by Jane Tesh
“No. She said she didn’t know George all that well.”
“This is so upsetting.”
We passed a wall of framed photographs displaying Employees of the Month and Top Sales People of the Year. George had won these awards several times. Was it possible a jealous co-worker had decided George didn’t deserve the glory? “I’d like to talk to your employees. Maybe George had enemies you didn’t know about.”
“He worked mostly with Mary Montague in Production and Design. We can stop there first. They were all dear friends, though.”
Production and Design was a large peach colored room with three desks and a larger space filled with posters, charts, and graphs. Mary Montague was a rail-thin blonde with a severe haircut and dark eyes.
“I couldn’t believe the news about George,” she said. “He wasn’t the suicidal type.”
“So he got along well with everyone?”
“Oh, yes. He was a little intense about his ideas sometimes, but we’re all that way. Everything was for the good of the company.”
“What’s this you’re working on?”
Mary Montague picked up a shiny poster from her desk. “Our Spring Forward campaign.”
The poster showed a cute peach-colored frog jumping into green water, an array of circles spreading out like ripples in the pond. Different boxes and bottles sat in each circle.
Mary pointed to the slogan. “‘Spring Forward With BeautiQueen.’ We’ve finished with the copy.” She indicated her computer. “You might like to check over it, Folly.”
“Thank you.” Folly sat down at Mary’s desk.
The third desk by the window was piled with folders. I walked over to have a look. “Was this George’s desk?”
“Yes. We haven’t touched anything.”
“Was there someone in line to replace him, someone who wanted his job?”
“George and Mary were the only ones really interested in this part of the business,” Folly said.
No motive there, then. “What are all these folders?”
Mary hesitated. “George had lots of ideas. The filing cabinet was full, so he started keeping them in stacks on his desk.”
“He didn’t keep all this on his computer?”
“He didn’t trust the computer. He was always afraid someone might hack in and steal his ideas.”
“Is it possible there’s someone in the company who might be capable of that?”
“Go ahead and read through them. I think you’ll understand.”
I opened the first folder and read all about Revita-Face, the first self-revitalizing cream, guaranteed to give you a new face each morning. All you had to do was peel off your old face. The second folder told the amazing secret of orange peels to reduce wrinkles. The third outlined a clarifying technique involving rubber bands and a tuning fork.
I closed the folder. “Was he serious about these?”
“Oh, yes,” Mary said. “But now you see why no one would want to steal them.”
I’d dealt with frustrated artists before. They tend to be super sensitive about their work. “Did people make fun of him?”
“No, actually, everyone understood he was trying to do his best for BeautiQueen.”
She handed me another folder. “And he did occasionally come up with something we could use. This is his idea for Peach Glitter Surprise Mascara. The young girls love it.”
The photograph inside the folder showed three pre-teen girls, their eyelashes sparkling. “Was there a special project, something he really wanted to make?”
“We all want to find a product that reverses the aging process. That’s the Holy Grail of the cosmetics industry, a cream or lotion that makes you look twenty again. George did some work on that, but I can’t really say it was a pet project.”
Folly had finished reading the advertising copy. She got up from the desk. “That’s fine, Mary. How’s the First Blush campaign coming along?”
“We should have that done by next week.”
“Excellent! David, did you have any more questions?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
I spoke to a few more employees at BeautiQueen. All seemed genuinely shocked and sorry about George’s death, and all agreed that, although some of his ideas could be screwy, they admired him for trying to push the company in new directions.
Folly and I returned to the front door. “That’s all I can do here, Folly. Do you have a key to George’s house? There might be some clues there.”
“Yes, I do. Let me get it for you.”
While I waited, Mary Montague came up. “Mr. Randall, I would like to mention one other thing, if it can help your case. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Folly, but sometimes George could be—how shall I put this?—a little too friendly in the workplace.”
“He harassed you?”
“Oh, I set him straight right away, but he saw himself as a ladies’ man, and sometimes this annoyed the female employees.”
“Did anyone file a complaint?”
“No, if we told him to stop, he’d stop, but, I don’t know, I thought he might have had a girlfriend in Florida, and things went wrong. Oh, here comes Folly. Please don’t worry her with this. It could mean nothing.”
Folly handed me George’s house key. “Mary, did you need to see me?”
“I wanted to thank Mr. Randall for being on this case.”
Folly patted my arm. “I know you’ll solve this. I can’t imagine who’d want to harm poor George.”
Mary gave me a look that said, “I can.”
After what the receptionist at the hotel told me about George’s clumsy advances and now Mary’s information, I was beginning to believe, as Mary did, that George put the moves on the wrong woman.
***
I drove to George’s ordinary little house on Hauser Street and let myself in. George’s house, like his office, was filled with ideas. Six filing cabinets full of ideas. Otherwise, George had lived a Spartan life. He had a sofa, a chair, the usual kitchen appliances, a bed, a nightstand, and a desk. There were no pictures, books, magazines, or photo albums, just a large stack of flat BeautiQueen boxes, unassembled. He might as well have lived in a hotel.
