule-following, anti-peeker my mother always wished I was. And if you try to go behind his back and peek—as I was at that moment—he was known to get a little testy (not a good thing when he had both a hot curling iron and a bottle of glue within arm’s reach).
“Oh, Sunshine, you are sooo going to be the belle of the ball tonight.” Carter took a half step back only to hone in on the side of my head like a vulture spying residual roadkill on the side of the road. “Waaaiitt! Don’t move.”
In a flash of movement even a fighter pilot would find impressive, Carter commandeered the still warm curling iron from the folding table he’d erected in front of me and brandished it above my right ear. In went the strand...tug went my head…spin went his hand…and, after a Mississippi-count to ten beneath his breath, out came the now-curled strand I could just barely see in my peripheral vision.
He set down the curling iron and applauded his own efforts. “Oh. My. Gosh. I. Am. A. Genius. Andy is going to bust a serious move when he sees yooouuu!”
“A serious move, huh?” I started to turn toward the mirror I knew was just over my shoulder, but before my chin had even made it a centimeter past the position I’d been ordered to hold for coming up on thirty minutes now, he leaned forward, his breath warm on my ear.
“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It. Sunshine.”
I groaned, loudly. “Has anyone ever told you how infuriating you can be?”
“Yes. You. About”—Carter checked his royal blue Swatch—“five minutes ago.”
I crossed my arms in front of my minuscule (no, really…trust me) chest and let loose a dramatic sigh. “Good.”
Carter stuck his tongue out at me and then grabbed my makeup bag off the table.
“Wait. You already did my makeup,” I protested.
“Your foundation, yes. But that’s simply the canvas. Now it’s time for the artwork.” He grabbed a second bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a plastic container with two sets of false eyelashes.
“Hey… You’ve always said you like my lashes!”
“I do. But tonight calls for long and lush.” He ordered me to shut my eyes and, when I did, stuck the lashes into place with the aforementioned glue. When I blinked, he barked. When I protested, he barked. And when all was as he wanted, he moved on to my eyelids. “The teal of your dress, combined with this shadow palette, will really play up the green hue of your eyes—rowwww.”
“Since I’m afraid to open my eyes lest I get beaten, I guess I’ll have to trust you on that.”
“As you should.” He stepped back, contemplated his efforts thus far, and then took in the part of my dress he could see peeking out from under my smock. “That dress really is spectacular on you, Sunshine.”
“I know. You told me that when you helped me pick it out, remember?” I held my chin and my gaze steady as he moved on to the mascara, my thoughts moving beyond my friend’s apartment to the reason for my makeover. “I still can’t believe I’m going tonight.”
“You’ve gone to this shindig before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but this is different, Carter. I’m a nominee now. An actual, honest-to-goodness nominee.”
“You act like that’s such a shocker, Sunshine. But it’s not. You’re really good at”—Carter’s fingers guided my head to the left—“all that slogan stuff.”
“But we’re talking about the St. Louis Advertising Awards here. They’re like the Oscars for people who do what I do.” I stopped myself mid-fidget and looked up at Carter. “You have no idea how many times I’ve pinched myself today alone, just to see if all of this is real.”
He stepped back, surveyed the canvas that was my eyes, and capped up the mascara. “Oh, it’s real, Sunshine. You’re in that dress, aren’t you?”
I looked down at the part of my dress I could see and f
elt the same thrill I felt when I’d put it on in Carter’s bathroom less than thirty minutes earlier. The sparkly silver stilettos he’d gone nearly postal over in the store were simply the icing on the cake that was the princess (read: not normal) version of myself.
Since the moment the letter announcing my nomination for Best Overall Ad Campaign had arrived via certified mail, my feet had barely touched the ground. Thanks to Andy Zander (my super cute boyfriend), the milestone of being nominated had been celebrated via a candlelight dinner and a horse and carriage ride along the grounds of the St. Louis Arch. Mary Fran (my next door neighbor and best bud along with Carter) had thrown an impromptu dance party on the front lawn when she found out, and even Ms. Rapple, the old biddy who lives in the apartment below Mary Fran’s, had been surprisingly pleasant, though that probably had more to do with her deepening relationship—shudder—withGrandpa Stu. And Grandpa Stu had been so proud of my accomplishment he’d subjected himself to the nearly four hour bus ride between his independent senior living complex in Kansas City and my Central West End digs just so he could be here for my big day.
