“She’s a mercenary. She not only owns shares in Szereto, she has a strong position in Barek Cosmetics. I think she might even be on the board of directors.”
“Is that smart?”
“You wouldn’t think so. If one stock is doing well at the expense of the other, the best you could hope for is that they’d balance out. If the entire industry suffers, all of your investments will suffer. On the other hand, Randall has been involved with Szereto for quite a few years now, and my impression is that she’s very, very smart. She must have a plan.”
“Can she get you fired?” I asked.
The way she reacted, Candy seemed to find the question funny, although she didn’t tell me why.
* * *
Eventually we found another young woman with a tray of champagne glasses. We each took one, clinked glasses, and sipped. Candy did not release my hand until a kind of low murmur from some of the other guests drew our attention toward the front door, and then she dropped it like a preteen whose parents had just walked into the room.
Diane Dauria stepped through the door, followed by her daughter; I recognized Sloane by her dark red hair. Coats were removed, and I couldn’t help but notice that Diane was wearing a clinging black gown trimmed with silver and tailored to display her impressive contours. Sloane, on the other hand, was dressed as if she were afraid someone would notice she was a woman, in a formless gray number that covered her body from throat to ankles. The disguise didn’t work.
Sloane found me watching. Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. She moved carefully to her mother’s side, also like a cat, and spoke into her ear. Diane glanced at me, nodded, and said something in return. I was enough of a lip-reader to make out my name.
Mother and daughter proceeded to cross the room to where Candy and I were standing. It took them a while; Diane kept pausing to shake hands and occasionally hug an employee, often taking the time to introduce Sloane. The smile on her face told one and all that she was very proud of the girl.
When Diane finally reached us, she embraced Candy. She called her Ms. Groot.
Candy said, “I haven’t seen Mrs. Szereto since the party began, but we went over her speech earlier. She’s prepared.”
“Good.” Diane hugged Candy again. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I know you’ve met Sloane.”
“Of course I have.”
Sloane and the older woman hugged like old friends.
“Candy, hi,” Sloane said.
“Look at you,” Candy said. “Your mother needs new pictures in her office, because you get prettier every year.”
Sloane blushed at the compliment—actually blushed. I found it refreshing.
“McKenzie,” Diane said. She made no attempt to either hug me or shake my hand, and her smile suddenly seemed pasted on. “I’m surprised to see you here. Please tell me that you’re not crashing the party.”
“Mrs. Szereto invited him,” Candy said.
“Why?”
I answered by saying, “You’re missing the Hotdish New Year. Katie Meyer told me she was making a million-dollar dessert.”
“I’m going later,” Sloane said. “First chance I get to blow out of here.”
Diane gave her daughter a look. I didn’t know if it was because she had revealed her plans or her disdain for the Szereto affair.
“I don’t really know anybody here,” Sloane added in self-defense. “McKenzie, how do you know about the Hotdish party?”
“I had coffee with Katie this morning. She had wonderful things to say about you, by the way—I hope she doesn’t mind me telling you that. Your mother did, too, but you’d expect it from your mom.”
Sloane gazed at Diane as if she didn’t expect it at all.
“What wonderful things?” she asked.
I improvised. “How smart you are; that you refuse to let society’s expectations push you around. Is it true that you once stole second base fourteen times out of fifteen tries in a single season?”
Sloane didn’t even grin when she said, “I was fifteen for fifteen—the ump missed the call,” which told me that she not only meant it, she was still outraged by the injustice of it all.
She extended her hand and I shook it.
“I know who you are, McKenzie,” Sloane said. “I know what Malcolm asked you to do. Mom’s not happy about it, and neither are Critter and some of the others, although I can’t imagine why. Me, I hope you do find out who killed Malcolm’s father. Bad things happen, you need to do something about it, don’t you? Otherwise they’ll keep happening.”
“Most people don’t think about it that way.”
“I’m not most people.”
Clearly not, my inner voice said.
Sloane released my hand.
“I’m going to drink some champagne,” she said, “because I’m legal now, Mother, but not too much, because I have to drive to New Brighton and then to my apartment in St. Paul.”
Diane pursed her lips as if it were an argument she had already lost.
“Do you live near St. Catherine’s?” I asked.
“Yes. Actually, it’s closer to the University of St. Thomas.”
“I grew up in that area.”
“Then you know all the bars.”
Diane grimaced.
Sloane hugged her shoulder. “I’m kidding, Mother,” she said. She stepped between me and Diane, draped an arm around Candy’s shoulder, and led her away. “We should leave so my mom can say nasty things to McKenzie in private.” While glancing over her shoulder at her mother, Sloane added, “Candy, do you know where we can get some good dope?”
“You’ll have to excuse my daughter,” Diane said.
“Not at all. I like her very much. Because I like her, I’m starting to like you.”
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Children are not responsible for their parents. But parents are responsible for their children. If Sloane is all she seems—it says something about her mother.”
“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. Dammit, McKenzie. Sloane was right. I was going to be nasty.”