The backyard was fenced in, and there was a doghouse for Danger. I couldn’t find any dog food in the house, or a leash, or squeaky toys. Probably Lucy Warner came by and got them.
I opened one of the file drawers and looked through the files. Wrinkle Re-Duce. Eye Lift Deluxe. Por-Sa-Lynn Face Cream. The only things worse than George’s ideas were the titles he gave them. There were several pages of stuff I didn’t understand. What the heck was pentyleneglycol? Or cyclopentasiloxane? If I had to guess, I’d say ingredients for cosmetics. Either that, or George had been shooting for a Scrabble championship.
I’d read through three drawers before I found a folder marked “Rejections.” Inside this folder was a thick stack of rejection letters from various pharmaceutical companies. So George had been shopping his ideas around and no one was interested. Why keep a folder full of rejections? Was George the type of person who liked to wallow in failure?
I gave Folly a call. “I’m here in George’s house looking at rejection letters he received from other companies. Did you know he was sending his ideas to other people?”
“Why, no, I didn’t. He never said anything about that to me.” She sounded hurt. “He certainly had a right to, but usually we discussed things like that.”
“Is there anyone else at BeautiQueen who would’ve taken offense at this, perhaps seen it as a betrayal?”
“I can’t imagine who.”
“Think about it. I’ll check with you later.”
I took the rejection folder back to my office to contact the companies. The few I managed to reach vaguely recalled George and his ideas.
“We get hundreds of inq
uiries from inventors and scientists, Mr. Randall,” one secretary told me. “Unless an idea or product is revolutionary, we can’t use it.”
“What would be considered a revolutionary idea?”
“Anything that makes you live longer and look better without harmful side effects.”
“Eat right and exercise?”
She laughed. “Now that’s revolutionary.”
My next stop was Perfecto Face, Incorporated, the company George mentioned in his suicide note. I was greeted by a lovely woman with the melodic name of Amelia Tilley. Perfecto Face obviously worked well for Ms. Tilley. Her skin was flawless caramel, her eyebrows arched perfectly over huge brown eyes, and her lips gleamed like rich pink roses.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Randall?”
“I’m with the Parkland Herald. I’d like to write an article about Perfecto Face for our next Sunday supplement. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”
“Of course.” She indicated a chair and took her seat behind a large beige desk. The entire office was decorated in shades of beige, tan, and brown. Several framed photographs of Amelia Tilley were arranged on a table by the window. The photos showed her in a variety of sparkly gowns and tiaras.
I can recognize a beauty queen when I see one. “Are you a pageant winner?”
“Yes, I am.”
I took a closer look at the photos. According to her decorative sashes, Amelia Tilley had been Miss Celosia, Miss Summer Squash, Miss Winsome Valley, and Miss Elbow Macaroni. I had to chuckle at that one.
Ms. Tilley grinned. “That’s an actual pageant. It’s part of the Best Pasta Festival in Far Valley.”
I came back to my seat. “Have you entered the Miss Parkland Pageant?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then I’d like to wish you good luck.”
“Thank you.” Ms. Tilley handed me a beige brochure. “Now, about Perfecto Face. We’re a small local company with an emphasis on cosmetics and grooming aids for women of all colors. We’re pleased to have any publicity.”
I took out my tape recorder and set it on the desk. “Would you describe your spring line?”
She handed me another brochure. “We have a full range of pinks this spring. We’re calling it Think Pink.”
I glanced at the brochure. Women of all races smiled back, all thinking pink. “How would you describe your sales?”
“Very positive. Sales are up twenty percent.”
I’d checked into that, too, and she was correct. “And your research into products such as alpha hydroxy. How does that work?”
“We’re starting new research. We’ve been fully occupied with the spring line and our standard products, but we expect to reveal an exciting new skin care cream this fall. I can’t give you any specific details, you understand, but it involves gamma hydroxy, the latest scientific breakthrough.”
What happened to beta hydroxy? “I see.” I took another look at the Think Pink brochure. “These are beautiful shades. Do you have much problem with other companies trying to steal your ideas?”
“I like to think we have a good professional relationship with our rivals. Perfecto Face is one of the few companies devoted to women of color, so we’re competing for a different section of the market.”
“Do you know Folly Harper of BeautiQueen cosmetics?”
“Yes, I know Folly. She’s an inspiration to our younger salespeople on how to get ahead.”
“And her partner, George McMillan, did you know him?”
Ms. Tilley’s smile faded. “He killed himself, didn’t he? I heard that on the news.”
“When I interviewed him for a previous article, he said something to me about joining Perfecto Face.”
“I’d met him and we discussed that, but his ideas didn’t fit the vision of our company.”
“Something about a new face cream?”
“I don’t think he’d done enough research. Besides that, I didn’t want to cause any trouble between Perfecto Face and BeautiQueen. As I said, I admire Folly Harper. There’s plenty of room for our two companies. We cater to different clienteles.” She looked puzzled by the turn in conversation, so I headed back to the gamma hydroxy quadrant.
