by Lois Winston
“I can give you a jump,” he offered, “but there’s no guarantee it will hold until you get home.”
With my luck? Especially today? I’d have better odds of winning both MegaMillions and Powerball. In the same week. “I don’t relish the idea of finding myself stranded on Rt. 287, tying up traffic during the height of rush hour.” I held out my hand. “Thanks anyway, Mr.—”
“Martinelli. Martino Martinelli but you can call me Tino. Everyone does.”
“Thank you, Tino.”
“Wish I could’ve been more help.”
“That makes two of us.”
He nodded in the direction of the police activity. “What’s going on down there? Accident?”
“We found a dead body this morning,” said Cloris.
“No shit! In the parking lot? Must’ve happened after I dropped Mr. G off. Someone have a heart attack or something?”
“You haven’t been here all day?” I asked.
“Not since eight. Mr. G. had me running errands for him and his lady friend.”
Cloris and I exchanged a quick glance. “You saw Philomena?” she asked.
“Nah, I just had a long list of stuff to take care of for her.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“The body we found was murdered, and the police think it might be Philomena,” I said.
The color drained from Tino Martinelli’s ruddy complexion. “Does Mr. G. know?”
“Of course, he knows,” I said. “The police spent the day questioning all of us, but they haven’t made a positive ID yet. The victim could be someone else.”
“Huh?”
“You should probably go talk to them.”
“The police? Why?”
“To help in the investigation,” said Cloris.
“If it is Philomena,” I added, “you may have been one of the last people to see her alive yesterday.”
Tino drew his brows together and leaned forward in a menacing Cro-Magnon manner. “What are you saying? You think I had something to do with it?”
I inched backwards until my rear made contact with my Hyundai. “No, of course not.”
“But you might have seen or heard something that could help the police catch the killer,” said Cloris. “Until they do, no one is safe.”
Tino took a step back and scanned the parking lot. “You mean there could be a serial killer on the loose?”
“No one is even sure who the victim is yet,” I said. “Let alone why she was murdered. Until the police have answers, anything is possible.”
Tino stepped backward and relaxed his body, his brows separating until the Cro-Magnon Tino morphed back into Homo Sapiens Tino. He rubbed his broad jaw. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Sorry I jumped all over you. I’ll go talk to them. Anything to help.”
He climbed back into the Lincoln. “Sorry I couldn’t fix your car,” he said before heading toward the crime scene.
“Me, too,” I mumbled.
“Are you going to call a tow truck, or do you want a ride home?” asked Cloris.
I lowered the Hyundai’s hood. “A ride home if you don’t mind.”
“Always put off today what you can do tomorrow?”
“More like put off till tomorrow what you can’t pay for today.”
“How will you get to work without a car?”
As much as I still bristled over Ira giving Alex that Jeep, the timing worked in my favor. Alex couldn’t drive the car until he took driver’s ed and passed his tests. A perfectly good vehicle sat parked in front of my house. I’d worry about the Hyundai later.
~*~
Cloris pulled into my driveway behind Zack’s silver Porsche Boxster. “At least you’ll have a way of relieving some stress tonight.”
“You’re forgetting about Mama, Lucille, and the boys.”
“I’m sure three of the four will be happy to accommodate you, and the fourth can’t climb the apartment stairs. Go for it.”
I so needed some mind-numbing sex right now, but nothing kills the mood like murder.
Hi, honey, how was your day?
Oh, the usual. Stumbled across another dead body.
Any chance I could postpone the catching up until after the sex? Doubtful. I hopped out of Cloris’s car. “Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow.”
I found everyone minus Lucille congregated in my kitchen. For all the chaos my duplicitous husband had caused me, the gods must have thought I needed something—or someone—to keep me sane. That someone arrived in the guise of Zachary Barnes, the photo-journalist who had rented the apartment above my garage shortly after Karl’s death.
Why a to-die-for stud who looks like Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Bandares all contributed to his gene pool would be interested in a pear-shaped, cellulite-riddled, slightly overweight, more than slightly in debt, middle-aged widow like me is beyond my comprehension, but I’m not complaining. I simply tell myself the universe works in mysterious ways.
At first, propriety kept my hormones in check. Recently widowed moms of teenage sons shouldn’t jump in bed with near-strangers. However, as Zack insinuated himself more and more into my life (Did I mention he loves to cook? In my kitchen?), propriety began sounding downright Victorian—especially since Mama and the boys set about working in cahoots to get Zack and me together.
This past summer, after I decided I’d mourned Karl long enough, propriety went the way of the dodo bird. The result? One massive conflagration of Vesuvian proportions that showed no signs of waning.
“You’re back,” I said, stating the obvious.
Zack stepped away from whatever epicurean delight he was concocting on my stove to wrap me in his arms and plant a toe-curling kiss on my lips. I never knew what I was missing until I’d experienced one of Zack’s kisses. When Alex and Nick started hooting and applauding, I stepped back, breaking the kiss.
“Don’t stop on our account,” said Nick.
I shot him a Mom Look that yielded little effect, given that my cheeks flamed.
“Have a successful trip?” I asked Zack.
“Definitely.”
