by Cindy Sample
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We need to stay sharp if we’re going to solve this case. What do you think of the name TWO GALS DETECTIVE AGENCY?”
“I think…” I paused to contemplate the title. It wasn’t half bad. “I think the Sheriff’s Office would not appreciate our interfering in their investigation.”
“What they wouldn’t appreciate is you showing them up again.”
I chuckled thinking that I wouldn’t mind solving the case and wiping that patronizing look off Detective Reynolds’ face. And I certainly didn’t want my grandmother investigating on her own. The words discretion and tact were not among her colorful vocabulary.
“I’m lunching with Liz today, so I’ll put out some feelers,” I said. “Maybe she can get some information from her hubby.”
“Good idea,” Gran replied. “Either Brian or one of the other deputy district attorneys should be involved already.”
“Let’s keep this between us, okay?”
“Got it. I’ll keep it on the down low for now.”
Which meant every one of Gran’s cronies in her garden club and the historical society would know what we were up to within twenty-four hours. You could tweet, tumble and stumble all you wanted online, but for efficient reporting, nothing beat the local GrannyFeed.
I heard Hank yelling in the background. That reminded me of something I’d been dying to ask my grandmother.
“Say, Gran, how long have Hank and Brooke been dating?”
“Long enough for him to tiptoe back into the house at four this morning. Do you want me to ask him for some particulars about their relationship?”
“Nope.” I had no desire to learn about any of my ex’s particulars. He could do whatever and whomever he wanted.
My office phone rang so I told Gran I’d get back to her that evening. Even before I picked up the receiver, I recognized the extension belonged to Mr. Chandler’s secretary.
“Hi, Belle,” I chirped into the phone hoping my upbeat tone would produce an equally positive reason for the call. “What’s the good word?”
“Mr. Chandler would like to see you upstairs.” Although she didn’t specifically state it, Belle’s clipped words implied my presence was required immediately.
“Can I stop and get some––?”
“Now.”
Okey dokey. I hoped Mr. Chandler knew how risky it was to carry on a conversation before I’d integrated some caffeine into my system.
I trudged up the stairs to the executive level, a lined yellow legal pad in hand, prepared for the worst. It was probably just as well I hadn’t drunk any coffee because my heart rate had accelerated to two hundred beats per minute.
Well, not quite, but it sure felt like it.
I rounded the corner and entered the long gray-carpeted corridor leading to the president’s office. Belle’s desk sat directly across from Mr. Chandler’s office. As usual, she was impeccably dressed in a tailored, wrinkle-and-spot-free suit. I often wondered if she stored a secret stash of suits in the bank’s vault in the event she ever spilled on herself.
Belle pointed toward her boss’s office, so I proceeded into the chief honcho’s lair. His mahogany desk gleamed in the morning sunlight, the expansive surface marred only by a computer and a silver-framed photo. Mr. Chandler was of the school of thought that an immaculate desk reflected the embodiment of an organized mind.
I personally felt that the bigger the mess on a desk, the bigger the brain sitting behind it, but that was a minority opinion on this hallowed floor.
Mr. Chandler seemed engrossed with whatever he was viewing on his monitor. I tiptoed into the office and quietly settled myself into the well-padded chair that was far more comfortable than the single visitor chair in my own office.
I glanced at the family photo of Mr. Chandler, his wife, Dana, and their college-age son. Despite moving in different social circles, well, technically, I didn’t move in any social circles, Dana and I had become friends after a ballroom dance debacle resulting in two murders. Extricating both Chandlers from an awkward as well as perilous position had earned me extra brownie points.
Mr. Chandler switched his piercing gaze from the computer screen to me. Based on his stern façade, I might need every one of those brownie points to keep my job.
Imagine my surprise when his first words were, “Nice job on your presentation.”
“Thank you,” I replied, attempting to appear nonchalant. “I’m glad the board was pleased with my recommendations.”
His gaze shifted left––never a good sign. I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, wondering if there was a “but” in my immediate future.
“They were,” he said, “for the most part. But Adriana Menzinger’s proposal also impressed them.”
My hands tensed their grip on the wooden arms of my chair as I leaned forward. “May I ask what exactly Adriana is proposing?”
He fidgeted with his dark green Mont Blanc pen before replying.
“I have complete faith in you, Laurel, so I expect you to keep this information in strict confidence.”
I nodded. Discretion was my middle name––usually.
“Due to the recent hacking invasions of some of the largest banking institutions in the country, the Board decided to upgrade the security of our own internal system. We feel we have no choice but to implement controls of the highest level for our bank clients.”
I nodded again. I certainly had no issue with their decision.
“These upgrades will cost in the neighborhood of several million dollars. We never anticipated that expense when we approved the budget last year, therefore we need to slash costs in other areas.”
“I applaud the board’s proactive stance,” I assured him, although at the same time wondering why he was sharing such confidential information with me.
“You might want to hold off clapping for now. One of the areas under review is our marketing staff. The board is considering outsourcing all future marketing efforts.”
It didn’t take the IQ of Stephen Hawking to add up Mr. Chandler’s comments and figure out where this conversation was headed.
