Fringe Benefits

by Christine Pope

  The application had both her cell and home numbers. I could just call her and—

  —and what? Ask her why she’d left? Ask her if Van Rijn had made advances, or if she’d developed an unrequited lust for him that made it impossible for her to stay on at Pyramid Imports any longer? I’d sound like a prize idiot. At best she’d tell me to go to hell. At worst she might somehow get in touch with Pieter Van Rijn and tell him his new secretary was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Did I really want to deal with the shitstorm such an action was likely to cause?

  Well, all right, maybe the direct approach wasn’t the best way to handle this. Some gentle obfuscation might be just the solution, however.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I went to Van Rijn’s desk and set Gina Stillman’s file down next to the phone. At least I remembered to dial star-67 before I made the call. The last thing I needed was for Pyramid Imports’ name to pop up on her caller ID. I figured it was smarter to call Gina’s cell phone, since I guessed there was a better chance she’d answer it in the middle of the day.

  Her phone rang once, twice, three times, and I began to feel uneasy. Maybe my Bluebeard analogy hadn’t been completely out of place. After all, how did I know for certain that all those women had simply quit or been fired? There were a lot of crates out back, crates that had never been opened….

  Okay, you’re seriously losing it, I thought. Van Rijn’s no more a serial killer than you are. That I’d entertained the thought for even a second just went to show how watching too many episodes of network crime thrillers could make you see a serial killer around every corner.

  These quasi-psychotic musings were interrupted by a woman’s irritated voice on the other end of the line. “Gina speaking.”

  Well, so much for dead secretaries stuffed into packing crates. I blurted, “Hello, Ms. Stillman. This is Ellen Case from the Employment Development Department.” I gave Gina my sister’s married name, since in the burst of panic that hit me as Gina answered the phone, I went completely blank as to what pseudonym I should use.

  Her tone shifted from annoyed to guarded. “I didn’t apply for unemployment. I quit.”

  So Van Rijn hadn’t canned her. “Yes, I understand that, Ms. Stillman, but in certain cases even a voluntary termination of employment may be eligible—”

  “I don’t need unemployment,” Gina broke in. “I’ve already got another job.”

  “Oh,” I said. Great…now what? Thinking furiously, I went on, “Well, we just wanted to make sure you were aware of your rights—”

  “My rights?” A short, humorless laugh. “Look, I don’t know why you’re calling, but I don’t want to file a claim. I just want to get back to work.” Her voice sharpened. “Van Rijn didn’t put you up to this, did he? Tell that son of a bitch I don’t need any goddamn charity.”

  And the line went dead.

  “So much for that,” I remarked to the empty office, and replaced the handset in its cradle.

  Still, I’d managed to glean at least a few useful pieces of information. First, that it had been Gina’s decision to leave, and second, that she seemed to have a good deal of hostility toward her former employer. What might have passed between her and Van Rijn I still didn’t know, but it was plain enough she wanted nothing more to do with him.

  I just wished I knew why.

  “You did what?” Leslie demanded.

  “I called one of the former secretaries to see if I could find out anything.” I dug into my Asian chicken salad and took a bite. “It’s no big deal.”

  Leslie pointed an accusing fork at me. “Well, yeah, actually it is. Personnel files are confidential, you know.”

  “But I’m Van Rijn’s assistant. Isn’t it sort of a gray area?”

  Frowning, she stared past me at the busboy who’d come along to wipe down the table next to ours. I’d called Leslie and asked if she wanted to get together for lunch. With Van Rijn out of town, I figured it wouldn’t much matter if I were fifteen minutes or so late getting back to the office. Besides, despite trying to convince myself that I really hadn’t done anything wrong, I’d felt shaken after the conversation with Gina. I wanted Leslie to tell me I hadn’t just lost my mind. Unfortunately, she seemed to be of the opposite opinion.