“You should see your face right now.”
I shook myself back to the present and stared at Carter. “You’re kidding, right?”
“What?”
“I should see my face right now? Seriously? What do you think I’ve been waiting to do this whole time?”
“I’m not talking about the makeup and the hair, Sunshine.” Carter pulled out a big wide brush, stuck it into a canister, and brushed the contents across my cheeks. “I’m talking about the part that’s all you. You’re absolutely glowing.”
I felt my cheeks warm at the praise, but before I could respond, Carter capped up the canister and traded it for our agreed upon lipstick shade. “Validation of your talent obviously agrees with you. You should bottle that; you’d make a fortune.”
I didn’t need a mirror (although I desperately wanted one at that moment) to know he was right. I was literally living my dream. How could I not be glowing?
Still, I felt the need to explain said glow. “At the risk of further beating a dead horse, you need to understand these awards are huge. Huge.”
“You might’ve mentioned that a time or two”—Carter looked up, bouncing his eyes from left to right as he counted silently—“or…ten.”
“Well, that’s because they are. Shamus Callahan of the Shamus Callahan Foundation was a veritable legend in the St. Louis advertising community and beyond. Remember that commercial when we were kids—the one for that wind-up cat that was all the rage?”
Carter’s eyes widened. “Ms. Pretty Kitty?”
I nodded.
Clutching the lipstick tube to his chest, he slumped back against the wall, a dreamy expression playing across his face. “I loved her.”
“Yeah, me, too. But do you remember the jingle they played in the background of those commercials? The one that invariably made you beg for a Ms. Pretty Kitty of your own?”
He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, closed his eyes (no, not long enough for me to sneak a peek at myself), and began to hum a few bars of the ad campaign responsible for making the mechanical cat the top selling toy across the country for its inaugural holiday season. “Ms…Ms. Pre-ty Kitty…love her…pet her…she’s the one…”
I joined in for the final few lines and then followed them up with a laugh. “Yes! Nice!”
Carter slowly pulled the lipstick tube away from his body and smiled down at it as if it was something entirely different. “I took her everywhere that year.”
“And you—or, rather, your parents have Shamus Callahan to thank for that. He made all kids want that toy.”
Carter walked around to the front of my chair and studied me closely. “So this guy was the real deal?”
“That’s putting it mildly. And that wasn’t his only national campaign. He had lots. But he never forgot his roots.”
“His roots being St. Louis, I take it?” Swapping the still unused lipstick tube for the big brush, he added another swipe of blush to my cheeks.
“That’s right. He was the driving force—and money—behind this award show. And he kept it going for thirty years. And when he died, the foundation created in his honor took it over.”
“Who runs the foundation?”
“His wife, Mavis, and his son, Kevin. Kevin is now president of Callahan Advertising.”
“Is Kevin’s mom in advertising, as well?”
“Kevin’s stepmom. Kevin was the byproduct of an affair Shamus apparently had forty some odd years ago. And no, Mavis was simply the supportive and dutiful wife from what I’ve been told.
“Anyway, that first award show was small. Maybe ten categories. But the crowning jewel was the same Best Overall Campaign category I’m up for with my New Town campaign.” I stopped, made myself take a much needed breath, and then dove back in again. “And while the award show has grown and more categories have been added over the years, that category—my category—has remained the most prestigious of them all.”
He stopping fussing with my cheeks and moved on to my lipstick. “So what does it look like?”
“What?”
“The award. Is it a naked bald guy like old Oscar?”
“I’m not so sure Oscar is naked.”
“Google an image one day, Sunshine. No man looks like that in clothes—trust me.”
