by Lois Winston
I opened the massive mahogany door and stepped onto snow white carpet so plush, I nearly lost my balance. I thought about removing my shoes, fearful that I’d deposit a trail of debris in my wake, and stole a quick glance at Gruenwald’s feet. Since he wore his shoes, I abandoned the idea and kept my toes curled in mine.
Gruenwald ushered me to one of two black suede upholstered accent chairs positioned in front of an ebony cabinet that held a massive flat screen television. Matching bookcases on either side of the cabinet contained a collection of leather-bound books and various service awards, the kind designed by Tiffany, Waterford, and Baccarat.
After I sat, he took the seat opposite me. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pollack.”
An odd comment, given I hardly had a choice in the matter. When the CEO summons, the peons appear for an audience.
I debated bringing up Philomena’s death. I suppose common courtesy dictated I say something, but I worried over choosing the proper wording. Finally I settled on, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Yes, a terrible tragedy.” He lowered his head and shook it side to side, taking a deep breath as he did. When he exhaled, he raised his head and faced me. “Which is the reason I wanted to see you.”
“Sir?”
“I’d like your help, Mrs. Pollack.”
“In what way?”
“From the tone of the questioning, I suspect the police believe I had something to do with Philomena’s death. They may also suspect my wife. They questioned her quite extensively as well. I need you to find the real killer.”
“Me? Sir, I’m no detective.”
“Don’t be so modest, Mrs. Pollack. Over the past year you’ve discovered both Marlys Vandenburg’s killer and Lou Beaumont’s killer.”
“That’s not exactly what happened. The killers discovered me. And both times nearly made me their next victim.”
“I’ll supply you with adequate protection while you investigate.”
“Protection?”
“My driver, Tino Martinelli, will accompany you throughout your investigation. He’s a former Marine.” Gruenwald stood, strode over to his desk, and returned with a business card that he handed to me. “This is his cell number. He knows to expect your calls and that you’re now his top priority.”
I stood to leave, holding the card out to him, but he kept his hands at his sides. “I’m honored that you think so highly of my investigational skills, Mr. Gruenwald, but you’ve tremendously inflated my abilities. You need to hire a professional.” And an attorney, but I kept that thought to myself.
“A detective nosing around would raise suspicions. You’d blend in better. You work here.”
“You think someone from Trimedia is responsible for Philomena’s death?”
“I do.”
Given Philomena’s connections to the rap world, I thought it far more likely her questionable past had finally caught up with her, but I opted for discretion, adding that thought to the others I didn’t voice. Instead, I asked, “Why would you think that?”
“I know many people here were jealous of Philomena.”
Jealous, maybe. But jealous enough to kill? I didn’t think so. “That’s not a very persuasive argument for convincing me to stick my nose into a murder investigation.”
“I have other arguments. Five thousand to be exact.” He slipped his hand into his suit jacket, removed a rectangular piece of paper, and handed it to me.
My jaw dropped. I sat back down and stared at a check for five thousand dollars, made out to me, from Gruenwald’s personal account.
“I know you can use the money,” he said.
“What if I’m not successful?”
“You will be.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“You have incentive.”
“So I only get to cash the check if I catch Philomena’s killer?”
“No, the money is yours. I have faith that you’re an honorable woman and will work hard to accomplish the task for which I’m paying you.”
“I could still fail.”
“I’m confident you won’t.”
I decided Alfred Gruenwald was certifiable. However if he was willing to pay me five thousand dollars for a wild goose chase, who was I to complain? I folded the check in half. “Before I agree, you’ll need to clarify a few things for me. Full disclosure. No holding back.”
“Such as?”
“What were you and Philomena arguing about behind the booth Sunday afternoon?”
Now it was his turn to drop his jaw. The color leached out of his face. “How do you know about that?”
“I overheard you.”
Gruenwald’s demeanor quickly segued from overconfident to mightily pissed. “So you’re the one who told the police. That’s why I’m their prime suspect.” He pointed a finger at me. “This is all your fault. I should fire you right now.”
Great. Me and my big mouth. “You’ll also have to fire the entire Bling! staff.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because every single one of them in that booth also heard you and Philomena. She’s not exactly quiet and reserved, and your voice carries even when you’re not shouting.”
Gruenwald dropped his bluster. “They all heard?”
I nodded. “Everyone watched the two of you and Norma Gene leave the Javits Center. They stood around whispering about it afterwards.”
He waved his hand in the air as if trying to swat away my words. “The argument was nothing important.”
Bullshit. “Sounded much more than nothing to me. Philomena made threats. You both second-guessed your relationship with each other. Then she stormed out, grabbing Norma Gene on her way. You followed, looking less than happy. As far as I know, that could be the last time anyone saw Philomena alive.”
“Damn. No wonder the police suspect me. You all fingered me.”
“I’m sure the police would have suspected you whether they heard about the fight or not.”
“Why is that?”
“The spouse or boyfriend more often than not turns out to be the killer.”
