by K. K. Beck
When he got to the apartment house, however, he was startled to see a coroner’s van parked out front. He arrived in the lobby just in time to see two guys pushing a gurney through Teresa Hoffman’s door. On the gurney was a human shape completely covered by a large sheet.
Lukowski flashed his badge and said, “What’s happened?”
The attendant shrugged. “Who knows? Looks like she’s been dead about a week.”
“You know who she is?”
The attendant checked a clipboard. “The apartment house manager just left. She was pretty shook up. She identified her as Teresa Hoffman.”
* * *
Caroline didn’t seem to be in her office. Alice decided to go look for her in order to ask about the cruise organizer’s request for results-only payment.
She wandered into the record library, only to find Daphne and Carl looking up at her inquiringly. Carl immediately let his head drop back down and continued writing something.
“Oh. Hi,” Alice said. “I was just looking for Caroline.”
“Good luck,” said Daphne. “She never makes more than a cameo appearance around here.”
Carl gave a small, sly smile and kept on writing laboriously, like a child learning penmanship.
“It is a little difficult to know who’s in charge around here,” said Alice, pleased that Daphne had offered a small opening.
“No one’s in charge,” said Daphne. “But that’s okay. We all know what we’re supposed to be doing. Franklin and Caroline just get in the way.”
Great, thought Alice. They may know what they’re doing, but I don’t. “So Ed pretty much supervised himself?”
“We never quite knew what he was up to, to be honest,” said Daphne with a puzzled frown.
From the speaker mounted high up on the wall in the record library, Phil’s reedy but sincere voice held forth. “I just had a call from some woman complaining about the sound quality on this classic LP of Schubert’s ‘Death and the Maiden,’ with the Busch Quartet. Well, here at KLEG we’re more interested in preserving legendary performances of the past, rich in a musical tradition. We’re not going to throw anything off our playlist simply because it happens to have been recorded in an age that embraced musical rather than technological values. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this is the only performance of this piece worth listening to. To anyone who really cares about music, some tinny CD run off by some slick but soulless pickup quartet will never compare with the performances available on lush vinyl by an ensemble steeped in the tradition from which this music sprang. I’m afraid I’m getting more than just a little steamed about listeners calling up and complaining about small technicalities.”
In an angry tone, Phil continued, “Let me put it to you this way, and maybe some of you will get it. It’s kind of like being on the Olympic Peninsula on a cloudy day such as we have here in the Northwest. You can’t see every little detail of the awe-inspiring mountains, but you can sense them looming over you, and somehow they’re all the more majestic shrouded in a veil of mist. Others may compromise, but here at KLEG we’re holding the line. If it’s musical wallpaper you want, go ahead, be my guest. Listen to that other classical station.”
“Jesus,” muttered Carl. “Why doesn’t he just tell them KING-FM’s dial position?”
Phil’s voice was becoming more agitated and higher-pitched. “As long as yours truly, Phil Bernard, is on the job, we’ll never change. Because Seattle deserves a world-class radio station—and we’re it.” Phil gasped for air, and an alarming klunking sound came from the speaker. Alice wondered if Phil, overwrought, had collapsed onto the microphone.
“He’s lost it again big-time,” said Daphne, clicking her tongue, “and now we’ve got dead air.”
Phil’s voice finally returned, suddenly chirpier. “Gee, I guess I was up on my high horse again, folks. Now, just to let you know we’re open to new ideas, let’s listen to Bach and the MOOG synthesizer. It’s Sheep May Safely Graze from Switched-On Bach, Johann Sebastian at his most psychedelic.”
“That’s trendy,” said Carl sarcastically. “How about a segue to Night on Disco Mountain?”
Thundering tones blasted into the room, followed by a frowning Phil, in person, carrying a coffee cup with a picture of Beethoven on it in one hand and a tattered LP jacket in the other.
Daphne and Carl gave him baleful looks. Looking angry but defensive, he said, “Okay. Maybe I overdid it a little. At least that weasel Ed wasn’t around to hear it.”