“Not now?”
“What will it take for you to go away? Money?”
“It’ll be a lot easier, Diane, if you don’t assume I can be bought.”
“Everyone can be bought.”
“There you go, making assumptions.”
I wasn’t pretending to be virtuous. Truth is I had never put myself up for sale, even in those days before the reward, for no other reason than I was afraid that someone would actually buy me. Instead, I prided myself on living on my salary. ’Course, it’s easier now because the return on my investments pays me nearly $175,000 a year, of which I’m likely to spend a third.
“Diane, I’m not your adversary,” I said. “I’m not trying to cause you grief.”
“I keep telling myself that. I tell myself that Mrs. Szereto is your patron. I tell myself—should we be honest with each other?”
“That’s always a good policy.”
Not always the best policy, though, despite what you might have heard, my inner voice added.
“I liked the look of you,” Diane said. “When you first arrived in my office, the way you carried yourself, what you said about Sloane without having met her; even your questionable attempts at humor. A woman my age in my position, it’s difficult to meet a man who’s acceptable.”
You’re acceptable? Wait till Nina hears …
“However, the questions you’re asking are upsetting my friends and co-workers,” Diane said. “It’s disrupting my place of business. That’s unacceptable.”
Oh well.
“Two men are dead,” I said. “Murdered. That is also unacceptable. Don’t you think?”
“You seem intent on making me the villain of this piece.”
“Not at all. I’m just curious.”
“About what?”
“Since we’re being so honest—tell me, Diane, which murder do
n’t you want me to solve? Frank Harris’s? Or Jonny Szereto’s?”
Her anger was volcanic, yet it was contained in her eyes. Unless you were watching carefully, you would not have known how dangerously close she came to erupting. I had no doubt she would have gone off on me if we had been any place except where we were. She said as much.
“I refuse to make a scene,” Diane said.
“Please, not on my account.”
“We were starting to get along so well, too.”
She eased back into the river of guests and drifted away, shaking hands and hugging and having kind words for everyone but me.
* * *
A moment later, Annabelle Ridlon was at my side. She was wearing a midnight blue dress that displayed more cleavage than you’d expect from a woman who was tasked with combating sexual harassment in the workplace. Her heels gave her a half-foot height advantage over me.
“How to win friends and influence people,” she said. “McKenzie, you should write a book.”
“Hmm?”
“I was watching you and Dauria. It seemed to me she was trying very hard not to punch you in the mouth.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
“Part of my job description is knowing when people are in the throes of powerful emotions.”
“What do you do when you see that?”
“Mostly I try to stay the hell out of the way.”
“Is that what they teach you in human resources school?”
“Actually, my master’s is in industrial psychology, but yeah. It’s much easier to deal with people when they’re calm and relaxed. One of the things I do is try to make them feel calm and relaxed.”
“When I was a cop, I rarely dealt with people who were calm and relaxed. If they were, they wouldn’t have needed me.”
“I often deal with the same dynamic.”
“Speaking of which, you weren’t particularly cordial the last time we spoke, yet you’re being awfully gracious now. Given your boss’s apparent animosity, aren’t you afraid of being labeled a traitor to the cause?”
“I wasn’t angry with you the other day, McKenzie. I was merely being firm. If you had asked about our healthcare or 401(k) programs, I would have smiled and made very pleasant small talk, like now. Besides, technically I work for Dauria; she’s the one who hired me, but I answer to Mrs. Szereto. It’s the way the system was set up after—”
“After Jonathan Szereto Jr. was killed.”
“You’re awfully blunt.”
“Blunt enough, Annabelle, to tell you that you look great tonight.”
Ridlon fanned her face with the flat of her hand. “Oh, I do declare,” she said. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m so much taller?”
“Not at all. I like tall women. But then I’ve always been ambitious.”
That caused her to throw her head back. “McKenzie, what a great line,” she said. “I’ll have to give that to my husband.”
“Are you taller than he is, too?”
Ridlon held her hands about six inches apart.
“By that much even without heels,” she said. “The first time we met, he asked me to dance. I looked down at him thinking, Really? He just grinned that bad-boy grin of his and told me that fortune favors the bold.” Ridlon fanned herself some more. “What’s a girl to do?”
“Where is your husband?”
Ridlon glanced right and left.
“He went to get something manly to drink,” she said. “That’s the word he used—manly.”
“I was told the bar doesn’t open until after the speech.”
“He’s awfully resourceful, my husband.”
“Do you know everyone here?” I asked.
“Lord, no. The Szereto Corporation is family owned, emphasis on family. Mrs. Szereto wants everyone to believe that we’re all in this together. That’s why she likes to throw the party at her home. On the other hand, there are over two hundred and twenty employees in our manufacturing and distribution facility in Owatonna and another hundred and sixty in our corporate headquarters in St. Louis Park. It’s becoming more difficult to maintain that philosophy.”
“Especially if you’re reading everyone’s mail.”
“Funny.”
“What exactly does Szereto make, anyway?”