“But, but…” I stumbled as I tried to come up with an alternate plan––one that did not involve eliminating my position. I loved my job and felt that I’d finally found my true calling.
“Next month’s agenda will include a decision on this topic. In the meantime, you can continue with your bank-sponsored events, the Apple Gala and the Apple Tree Bicycle Race, etc. The Board will analyze your promotions’ financial impact on the bank and assess whether they’ve helped to increase our customer base.”
His comment mollified me. For about two seconds.
“Simultaneously, Menzinger Marketing will release their own social media program aimed at bringing in new business customers to the bank. Their concentration will be directed toward potential clients located in the El Dorado Hills Business Park.”
I processed the information. The El Dorado Hills area located next to the Sacramento County line was comprised of a substantial number of lucrative internet start-ups.
“I planned on making business development calls in Camino this week. Do you also want me to meet with El Dorado Hills businesses?” I asked, not certain whether I wanted an affirmative answer since I had no idea when I would find the time.
“No, stick with these projects for now.” Mr. Chandler stood, which meant our brief meeting was adjourned. I muttered a goodbye and exited his office. Belle was absent from her desk, so I wouldn’t be able to pry anything out of her. Not that she would let me. No one would ever accuse Belle’s loose lips of sinking ships.
Or banks.
I spent the next hour working on my marketing plan. If I could engage with the owners of the largest apple farms and wineries in the Camino and Pollock Pines area, the deposits I brought in might exceed the numbers attributed to Menzinger’s efforts. Given my paltry salary, it was difficult for me to believe outsourcing would be less expensive than retaining an in-house ma
rketing department, but I wasn’t in charge. Unfortunately.
By noon, my brain cells as well as my stomach felt depleted. I was thankful Liz had arranged lunch today. My British friend was the perfect person to cheer me up.
Liz and I had both attended the University of California at Davis. We met at a fraternity party when our dates decided to drink themselves into oblivion. The exchange student from Kent, England, and I bonded on the three-mile hike back to campus. We’d remained best friends for the past twenty years, through my fifteen-year marriage to Hank and subsequent divorce, to her multiple relationships over the years and recent marriage with Brian Daley, an El Dorado County Deputy District Attorney.
I grabbed my purse and strolled past the gray tweed cubicles housing the mortgage underwriters. I stopped to greet my former co-workers since there was a distinct possibility I could land back in the underwriting trenches if my marketing efforts didn’t work.
Once outside the bank, a cerulean blue sky sparkled above the pastel clapboard buildings lining both sides of the street. A few months earlier, Parade Magazine had listed Placerville’s Main Street as one of the Top Sixteen Main Streets in America. You couldn’t beat the combination of historical buildings, pine-tree covered hills, Hangtown Creek, and Davey “Doc” Wiser’s stagecoach which offered free rides on holiday weekends.
I strolled past Placerville News Company, founded in 1856. At Renfros, the local bridal shop, I stopped to admire a strapless empire-waist wedding gown in the window that would fit me perfectly. I sighed, wondering why the likelihood of me finding another dead body was higher than of me getting married again.
I crossed the street and entered Cascada, one of my favorite local dining spots. I took off my sunglasses and peered around the spacious brick-walled dining room. No sign of my friend. Liz owns a plush full-service spa in El Dorado Hills, fifteen miles west of Placerville, so she could still be cruising down the highway. My phone yelped and I reached into my purse. Her text apologized, stating she’d arrive in ten minutes.
Which in “Liz Minutes” meant closer to twenty. The host offered to show me to a table, and I decided to take him up on his offer. I could use the extra time to doodle more marketing ideas. As I followed him, I looked around to see if there were other familiar faces in the room. The two occupants of a table not far from where the host seated me were a surprising combination.
Adriana Menzinger’s shiny dark bob practically caressed Walter Eastwood’s thick white thatch of hair as they conversed closely in soft voices. The marketing guru and the apple farm titan looked as thick as thieves. What were the two of them plotting?
A romantic rendezvous?
Or worse––the murder of my marketing position.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I dropped my linen napkin on the table and stood. If anything underhanded was going on between Adriana and Walter that could eventually impact my employment, I planned on discussing it with them this second. They didn’t call me Forthright Laurel for nothing.
Well, no one actually referred to me as Forthright Laurel, thank goodness, but that was beside the point. I scooted past two occupied tables and nonchalantly strolled over to the couple.
Adriana glanced up and greeted me with a smirk. “Nice to see you again, Laurel. I assume everything is okay since …” she sent a sideways glance to Walter, “your hasty departure from the board meeting yesterday.”
“Everything is fine,” I assured her. Rather than beat around the bush, I decided to jump over the ten-foot hedge the board had constructed between Adriana and me, turning us into competing marketers.
“Thanks for taking the time to review my presentation. I look forward to your comments and recommendations, should you have any.”
She rested her hand on top of Walter’s weathered palm and smiled sweetly. “There is one tiny issue that concerned both of us.”
I felt my frown lines permanently embedding themselves in my forehead as I wondered what she referred to. “Nothing critical, I presume?”
Walter motioned to the empty seat across from him. Liz wasn’t here yet so I decided to join them. If I needed to tweak my marketing plan, the sooner I began the better.