He began pacing, repeatedly covering the short distance between where I sat and the matching chair before turning and retracing his steps. After four laps he sat back down and shoved his hands into his pockets. Staring at his feet, he said, “Sylvia—my wife—served me with divorce papers Sunday.”
“Wouldn’t that make Philomena happy?”
“It would have if Sylvia wasn’t also suing Philomena for alienation of affection.”
“Which isn’t legal in New Jersey.”
Gruenwald’s head shot up. “How do you know that?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“No, I suppose not now. The papers were drawn up in Hawaii where we have a vacation home. For various reasons, we list it as our permanent residence.”
Score one for Naomi. Maybe Gruenwald should ask her to investigate the murder. “Philomena made threats against your wife, didn’t she?”
He nodded.
“Forgive me for saying this, Mr. Gruenwald, but given Philomena’s associations with a certain seamier element of society, isn’t it more likely that someone from her past killed her? Maybe he had a score to settle.” Which made far more sense than someone at Trimedia knocking off the Queen of Bling.
“She cut all ties with those people except for Norma Gene when she went mainstream. She’d cleaned up her act. They both had.”
“Yet, she was willing to contact someone concerning your wife. It sounds to me like she hadn’t severed all ties with her past.”
Again, he swatted away my words. “Idle threats to get me to convince Sylvia to drop the lawsuit.”
“You seemed more than concerned about those threats on Sunday.”
He had no answer for that. I continued. “People hold grudges. They fester and grow. At some point they seek revenge. If Philomena reached out to some of her old associates—”
Gruenwald jumped up and began pac
ing once again. With his back to me, he said, “No. You’re wrong. Someone connected with Trimedia killed Philomena.”
“How can you be so sure?”
He spun around and pierced me with a determined look. “I just know. I feel it in my gut.”
Gruenwald the Clairvoyant? What wasn’t he telling me? “When was the last time you saw Philomena?”
“Monday. Late afternoon. We had another fight over Sylvia. Philomena left for a Zumba class but never came home that night. I figured she was still fuming and spent the night either at her apartment or with Norma Gene.”
“Have you spoken with Norma Gene?”
He nodded. “She didn’t spend the night with her.”
“You do know that Norma Gene is a guy, right?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mrs. Pollack. I’m well aware of Norma Gene’s situation. If you’re inferring what I think you’re inferring, you’re way off base. Philomena and Norman never had that kind of relationship.”
“Norman?”
“Norman Eugene Mortenson, his birth name.”
Weird. If I remembered correctly, Mortenson was Marilyn Monroe’s real last name. Norma Jeane Mortenson. Norman Eugene Mortenson. I half expected to hear the theme music from The Twilight Zone playing in the background.
I pushed the coincidence from my mind and asked, “Did this happen often, that you’d fight over something, and Philomena would leave for the night?”
“Sometimes. Philomena was a very passionate woman.”
I resisted the urge to squirm. I so didn’t want this conversation veering into TMI territory.
“Passionate people often have control issues,” he added.
I raised my eyebrows.
“My therapist explained that to me.”
His therapist? I didn’t want to go there, either. “Your driver mentioned a list of errands Philomena left him yesterday.”
That caught Gruenwald by surprise. “When did you speak with Tino?”
“My car died. He stopped to help me yesterday afternoon and asked about the police activity in the parking lot.”
“How did the list come up in conversation?”
“It’s not important. What matters is how he got the list and when.”
“She left it for him Monday afternoon.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive. I handed it to him myself yesterday when he picked me up.”
“I can understand why the police consider you a suspect, Mr. Gruenwald, but why do you think they’re also looking at Mrs. Gruenwald?”
“Because I left her for Philomena.”
Through the Trimedia grapevine I knew Gruenwald had walked out on his first wife of nearly twenty years for the much younger Sylvia two decades earlier. Did philanderers come in different varieties with cycles similar to cicadas?
“Sylvia was suing Philomena. Why kill her when she’d gone to the trouble of filing a lawsuit?”
“That’s the obvious question, isn’t it? Maybe the police think Sylvia used the lawsuit to deflect suspicion away from herself.”
“I saw your wife, sir. She’s hardly capable of beating another woman to death. Even though Philomena was short, she was much younger and quite fit.”
“The police must think Sylvia hired the killer.”
“Is that what you think?”
“I told you, Sylvia had nothing to do with this. I know my wife.”
“If that’s the case, the police won’t find any evidence linking her to the crime.”
Gruenwald checked his watch. “I have a budget meeting, Mrs. Pollack. We may have to make some cuts in the magazine group. Will you be accepting my offer or not?”
Budget cuts? Was that a veiled threat? Was Gruenwald blackmailing me into investigating for him? I glanced down at the check, still in my hand. Five thousand dollars. Mine. And all I had to do to earn it was snoop around Trimedia in search of a killer that was anywhere but at Trimedia. I was certain no one here had any motive for killing Philomena, even if none of us particularly liked her.
“You still want me to investigate?” Didn’t he just threaten to fire me?