I must have licked my lips when I laughed, because I got a hand smack and a quick lipstick touch up. “Can I answer the original question, please?”
“If you can refrain from licking, yes.”
“All but the big award is a golden briefcase.”
“And the big one?” Carter asked as he nodded at my face.
“A Golden Storyboard.” I held my sigh back as I rushed to share the rest of the picture that had been playing itself out in my head for weeks. “It’s the last award of the evening. The nominees are read, just like in all the categories, but as the winner walks on to the stage, a red velvet curtain opens up to reveal a spiral staircase. After the winner is handed the award, he or she gets to walk up the spiral stairs to a special platform. When they reach the top, another velvet curtain opens to reveal a screen. And as the winner and the audience watch, his or her winning campaign is played for all to see.”
Carter’s answering laugh snapped me back into the moment.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re glowing again.”
I plucked the lipstick from Carter’s hand and set it on the table. “If I am, it’s because I can’t believe I’m nominated for that award. Last year, when Cassie Turner won for the Ross Jackson Agency, I literally had tears running down my face I was so happy for her—and I really only know her by name. And the year before that, when another one of the Ross Jackson crew won, I was so taken by all the pageantry of the award as the newbie that I was, my boss actually threw an elbow when it was time to clap.”
“I take it this Ross Jackson agency is a powerhouse with two wins in two years?”
“Make it five wins in the past five years, and yeah, they’re a powerhouse—a powerhouse who was nominated in just about every other category this year except Best Overall. And that’s despite the work Cassie Turner did again this year—for Remy Electronics.”
Carter looked past me for a moment in thought. “Wait. I remember that ad. I’m not an electronics guy and I was intrigued.”
“I know. Crazy, right?” I let loose an honest to goodness squeal that made Carter jump just a little. “I’m living my dream. I have my own agency, I have real paying clients, I’m a car owner for the first time in almost thirty years, and I’m nominated for the biggest award in the industry! I-I can’t even begin to tell you what an honor it is to have my name alongside the likes of Ben Gibbens, Lexa Smyth, and Deidre Ryan!”
“And I’d be willing to bet they consider it a dream-c
ome-true to have their name alongside yours, Sunshine.”
I didn’t mean to laugh, I really didn’t. But I couldn’t help it. “I doubt that. I’ve only been in this business—in this town, in fact—for a few years. Ben and Deidre both interned here during their college days and grew their careers here.”
“You’re growing your career here, too,” Carter argued like the true and loyal friend he is.
“Growing, yes. But they’ve grown it.”
“And the other one? With the trendy name?”
“Lexa?” At his nod, I picked up the brush that had finally been retired from my face and twirled it between my fingers. “I’m not really sure how she got a nomination other than the fact that she’s now working for the Callahan Agency, but there are probably some who are wondering how I got nominated, too, so…”
He shook his finger at me. “Stop that. Stop that right now.”
“Sorry.” I tossed the brush back onto the table and met Carter’s disapproving eyes. “Momentary self-esteem setback. I’m over it. I promise.”
“Good.” Carter puckered his own lips in demonstration and then, when I mimicked to his satisfaction, he moved in for what I hoped was one final swipe. “If all goes well, we’ll have two winners to celebrate before the night is over.”
It was hard not to smile as his words redirected my thoughts to Mary Fran Wazoli’s sixteen-year-old son, Sam. Like me with advertising, Sam’s passion for photography had been born before he was ten years old. And while many might have considered me crazy for employing a teenager to shoot my agency’s stills, I never had any doubt. The fact that his work was good enough to earn him a nomination alongside professionals two and three times his age just backed up what I’d known all along.
My squeal was back. Only this time, it came complete with an echo—Carter’s.
“Oh, Sunshine…” He capped the lipstick, tossed it into his bag of tricks, and clapped his hands once. “You could be on a runway right now.”
I parted my freshly colored lips in anticipation of the self-deprecating remarks that were poised to announce themselves like the trusty soldiers they were, but, in the end, I swallowed them back. After all, a promise was a promise, wasn’t it?
And Death Goes to . . . Page 1