“When you get upset like that,” said Daphne, tilting her head to one side pensively, “you work the mike pretty close and your p’s start popping.”
“I salvaged the situation by pandering once again to the lowest common denominator and playing that youth-oriented thing,” said Phil. He flung the Schubert LP at Carl. “This needs a good wash. None of it would have happened if someone hadn’t gotten crud all over this, causing a lot of clicking. It looks like peanut butter. Have you been using the records as sandwich platters?”
“No, but I think Bob LeBaron has been eating in the booth again,” said Carl. “There were a bunch of burrito wrappers in there after his last shift.” Carl rose and left with the record and a bottle of Joy dishwashing liquid.
Alice glanced down at the letter Carl had been writing, managing to read the last line, which read, “Love, Teresa.”
Daphne followed her eyes. “Carl answers her mail,” she explained. She leaned over and said confidentially, “Poor Carl. He’s auditioned a million times to be an announcer, but Phil always shoots him down. Answering Teresa’s mail is as close as he’ll ever get to stardom.”
“You’ll find that in this business everyone wants to be an announcer eventually,” said Phil to Alice. “Many are called; few are chosen.” He refilled his coffee cup from a thermos on his desk.
“How nice for both of you, then,” said Alice pleasantly.
“Alice is looking for Caroline,” explained Daphne.
“Really?” said Phil. “Why?”
“Oh, I just had a question about an advertiser.”
“Well, don’t expect us to help you,” Phil replied. Alice hadn’t had any intention of asking for anything from the querulous old man. “The only way for broadcasting to work properly,” he went on, “is for the sales side of the house and the artistic side to be completely separate. Too bad Ed Costello didn’t understand that.”
He checked his watch and went back down the hall toward the broadcast booth.
“Phil doesn’t mean to sound ungracious,” said Daphne. “It’s just that Ed was trying to get him fired.”
“Oh, really?”
Daphne nodded. “Ed kept taping Phil’s little on-air outbursts and playing them for Caroline. He said we could jack up the ratings and get more business if we got a new program director in here. He said Phil made a point of insulting what little audience we had left.”
“Do you think Caroline took Ed’s concerns seriously?”
Daphne shrugged. “Who knows? Phil’s been here forever. Caroline’s mother hired him back when hi-fi was cutting edge. KLEG is his life.” She rolled her eyes as if to indicate that she had more going for her.
Alice went out past the break room. She glanced inside and saw Carl standing at the sink, scrubbing the Schubert LP with a long-handled dishwashing brush and rinsing it off under the faucet. Judy sat nearby with her back to the door, eating a depressing lunch that looked like raw carrot and rutabaga. “I think Caroline’s in love again,” she was saying between audible crunches. “I heard her making a lunch date with some guy who sounded like a gigolo. And I heard Alice trying to suck up to Franklin and give away ads to some travel agent.”
“Maybe it would be more efficient if you just taped everyone’s phone calls and circulated the cassette,” said Carl in his soft little voice. Alice couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.
* * *
“I’ve always been attracted to older women,” said Jeffrey Fleming, swirling hi
s remaining Chardonnay, putting the glass to his lips and staring boldly at Caroline over the rim.
Caroline noticed with irritation that the impossibly young waiter, who was removing the dessert plates, seemed to be smirking at this. How dare he? Men who appreciated older women were invariably sensitive, sophisticated people who knew a lot about life, and more than a few of them had appreciated her over the years.
She smiled at Jeffrey and fingered the stainless-steel pendant that hung between her breasts from what appeared to be a bicycle chain. She felt herself blushing a little and hoped he didn’t think she was having a hot flash.
He returned her smile. “How do you feel about younger men?” he went on in a husky whisper. He ran a hand through his wavy auburn hair. Jeffrey Fleming was probably ten years her junior. Except for a slightly worn-out, gaunt look, which she found attractive, attributing it as she did to his artistic temperament, he was pretty well preserved.
“I don’t think age should be a barrier to—anything, really,” she said, waving her hand.
He nodded. “Absolutely. Youth is a state of mind. People like us, who have lively cultural interests, why, we can go on forever.”