“Overthrow any dictators? Rescue any hostages? Save the world from imminent destruction?” No matter how often Zack protested to the contrary, I suspected he used the photo-journalism gig as a cover for his real work—that of a spy for one of the alphabet agencies.
His numerous, award-winning photographs notwithstanding, given the places Zack traveled, often at a moment’s notice, I thought my suspicions justified. After all, some men must be capable of multitasking.
He thought I was nuts.
“Do I look like a spy?” he asked.
Ralph squawked from his perch atop the refrigerator. “You spy! What do you spy?” Troilus and Cressida. Act Three, Scene One.”
“I spy a filthy bird,” said Mama who sat at the kitchen table with Catherine the Great curled up in her lap. “Really, Anastasia, must you allow that winged rat in the kitchen?”
“Mama, Ralph is as clean as or cleaner than your cat.”
Mama stroked Catherine the Great’s fur and planted a kiss on the top of the cat’s head. “I sincerely doubt that. Catherine the Great is meticulous in her grooming habits.”
Alex came to our African Grey’s defense. “Yeah, but Ralph doesn’t lick his privates, Grandma.”
Score one for my eldest son. “He’s got you there, Flora,” said Zack.
Mama had no rebuttal, so she changed the subject. “Come to think of it, you do look like a spy, Zack. At least the kind in movies. You’d make a far better James Bond than that Daniel Craig fellow. Have you ever done any acting, dear?”
“Not since I played a stalk of celery in fifth grade.”
“I’m sure you were a very convincing stalk of celery,” said Mama. “You should consider going into acting.”
“When he gives up spying?” asked Nick.
Zack thr
ew his hands up in the air. “I am not a spy!”
“If you say so,” I said.
Mephisto lumbered into the kitchen and stood by the back door. “Where’s Lucille?” I asked.
“Sulking,” said Mama.
Mephisto was Lucille’s responsibility. Not only was he her dog, she needed the exercise of walking him several times a day, even though one of us had to retrace her footsteps afterwards to pick up the dog’s poop. If Lucille bent down, she might not get back up. “Alex, take Devil Dog out for a walk,” I said. “Nick, set the table.”
Alex returned five minutes later. “Hey, Mom, where’s your car?”
“At the office.”
“How’d you get home?” asked Nick.
“I flew.” When no one accepted that explanation, I said, “My car died.” Along with someone else but I wasn’t about to bring that subject up just yet. “Cloris drove me home.”
“We’ll drive up after dinner,” said Zack. “It’s probably the battery. I’ll give it a charge and follow you home.”
“What if it won’t hold a charge?”
“We come up with Plan B.”
~*~
“It’s definitely not the battery,” said Zack after repeatedly trying the jumper cables.
Why did that not surprise me. “So what’s Plan B?”
“Ira?”
“Why do you know more about my life than I do?”
“Flora said he offered you a car.”
“Ira is trying to buy his way into our lives. Did she also tell you he and Cynthia are kaput?”
“That came as no surprise.”
“No wonder Cynthia made a play for you during the barbecue. She was already trolling for her next meal ticket.”
“This is going to sound cynical,” said Zack, “but maybe you should accept a car from Ira. He’s lonely and insecure. Not to mention having all sorts of unfounded issues of guilt over what the brother he never met did to you and your kids. If giving you a car makes him feel better about himself, why not let him?”
“Because I don’t want to owe him anything.”
“Then offer to pay him.”
“Sure, I’ll pick a few hundred Franklins off the money tree in the backyard.” I smacked my forehead with my palm. “Silly me! Why didn’t I think of that earlier?”
“Pay him what you can when you can.”
“I’d be paying him back into my nineties.”
“You’re either going to have to accept Ira’s generosity or buy a car from a stranger.”
“You don’t think this is fixable?”
“Maybe.”
“I see a but coming.”
“The car is old, sweetheart. Once stuff starts going wrong, it doesn’t stop. How much money are you willing to spend on repairs to postpone the inevitable? Ira will give you a safe, reliable car, unlike the crook who sold you this rusted out piece of shit.”
I sighed. “I’ll call Ira.”
After we got back into Zack’s car, he placed his hands of the steering wheel but didn’t start the engine. “Something wrong?” I asked.
“I was just wondering when we were going to discuss the elephant in the parking lot. Or were you hoping I wouldn’t notice the crime scene tape swaying in the breeze?”
“That was the plan.” I had hoped it would be dark enough by the time we arrived back at Trimedia that Zack wouldn’t notice the aftermath of the police investigation, but between daylight savings time and the parking lot flood lights, the yellow and black tape was quite clearly visible.
“What happened?”
“I found a dead body.”
Zack shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me anymore?”
After I recapped the events of the day, he said. “Were you planning on telling me about the murder, or am I only learning about it because I’m here?”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I was hoping to wait until after you jumped my bones.”
Before Zack could answer—or act on my suggestion (which would have been more than a little awkward in his Boxster)—my cell phone rang.
“Did you hear the news?” asked Cloris when I answered.
“What news?”
“The medical examiner ID’d the body. It’s Philomena.”