Walter spoke in a mellifluous basso. His voice was so mesmerizing, I wondered if he ever participated in local theater productions. Unfortunately, his lyrics were not as appealing as his tone.
“Some of the board members,” Walter expounded, “feel it would be inappropriate for a suspect in a murder investigation to be involved in promotional activities associated with our bank.”
“But I’m not a suspect in Axel’s murder,” I objected. “I merely found his body.”
He peered at me over the semi-circle of his reading glasses. “Well, it’s all relative, you see.”
I stared at the two of them with my mouth hanging open and nary a bite of lunch in sight. Walter’s theory of relativity wouldn’t pass muster with Einstein, and it certainly didn’t work for me.
“If every time I stumbled over a corpse…” I blurted out just as my tardy luncheon companion arrived to save me from further embarrassment.
“Adriana, I adore your new haircut,” Liz cooed at the black-haired beauty.
Adriana fluffed her hair appreciatively and replied, “Liz, your stylists are the best. That’s why I keep coming back.”
“Your hair is so thick and beautiful,” Liz simpered. “They love working with it.” I mentally gagged at my friend’s over-the-top compliment. She twisted slightly and winked at me.
Okay, there was a method to my friend’s sucking up to her client. I could go with the flow. For now.
“Are you and Laurel working together on a marketing project? If so, you’re lucky because Laurel is the best.” Liz beamed at me, and I mouthed a grateful thanks back to her. “She’s absolutely brilliant.”
Adriana leaned back in her chair as if re-assessing my marketing skills. She whispered in Walter’s ear and waited while he nodded a reply.
“We had some initial concerns about Laurel being a suspect in the Thorson murder,” Adriana said, “but I’m sure we can work things out.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Liz said. “What’s far more likely is that Laurel will figure out who murdered Axel. Right-o, luv?”
I vigorously nodded an affirmative “Right-o” back at my pal.
Walter threw me an appraising look. “Do you think there’s a serial killer out there targeting apple growers?”
Seriously? Did he think someone armed with a truckload of powdered sugar was lying in wait for an opportunity to knock off the apple orchard owners one by one?
“Walter, seriously?” Adriana asked, mirroring my own thoughts. “I’m sure Axel’s murder is unrelated to our community.”
“You never know,” he replied, his expression somber. “There’s a lot of money at stake. Something like this could put a big crimp in the tourist trade. Look what happened last year with the King Fire.”
Walter made a good point. The 100,000 acre King Fire had raged more than ten miles away from Camino, but its enormous mushroom cloud of smoke had kept many tourists away until it was completely contained a month later.
“I say,” asked Liz, who now occupied the fourth chair at the table, “what about the annual Apple Gala? My Sassy Saloon Gals are supposed to perform at the event, and it’s normally held at Apple Tree Farm. Do you think it will be cancelled this year?”
“Walter already contacted Axel’s widow,” Adriana replied. “Dorie’s agreed that, for this year, the Apple Gala will be held at Valley View Vineyard and Orchard.”
“Poor thing,” I said. “I wonder how she’s doing.”
“Not at all well,” Liz said. “She cancelled her hair appointment yesterday. Said she wasn’t up to it. I offered her a complimentary pumpkin facial, but she turned it down. Can you imagine?”
I performed an inner eye roll at her comment. My best friend believed most problems could be cured by a visit to her salon.
Liz must h
ave heard my eyes rolling around. “We could eliminate half the wars in the world if people could find a way to alleviate their tension.”
Rather than listen to a diatribe on the mental and physical benefits of a seaweed wrap, I switched the conversation back to the original topic.
“The Apple Gala is a big event,” I said. “Do you need any help promoting it?”
“Adriana says she has it covered.” Walter threw a wide smile at the marketer. “She told me by the time she’s completed her promotion of the gala, it will be known as the ‘must attend’ social event of the year.”
Adriana tittered at his compliment. “Menzinger Marketing aims to please. We are a full-service company, you know.”
Liz and I exchanged glances. I, for one, did not know what Adriana Menzinger’s full-service marketing company provided, but I had a feeling Walter Eastwood would soon find out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Liz and I finally excused ourselves. After that lengthy conversation, only thirty minutes remained of my lunch break. The last thing I needed on my employee record was a black mark citing overly long lunch hours.
The table where the host had previously seated me was currently occupied, so we moved to a vacant table in the back of the restaurant, far from Adriana and Walter’s curious eyes and ears.
With little time to eat and talk, I settled for the chef’s daily special of a grilled salmon salad. Liz ordered the same. The server assured us she would deliver our meals in five minutes or less. We waited for her to leave before I updated Liz on the murder investigation and my personal life, which as usual, were not mutually exclusive.
By the time I explained how I’d stumbled upon Axel’s corpse, why my daughter was a person of interest in a murder investigation and the reasons for my marketing career slowly imploding, Liz had finished her salad and was wiping her lips with a cloth napkin.
Since it’s difficult to chat and chow down simultaneously, my plate of food remained virtually untouched. I thanked our server who returned with not only our bill, but also with a square white takeaway box for my entrée.