She put her elbows on the table and set her chin girlishly on her hands in an Audrey Hepburn–like pose meant to indicate that he had her complete attention. “Speaking of which, Jeffrey, I want you to tell me all about your upcoming show.” Fleming was a photographer specializing in haunting portraits of the emotionally disturbed and bleak landscapes of desert trailer parks.
“Well,” he said, “there’s no point in describing work verbally that should speak for itself visually. My studio’s just around the corner. Why don’t you come and take a look?”
“Oh, I’d be delighted. If it isn’t an imposition or anything—”
“Not at all. I’d love to get your reaction. And, Caroline, to be honest, I chose this restaurant because it was just around the corner.” His voice took on a new intimacy. “I was hoping to lure you up to my studio after lunch.”
He reached for the check, but she stopped him, letting the tips of her fingers rest on the back of his hand for a second. “Let me get this,” she said. “I’ll put it on the KLEG credit card. This is business, since I’ve been thinking we should interview you on the station before your show. I really want us to cover the visual arts more thoroughly.”
“Oh, all right,” he said, settling back in his chair. “But the next time’s on me. I insist.”
Caroline fished in her purse for her credit card and reading glasses. She’d been dying to see his studio, and she was thrilled that he respected her artistic judgment. She also felt another kind of thrill at the prospect of the two of them alone together. Their relationship had become increasingly friendly over the half dozen lunches they’d had since meeting at the Cross-Cultural Multimedia Conference of the Visual Arts sponsored by the Marjorie Klegg Payne Foundation.
“Speaking of KLEG,” he said, clearing his throat, as Caroline, glasses on the end of her nose, filled in the tip amount, “I haven’t seen you since poor Ed Costello died. I read all about it in the papers, and I thought of calling you and offering you some kind of sympathy. What a terrible thing!”
“It’s horrible and mystifying,” said Caroline. “I can’t imagine who would do such a thing.”
Jeffrey Fleming examined the slightly frayed cuff of his tweed jacket and said, “Ed never happened to tell you anything about me, did he?”
“Why, no,” said Caroline, looking up at him with genuine surprise. “I didn’t even know you knew him.”
He shrugged. “You know what a small town this is in some ways. Years ago, when I was doing a lot of commercial work, I worked with an ad agency and Ed used to call on us. Last time you and I had lunch and I picked you up at KLEG, I ran into him in the parking lot. I hadn’t thought about him in years. I just wondered if he’d mentioned anything about, well, you know, my past.”
“No, not at all.” Caroline frowned, scratched out the tip amount and redid it. That waiter had been entirely too smirky. Ten percent was enough. Bending over the tab, she didn’t notice the beatific look of relief on Jeffrey Fleming’s usually haggard face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After learning that Judy was listening in on her calls, Alice felt diffident about making pitches on the phone. Judy would just be waiting for her to screw up. Instead, she decided to spend the afternoon making more cold calls in person. She’d managed to come up with a list of previous advertisers, augmented by a few names and addresses she found in the box of Ed’s papers.
Her first stop was a dimly lit astrological bookstore in Belltown. She stepped over a couple of malt liquor cans and pushed hard at the sticking door. Inside, the little shop smelled of mildew and mothballs. A prim-looking older woman, her shiny silver hair in a pageboy held back by a black velvet headband, sat behind the counter. She was surrounded by three obese and comatose cats. The woman gave Alice an unwelcoming glance and looked back down at some knitting.
Suddenly feeling rather shy, Alice feigned interest in the merchandise—books on astrology, New Age tracts, tarot cards, a glass case full of crystals and cheap zodiac medallions.
Finally she approached the counter and said, “I’m from KLEG Radio. I believe Ed Costello called on you before.”
“I’ve paid you something on account,” said the woman in a sharp, cultivated, fluty voice. “I’ll get you the rest as soon as I can.”
“Oh,” said Alice, flustered. “I didn’t realize there was some sort of problem.”
“Problem! There certainly was a problem. I made it very clear to Mr. Costello that he was not to run those ads when Saturn was retrograde. No wonder they didn’t bring in one single customer! I’m afraid I’ll just have to pay you as money comes in.”