  “Very dark gray,” she replied. “You’re lucky she hung up on you.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I know so.” Leslie set down her fork and picked up her diet Coke. Before she drank she said, “I just don’t get you. Don’t you think this whole obsession with Van Rijn is getting a little out of control?”

  Irritated, I said, “I am not obsessed.”

  “Then what would you call it? I thought you were supposed to be the level-headed, normal one. Poking around in your boss’s confidential files just so you can find out whether he had a torrid affair with one of his former secretaries is not normal.”

  I suppose she had a point. I was definitely not the psycho ex-girlfriend who rooted around in the trash for her boyfriend’s cell phone bill so she could see who he’d been calling, or the one who stalked him by email and social networking sites. In fact, I’d say my entire romantic life had pretty much consisted of being the pursued, not the pursuer. So what the hell was it about Van Rijn that had made my emotional compass suddenly reverse polarities? I didn’t have an easy answer to that question. Maybe I’d let myself entertain—if even for a second—the thought that he’d offed his former secretaries because that would give me a good reason to get the hell out of there before I made a complete ass of myself.

  “You’re right,” I said, after a long pause. “I’ve been acting like a dipshit.”

  “Well, maybe that’s a little harsh. I just would have said moron.”

  I laughed then, and changed the subject. But if Leslie, who in her own estimation was just a little bit meshugge, thought I was acting strange, then I knew I needed to take a good step back and really analyze what I was doing.

  Sure, women lost their heads over men every day. That didn’t mean I had to be one of them. I resolved then to behave myself and keep my nose out of business that had nothing to do with me. If there were actually something going on between Van Rijn and me, maybe that would give me the right to ask him about his past history with Gina and Janni and Lisa and the other women that stack of defunct employment applications represented. Since the likelihood of a relationship with him seemed about on a par with the odds of me suddenly winning the lottery, I guessed I wouldn’t have much reason to try digging into Van Rijn’s past.

  Each day crawled along like a car stuck on the 405 at rush hour. Even the work Van Rijn had left for me didn’t stretch out much past midday on Tuesday. After that I didn’t do anything except enhance my Photoshop skills, take deliveries, and answer the very occasional phone call. Even those calls couldn’t exactly be termed interesting, since they were almost invariably from our shipper confirming pickup or drop-off dates. The rest were from people calling to inquire as to whether Pyramid Imports had certain pieces available. Those calls I couldn’t answer, but I dutifully took the messages and then sent them along in a batch email to Van Rijn at the end of each day.

  So when the phone rang at about a quarter to five on Thursday afternoon, I didn’t think much of it. I’d been hoping to hear from Van Rijn, who hadn’t checked in since early on Wednesday and who still hadn’t told me when he expected to be back in town. But I figured this call would probably be our shipping company hoping to catch me before I disappeared for the evening. We were coming up on Labor Day weekend, and maybe they were just confirming that Pyramid Imports would still be open on Friday. After all, a lot of companies were closing down on Friday as well, or at the very least letting their employees off early. Leslie only had to work a half-day. However, since Van Rijn hadn’t said anything to me about the holiday weekend, I guessed I was expected to put in a full day on Friday as well.

  Repressing a sigh, I picked up the phone. “Pyramid Imports.”

  “Hello, Katherine.”<
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  I straightened in my chair, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if Van Rijn could see me, after all. “Hi, Mr. Van Rijn.” Through the speaker I could hear a good deal of hustle and bustle, and the distant echoing sound of a public address system. “Where are you?”

  “At LAX.”

  His reply sent a sudden flood of warmth through me. So he wasn’t five thousand miles away, or extending his trip to stay in New York over the weekend. “Oh, really?” I inquired, trying to sound casual. “Do you need me to stay here at the office until you get back in?”