“Honestly, McKenzie. Didn’t you even bother to visit our Web site? We’re involved in hair care, facial care, body care, and cosmetics. We sell our products through beauty salons, some chains, but mostly independents, from here working east through Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, and New York and then up and down the coast from Maine to North Carolina. We’re not Revlon or Estée Lauder, but we have a strong presence in the industry, and it’s getting stronger. We were all concerned when a European conglomerate attempted to buy the company two and a half years ago, but the family refused to sell. I heard a couple of other offers have been made since, but Mrs. Szereto won’t even listen to them.”
“Good for her.”
“I think so, too.”
A man worked his way through the crowd to Ridlon’s side. The top of his head barely came to her chin. He was carrying two glasses. He gave one to his wife.
“Scotch, Annabelle,” he said. “One ice cube as usual. I selected it myself.”
She sipped the drink, closed her eyes, and sighed like she’d swallowed lifesaving medicine.
“I love you so much,” she said.
“I know.”
Ridlon opened her eyes.
“McKenzie, my husband,” she said.
We shook hands. I noticed he was drinking his Scotch neat.
“How did you manage that?” I asked.
“Bartender was a woman,” he said. “Women find me irresistible.”
His wife chuckled.
“Besides, I slipped her ten bucks,” he added.
She laughed out loud.
We all turned our heads when we heard the applause. It started slowly from another room and grew in intensity as Evelyn Szereto stepped across the threshold into the room where we were standing. She worked the crowd like a politician, shaking hands, giving hugs, bestowing the occasional kiss to a special cheek as she made her way past us. Vanessa followed closely behind, a beaming smile on her young face. She was dressed in a strapless red silk gown with a clinging bodice that seemed to defy the laws of both gravity and motion. She saw me, tilted her head just so, and gave me a wave.
Ridlon looked down at me.
“McKenzie,” she said, “you really are ambitious.”
* * *
We followed Mrs. Szereto into the ballroom. She mounted the stage, followed by Vanessa, to greater applause. Even the musicians seemed happy to see her. She spoke into a microphone that the bandleader had given her.
“Good evening,” she said.
Her voice floated over the crowd. Half responded with “good evenings” of their own.
Mrs. Szereto gestured at Vanessa and said, “Welcome to our home.”
Applause.
“We want you to think of it as your home, too—except none of you are allowed to stay overnight, and we don’t want you raiding the refrigerator like last time. I’m talking to you, Kent.”
A heavyset man near the stage laughed and waved his hands as if he wouldn’t think of committing such a criminal act.
“It’s been a fabulous year…”
Applause.
“And next year is going to be even better.”
More applause.
“I know what you’re all anxious to hear—you want to know about the three new products that we’ve introduced to the marketplace.”
Groans mixed with applause. The crowd knew that Mrs. Szereto was teasing them.
“They’re all doing gangbusters. The salons can’t keep them in stock. Especially the new face cream for our more … mature clientele.” She smoothed her cheek with one hand. “Not that I use it.”
Laughter and applause.
“But you d
on’t want to hear that. What you really want to know is—what’s what about the new product we’re introducing on Valentine’s Day?”
More moans and groans.
“Our testing tells us that it’s going to be huge, like a man once said. Huge. But you don’t want to talk about that, either. You want to know—how are our competitors faring?”
The moans sounded more like deep, frustrated sighs.
“Unfortunately, it’s been a challenging economy, and sales seem to be down across the industry. Barek Cosmetics in particular is suffering. My spies tell me their profits are down nine percent.”
I was surprised by how gleefully the Szereto employees accepted the news. I nudged Ridlon and asked about it.
“When the company was founded in the seventies, Mr. Szereto and Brian Barek were partners,” she told me. “Only they had a falling-out, and Barek started his own business. While Mr. Szereto insisted on courting an upscale customer base, Barek dumbed it down to the common denominator, selling his crap through drugstores and supermarkets, whoever was willing to stock it. Over the years, Barek Cosmetics has become the face of the enemy, the people we don’t want to be.”
“I can see that you’re all terribly upset by the news,” Mrs. Szereto said. “Of course, what you really want to know…” She smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “The Szereto Corporation had one of its best years ever despite the economy. Not quite as good as last year, but a huge jump from the year before. We had net income of $377 million.”
Applause interrupted her. She waited.
“And we had net profits of $43,656,000.”
More applause, louder.
“How much is that?”
Mrs. Szereto pointed at Kent.
“Eleven-point-five percent,” he said.
“How much are we paying this guy?” Mrs. Szereto asked. “It’s eleven-point-five-eight percent.”
The response was loud and rowdy. Above it all, Mrs. Szereto added, “That’s how much your bonuses will be, your profit sharing. Eleven-point-five-eight percent of your yearly salaries.” Her employees already knew that, though.
Ridlon’s husband hugged her waist and leaned in.
“Can we buy a boat?” he asked. “Huh, Annabelle? Can we, can we?”
What the Dead Leave Behind Page 12