SEVEN
Zack definitely lived up to my expectations later that night, almost making me forget about the dead Hyundai and the dead rap star-turned-entrepreneur. Reality set back in the next morning as I drove to work in Alex’s Jeep. At least reality came accompanied by air-conditioning, something I’d suffered without all summer while driving the Hyundai.
Although the calendar claimed autumn began last week, the scorching temperatures we’d sustained throughout the summer never received the memo. For the first time in nearly five months, I drove to work in comfort, not needing a shower and a change of clothes once I arrived.
Given that we’d all left work yesterday still unaware of the identity of the murder victim, I expected to find a gaggle of gossiping coworkers congregated in the break room. Instead, I discovered the break room empty except for a freshly brewed pot of coffee and half a cinnamon streusel coffee cake. I poured myself a cup, cut a slice of cake, and headed for my cubicle.
I’d taken all of one bite and two sips when my office phone rang. “Anastasia Pollack.”
“Mrs. Pollack, this is Marie Luscy, Mr. Gruenwald’s secretary.”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Gruenwald would like to see you.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“I’m on my way.” I placed the handset back in its holder and stared at the phone. Why was Gruenwald even here today? Shouldn’t he be home mourning his mistress’s death? Making funeral arrangements? Who shows up at work the day after his girlfriend is brutally murdered?
“Good morning,” said Cloris, poking her head into my cubicle. “I see you snagged some coffee cake before the vultures consumed the last crumb.”
“Huh?”
“Hey, you okay? You look dazed.”
I realized I still clutched the phone. I released my death grip and withdrew my hand. “Why on earth would Gruenwald want to see me?”
“Gruenwald? Our Gruenwald?”
I nodded. “Since when does the corporate CEO call meetings with staff members?”
“Since never. He won’t even make time for our editorial director. I once overhead Naomi complain that she had to set up an appointment with him three weeks in advance. And then he stood her up.”
“His secretary just called. He wants to see me. Immediately.” A boulder the size of Seattle settled in my stomach. “What if I’m being laid off? I’m barely making ends meet now.”
Cloris placed her hand on my shoulder. “If you were getting laid off, you’d be summoned to Human Resources, not the CEO’s office.”
“I suppose. What do you think he wants?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I forced myself out of my chair and willed my feet to carry me toward the elevator. Cloris followed along for moral support. “Whatever he wants, I doubt it’s good news,” I said.
“You don’t know that it’s bad news.” She pressed the elevator button. When the doors opened, my feet remained planted until she pushed me inside.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“He didn’t send for me; he sent for you.”
With that the doors whooshed closed, and I was on my own. The last time I’d ventured onto the marble-tiled, mahogany-walled fourth floor, two crazed women were speeding down the Interstate, bent on killing me. The time before that, I’d sneaked into Hugo’s office to figure out if he’d killed Marlys Vandenberg, only to bump into the real killer a few minutes later. Needless to say, I wasn’t keen on making another trip to the fourth floor.
Before the birth of Bling!, I don’t think Alfred Gruenwald ever set foot in his office here in our little neck of the Morris County cornfields. We housed corporate h
eadquarters only for the magazines, a small part of the Trimedia stable.
Up until recently, Gruenwald oversaw his fiefdom from the luxury of the Trimedia Building, a thirty-five story high-rise on Lexington Avenue in Midtown Manhattan. That changed once he offered Philomena her own magazine. Not that I ever bumped into him, but rumors circulated among the staff each time he deigned to grace our steel and concrete abode.
The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open. After taking a deep breath, I swiped my sweaty palms down either side of my khaki pencil skirt, stepped out of the elevator, and headed for the double glass doors that separated Gruenwald’s real estate from the rest of the fourth floor suits.
An enormous Carrara marble-topped reception desk sat opposite the glass doors. A plaque on the desk told me the woman seated in the leather chair behind the desk was Marie Luscy, Gruenwald’s secretary.
She offered me a friendly smile. “Mrs. Pollack?”
I nodded.
“Please have a seat.” She indicated an area off to the right where a deep umber leather couch and two matching club chairs flanked a free-form Carrara marble coffee table.
I crossed the room and perched nervously on the edge of one of the club chairs while she picked up the phone. “Mrs. Pollack is here, sir.” When she hung up, she turned to me. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
Shortly being a relative term. The minutes ticked away, and with each passing one, I grew more nervous. After ten minutes my nervousness segued to annoyance. For someone who wanted to see me immediately, Gruenwald was certainly taking his sweet time. Was this some sort of power play? If so, I failed to see the point.
After fifteen minutes I stood and walked back over to the secretary’s desk. “If he’s tied up, I can come back later.”
“No need,” she said, again smiling sweetly. “I’m sure he’ll be out momentarily.” Then she dismissed me by turning her attention to the computer monitor on her desk.
I refused to take the hint. “Do you know what this is about?”
“Sorry,” she said, keeping her attention focused on the monitor while her fingers raced around her keyboard. “You’ll have to wait to speak with Mr. Gruenwald.”
A minute later her phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring and said, “Yes, sir? Very well, sir.” She hung up the phone and turned to me. “He’ll see you now, Mrs. Pollack. Just go in. No need to knock.”