  “I wish it were that simple.” He paused as the P.A. blared away its usual blather about the size of carry-on luggage and the amount of liquids said luggage could contain. Then he continued, “Actually, I need you to come here to pick me up. It appears the limo service made an error in my reservation, and with the long weekend approaching, there are no other vehicles available. It’s a great imposition, I know—”

  “No, not at all,” I cut in. Actually, even with the bonus of seeing Van Rijn at the end of the trip, a drive out to the airport in rush-hour traffic just ahead of a long weekend didn’t seem very appealing. Since the guy had just paid me two grand to basically sit on my rear end and play on a computer for a week, any protests would have been at best rude and at worst completely ungrateful. “I’m not sure how long it will take me…”

  “As long as it takes, Katherine. It’s not as if I’m going anywhere. Terminal two. Call this number when you reach the airport, and I’ll meet you outside in the lower-level passenger pickup.”

  “Terminal two,” I repeated. “Got it. I’ll be out of here just as soon as I lock up.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and hung up.

  After that I ran around like a madwoman, shutting down my computer, making sure the lights were turned off, gathering up my purse. Since I was in such a hurry I typed in the wrong code when I reset the alarm, but luckily it had a thirty-second grace period in which to correct my mistake. The last thing I needed was to waste time calling the alarm company and reassuring them that everything was fine, it was just that Van Rijn’s new secretary was an idiot.

  Then again, it probably wouldn’t have been the first time they fielded a call like that.

  Enough paeans to the general suckfest that is L.A. traffic have already been written, so I won’t add to them. Suffice it to say that it took me an hour and a half to slog my way from Pyramid Imports to Los Angeles International Airport, a distance of approximately twenty-five miles. Throughout the ongoing nightmare I kept telling myself to relax, that at least I’d get to see Van Rijn when I got to my destination. Then again, that probably wasn’t the best method of calming myself down, considering the fact that my heartbeat seemed to speed up every time I thought about what I would say and do when I saw him again.

  At last I crawled down Century Boulevard and approached the entrance to the airport. I aimed my car toward the ramps for arriving flights, plucked out my cell phone, and called Van Rijn.

  He answered almost immediately. “Katherine?”

  “I’m coming in right now. Terminal two, right?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  I shut my phone and tossed it into my purse. I hadn’t gotten around to buying a hands-free setup yet, and the last thing I needed was to get a ticket from an over-zealous airport cop for daring to lift a cell phone to my ear while driving.

  The traffic was treacherous, but I managed to thread my way to an empty space along the curb just as an overloaded SUV pulled away. Van Rijn waited a little distance farther down the passenger loading area, but I saw him pick up his carry-on and a larger suitcase and hurry down to meet me. At once I popped the button to release the trunk. He secured his luggage and shut the trunk lid, then came up to the passenger side and let himself in.

  I felt a little overwhelmed at being that close to him after a separation of almost a week. As before, he wore a simple dress shirt and dark slacks, except this time the shirt was a deep blue that only served to intensify the color of his eyes. Again I caught a faint drift of the cologne he wore. I wondered what it was.

  “Ready?” I asked, since I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yes,” he replied, then added, “Thank you again for coming to get me. I’m afraid that limo company has lost my business.”

  “Well, I guess you don’t need them if you have me,” I said.

  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Indeed.”

  Oh, Christ, I thought, anything else awkward you’d like to say, Katherine? How about professing your undying love here and now?

  To cover my embarrassment, I pretended to be absorbed in maneuvering the car out from the curb and slipping into the flow of traffic. By then it was past six-thirty, and I wondered if Van Rijn might suggest dinner or something to occupy us while the traffic died down a bit. But he seemed disinclined toward conversation and only stared out the window as I headed back toward the freeway.

  “Did you have a nice trip?” I asked, after I had gotten us safely positioned in the second lane from the left. I wouldn’t have said anything, except that the silence was beginning to feel awkward, and I thought leaning over to turn on the radio would have been a bit too obvious.

  He stirred and turned toward me ever so slightly. “Yes. I managed to secure the holdings of a fairly impressive estate. Some of the furnishings were smuggled out of France just before the Revolution. I already have several buyers interested.”