“This shade here, this Sun-Kissed Rose. Who comes up with such descriptive names?”
***
After a half hour thinking pink, I thanked Ms. Tilley and went back to my car. My phone beeped with a text from Kary saying she was having a hot dog at Janice’s to celebrate the last of the end of grade testing and did I want to join her?
As I slid into the booth at the little restaurant, Janice caught my eye and nodded. She’d bring me the usual two dogs all the way.
I pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser. “Are you free at last?”
“Two more workdays to go.”
“Congratulations. I’ll buy lunch.”
“Thanks.” Kary pulled the paper off her straw and plunked it into her diet soda. “I’m still looking for a connection between George and Viola, but meanwhile, I may be able to get some information about Folly. One of the women in the pageant is Amelia Tilley. She runs her own cosmetics company, so she should know Folly.”
“She does. I talked to her this morning. Perfecto-Face is the company George was going to sell BeautiQueen secrets to.”
“Rats! I thought I had the inside story. What did she say?”
“That he wanted to join her company, but his ideas didn’t fit. I’ve read some of George’s ideas. She was being very polite.”
“So she knows Folly?”
“She said Folly was an inspiration. Something else about George, though. His co-worker at BeautiQueen said he was an expert in unwanted attention.”
“He harassed her?”
“I think he tried his dubious charm on Ms. Tilley, too. She appeared to be upset about his death, but she could be hiding something. Maybe she and George had a secret deal. You might be able to find out more.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a lot of talk about men in the dressing rooms.”
Janice brought our hot dogs, a plate of fries, and my drink. Then she hurried off to help another customer. The little restaurant teemed with college students, businessmen on lunch break, and mothers with babies in strollers. I moved my fries over and spent a few minutes writing “Marry Me” in ketchup. I turned my plate so Kary could see.
She took one of her fries and gave the letters a gentle swipe. “You get more creative every day.”
“I won’t give up.”
“Back to the case, please.”
I knew when to make a strategic retreat. “I checked out George’s house, too. Loads of really bad ideas everywhere and rejection letters from cosmetic companies.”
“So maybe he did commit suicide. He might have gotten tired of all that rejection.”
“I don’t know. The more I learn about George, the more I believe he was too full of himself to pull the trigger.”
“Maybe someone else killed him and made it look like suicide.”
“He sure as hell wasn’t killed for his ideas.”
“If he was such a masher, maybe some woman got tired of his advances.”
“But you deal with that every day, don’t you?” Someone as attractive as Kary had to.
She munched another fry before answering. “It doesn’t make me mad enough to kill. I try to ignore it, or make a joke, and if a guy gets too fresh, I give him my Teacher Look.”
I’d reached for my drink, but paused in mock fear. “Not the Teacher Look.”
“Only as a last resort.”
We ate for a while, and then I couldn’t help but ask about Charlie. “How’s the show coming along? Charlie staying sober?”
“I told him he’d better.”
“All he has to do is attend Taffy’s concert, and she’ll love him forever.�
��
“I said I could handle the piano part on Friday night. We’ve been taking turns as it is. What time is her show?”
“I believe she goes on at nine-thirty.”
“Then he could easily play the first act and get there in plenty of time.”
“Keep reminding him. Use the Look, if necessary.”
“I will.” She used it on me. “Now about Baby Love. I have a plan for our undercover operation.”
Of course she hadn’t forgotten this. “Would you marry me first? You know, so we’d be a legal couple.”
“Hmm. Something to consider.” Her smile was impish. “But if Baby Love’s an illegal company, that won’t matter.”
“It would matter to me. It would give my acting verisimilitude.”
Her eyes went wide. “Wow!”
“You like that? I’ve been saving it up.”
“I am so impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use that word in a sentence.”
“Plenty more where that came from. Marry me, and I promise a spectacular six-syllable word a day.”
“That sounds very educational,” she said. “But I must respectfully decline. I think going in as reporters from the Herald is our best bet. I’ve thought it over, and I don’t think we’d need the paper’s permission. After all, we’re not going to actually print a story. If we find anything illegal, we’ll call Jordan and let the police handle it.”
“You want to go after lunch?”
“Unfortunately, I have to get back to school.”
“After school, then.”
“All right.” There was a sparkle in her eyes that I knew and feared. “Meet me at the corner of Hanley and Berry at three o’clock, and we’ll put my plan into action.”
***
I amused Kary by trying to spell “Marry Me” with leftover bits of slaw. Then I paid the check and we went our separate ways. Kary headed back to school to finish filling in the test information, and I went over to the Drug Palace to put in a few hours wandering the aisles with my clipboard, pretending to be checking inventory. I’d politely asked a woman not to open the boxes of tampons until she’d bought them—I mean, come on, couldn’t she tell what was inside?—when Ellin came down the aisle. I headed her off by the picture frames on the corner. She didn’t waste time or breath.