“From what you’ve told me, you’re not the only one who told the police about that argument. As much as I wish otherwise, I can’t expect anyone to withhold evidence during a murder investigation, and as you pointed out, the police would suspect me anyway.”
I guess that meant I wasn’t fired. I slipped the check into my skirt pocket and stuck out my hand. “Then you have a deal, Mr. Gruenwald.”
“One other thing,” he said, gripping my hand so hard I winced.
“Yes?”
“No one can know about our agreement.”
“And if someone happens to figure things out?”
“Make certain they don’t.”
EIGHT
“Why all the cloak and dagger, Mr. Gruenwald?”
“I have my reasons.”
“None of which you’ve shared with me. How can I investigate for you if I don’t have all the facts? I requested full disclosure, remember?”
“You have all the facts you need.” He strode across the room and opened his door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Pollack, I’m late for that budget meeting.”
In other words, shut up and do the job I’ve asked you to do, or find yourself on the unemployment line.
And what if that veiled threat encompassed not only my job but all the American Woman employees? Laying off a crafts editor wouldn’t solve any budget problems, but folding an entire magazine might. If I refused Gruenwald’s offer, would I take the fall for all my friends and co-workers losing their jobs?
I headed for the elevator, my mind made up. Gruenwald had me over the proverbial barrel. I slipped my hand into my skirt pocket and fingered the check. Could be worse. At least he was paying me.
“So what did he want?” asked Cloris when I returned to our floor.
We stood in the corridor between our cubicles. “Not here,” I mumbled, afraid someone might overhear. If Gruenwald had paid me to investigate, he may have paid someone else to make sure I kept to the terms of that agreement—even though I hadn’t actually agreed not to tell anyone about working undercover for him.
Cloris’s brows knit together. “Where?” she whispered.
Before I could answer, Naomi rounded the corner and headed toward us. “Anastasia, I’ve had the oddest request. You’re on temporary assignment to Bling!”
I quickly turned to Cloris and mouthed, “Shh,” then responded to Naomi, “Me?”
Obviously Gruenwald’s doing. Actually having a reason to nose around the Bling! staff would make ferreting out Philomena’s killer far easier—if I believed I’d find Philomena’s killer among the Bling! staff. “I don’t know the first thing about twenty-something fashions, lifestyles, and entertainment,” I reminded Naomi.
“That’s exactly what I told Gruenwald’s secretary. I thought maybe someone had confused you with Tessa.”
Cloris laughed. “Probably the only time that will ever happen.”
“Still, it’s damned odd,” said Naomi.
“What am I supposed to do down there?” I asked.
Naomi shrugged. “Beats me. I guess you’ll find out once you arrive.”
“And what about my work here?”
“Daphne will fill in for you as best she can. How caught up are you?”
Daphne Jervis, the one assistant shared by the four bottom feeder editors, already juggled far too much. “Right now I’m ahead of schedule, but how long do they want me downstairs? Daphne can handle editorial copy but not the actual craft projects or writing the directions.”
“Gruenwald’s secretary didn’t say.”
But I already knew the answer to my question. I was exiled to Bling! for as long as it took me to discover Philomena’s killer.
~*~
Stepping into the Bling! editorial department, was the equivalent of tumbling down Alice’s rabbit hole. Rap music blared from ceiling speakers,
the thump-thump-thump of the bass rattling through my entire body. The staff all dressed in outfits that paid homage to Philomena’s unique sense of style. In my khaki pencil skirt and pinstripe oxford shirt, I stood out like a nun at a rave.
But I wasn’t the only one. Standing off in a corner, I noticed Tino Martinelli, looking every bit the part of a Secret Service agent. Or perhaps an extra in the next Men In Black movie.
Except for a twelve hundred dollar pair of Bulgari shades (which I only recognized because Tessa had recently showed off the pair she bought for her boyfriend’s birthday,) Tino’s obviously custom made black suit, conservative tie, white shirt, and buzz cut certainly didn’t fit in at Bling! any more than I did. He nodded in recognition but remained at his corner observation post.
I marched up to him. “Gruenwald give you orders to keep an eye on me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You know why?”
“I do.”
“You okay with that?”
“I get paid to do what Mr. Gruenwald requests.”
And obviously paid very well, judging from his attire. Maybe I should quit my job and become a chauffeur to a corporate CEO.
The Bling! editorial department had moved into the space vacated by the now defunct Bear Essentials, a magazine dedicated to the collection of teddy bears. However, the space was the only thing Bling! had inherited. An open concept floor plan now took the place of the former rabbit warren of cubicles. All the tables, desks, and chairs looked brand new and expensive, unlike the battered furniture that moved with us from our old headquarters in Manhattan to our current cornfield location.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
I spun around to find Norma Gene towering over me, her hands on her hips, a glare on her face that didn’t mask her red-rimmed puffy eyes or mascara streaked cheeks.
Funny how she didn’t recognize me. Or maybe not. I thought about Cloris’s comment regarding the Me generation. Norma Gene often stood feet from me all last weekend but never once bothered to make eye contact. I wasn’t even worthy of an occasional glance, let alone acknowledgment of my existence.