  His words made me realize that he wasn’t just selling old furniture—he was selling the history of each piece, all the twists and turns that made every one a small miracle. “That sounds wonderful,” I replied. “I guess I feel sort of at a loss, though—I don’t know very much about antiques.”

  “As with everything else, these things can be learned.” The bright blue gaze sharpened, and I found myself suddenly glad that I had to focus on the negotiating the traffic around me and couldn’t meet his gaze directly. “If you’re interested, I can show you some examples from my inventory and teach you something of their provenance.”

  Again I felt a flare of warmth inside me. He was offering to teach me the business? I wondered if he had extended the same courtesy to any of his secretaries—and whether any of them had even cared enough about antiques to want to learn. “That would be great,” I said. “At least that way I won’t make a complete ass of myself if someone calls and asks if we have a Louis Quinze ormolu table.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Weller can be quite persistent.” This time the amusement in Van Rijn’s voice was obvious. “At least now you can answer in the affirmative. The estate I just acquired had some excellent pieces.”

  I nodded but wasn’t sure what else to say. Maybe if I’d known more about antiques I could have come up with a reasonably intelligent question. However, my knowledge of old furniture was about on a par with my knowledge of rocket science, so I guessed it was better not to say anything at all. Instead I asked, “Am I taking you home, or did you want to go back to the office?”

  “Home,” he said at once. “It’s a long weekend coming up, is it not? Are there any deliveries scheduled for tomorrow?”

  I paused for a second to recall the schedule the shipping company had faxed over at the beginning of the week. “No,” I replied. “The last one for the week came in today at four.”

  “Excellent. Then instead of going to the office tomorrow, I propose that I show you around the store.”

  “Store?” I repeated. Had Van Rijn ever said anything to me regarding a store? I didn’t think so.

  He seemed to take my confusion in stride, as if there hadn’t been anything particularly strange about not telling me about the store before now. “Perhaps I neglected to mention that part of the business. Our office serves as the warehouse and shipping hub, but I maintain a storefront off Los Feliz. Many of the pieces I acquire go directly from the warehouse to buyers, but those that do not go to the store. It’s a somewhat friendlier environment in which to look at the merchandise.”


  “Oh, right.” I couldn’t argue with that—after all, the warehouse had a serious lack of air conditioning and an over-supply of dust—but I still felt a little irritated that Van Rijn hadn’t bothered to mention the store’s existence until now.

  “At eleven?” He adjusted his seat so that it went further back into a reclining position, then shut his eyes. “I will admit to a bit of jet lag.”

  No doubt. What time would it be right now in Amsterdam? Three or four in the morning? That made a long day no matter how you sliced it.

  “Eleven sounds great,” I said, but I shut up after that. It was clear to me that he was tired, or at least doing a pretty good imitation of fatigue.

  It would have been nice to say that the traffic had begun to let up, but it was almost as thick heading back to the hills east of Hollywood as it had been going out. In grim silence I piloted the Mercedes through clotted, sluggish masses of cars until at last we headed up into the hills, the sun at our backs. Van Rijn remained silent the whole time, his eyes closed. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping, but he was definitely trying to get what rest he could.

  Luckily I have a good sense of direction—once I’ve driven to a place, I can always find it again. So I didn’t have to bother Van Rijn for directions as I eased the car up through the winding streets until at last I came to the gated driveway that marked the entrance to his property. Once there, though, I had to stop.

  He stirred and said, “The keypad is on the left, just past that sago palm. Eleven, forty-four, seven.”

  I reflected he must have a lot of trust in me to hand over the code to his gate like that. Or maybe he just didn’t think I had the wits to remember it. In any case, I inched the car forward, then opened the window so I could reach out and enter the code. The gate slid open, and we drove in. Behind me I could see it begin to shut once we were clear.