“Perhaps if you tried again,” began Alice. “When the stars were more—”
“Mercury is ruler of messages and communications,” said the woman as if speaking to an idiot child. “Mercury won’t be in the right place for me to advertise for another decade. There was just a small window of opportunity, but it’s gone now, thanks to your Mr. Costello.”
Apologizing, Alice backed out of the store and once again found herself blinking back tears of frustration. Tomorrow, she vowed, she’d tell Judy she was out making more cold calls and then she’d go take typing tests at temporary agencies instead.
Her next stop, she felt sure, must be a mistake. All she’d had to go on was a name and address—Rosa Delgado, Delgado Enterprises—and a suite number in a downtown high-rise. This was a far cry from the shabby, pathetic businesses she’d been visiting up to now—enterprises surrounded by an aura of dashed hopes and inevitable failure.
These top-floor offices, however, were elegant. Alice took in the vast waiting area, the pleasant-looking receptionist, the framed architectural drawings on the walls.
Alice was grateful that the receptionist was on the phone. She was able to leaf through some glossy brochures on the coffee table and discover just what this company did. Apparently, Delgado Enterprises sold condominiums. “Olympic Acres—Gracious Retirement Living in a Setting of Stunning Natural Beauty,” “Lake Vista Estates—A Weekend Retreat for Year-Round Pleasure,” read the captions above pictures of attractive fiftyish people fishing in bright blue waters and thirtyish yuppies drinking wine on balconies overlooking snowcapped peaks.
The atmosphere was a little too upscale for Alice to make her usual pitch leaning on the counter next to the cash register. Maybe she’d better ask for an appointment with Rosa Delgado instead.
When the receptionist got off the phone Alice approached the desk. She cleared her throat and said, “I wonder if I could make an appointment with Rosa Delgado. I should have called, but—” Now she felt awkward. How ridiculous to show up in person to make an appointment. “You see, I’m from KLEG Radio. I’ve just taken over from Ed Costello.”
Just then a short woman in her mid-forties with heavy but artful makeup and a fabulous
caramel-colored wool bouclé suit came into the reception area. The receptionist sat up a little straighter in her chair.
The woman gave Alice an appraising look. She had almond-shaped eyes behind tinted glasses, golden skin, a pile of lacquered black hair arranged on top of her head in what Alice assumed was an attempt to add a few inches.
“Ed Costello?” she said. “What about him?” She had a slight accent and a hard edge to her voice.
“I’ve taken over for him,” said Alice. “At KLEG Radio. He was calling on you for radio advertising. I wanted to touch base with Rosa Delgado.”
The woman didn’t say anything, so Alice gestured toward the brochures. “I guess you know, we have a lot of older listeners. Perfect for retirement homes.”
“I’m Rosa Delgado,” the tiny woman said brusquely. “Come on in. We’ll talk.” She flung a file folder at the receptionist and strutted into her office on three-inch heels, Alice in tow.
Rosa Delgado’s office was a huge beige affair with a massive walnut desk. She got behind it, looking even tinier, and pointed to a guest chair. “So what do you want?” she said.
“Oh. I want you to buy some advertising,” Alice said. “I guess Ed had already talked to you.”
Rosa nodded and looked attentive. She folded her small, well-manicured hands on the desk in front of her. They were bristling with diamonds in elaborate settings.
Alice began, “To tell you the truth, I don’t know much about your business. I found your name and number on Ed’s desk when I took over.”
“What happened to him?” demanded Rosa.
“He, um, died. It was very tragic. It was in all the papers.”
“I only read the business section,” said Rosa. “I don’t care about all that other stuff. Too depressing.”
“Tell me a little bit about your advertising needs,” said Alice tentatively. “You’re selling condominiums. Are they all retirement homes?”
“And time shares,” said Rosa. “We have three major developments around the state. We need to get some people out to look at the units. After that, we can sell them. All we need is leads. We already advertise on radio. Why should I include your station in my budget?”
