“Meaning?”
“I don’t know. I wish I had the earlier diaries. I wonder why Elaine took such a special interest in her gardener anyway? Rhinehardt said she’d even invited him to her dinner party on the night she died.”
“Elaine liked to help people,” Crenshaw said. “It wouldn’t have been terribly unusual for her to introduce her staff to other wealthy homeowners. She might have been thinking about his future employment options.”
“Do you think he resented her for it?” asked Farrah. “Was he embarrassed?” She picked up her wineglass again and shook her head. “I don’t know. I just can’t picture that sweet-faced gardener killing his kind-hearted employer. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe not,” I conceded. “Unless there’s more to the story that we don’t know.”
“I find it difficult to picture anyone murdering Elaine,” said Crenshaw, his face sober. “Yet, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to believe someone did.”
* * *
Later that night, I answered a knock on the bedroom door to find Crenshaw standing in the hallway. “I thought you might need an extra pillow.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking it from him.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right in here? Do you want to trade rooms?”
“We’ll be fine. Besides, I’m all settled in here with Josie and everything.” Not to mention the fact that this room had already been smudged, blessed, shielded, and consecrated, three times over. I wasn’t about to do it all again in a new room.
“Well, good night, then.”
“’Night!” called Farrah, from the adjoining bathroom, where she was washing her face.
She and I took turns freshening up, then decided to turn in. There was plenty of room in the king-sized bed. Farrah plumped her extra pillow and began to pull on a satin eye mask. Then she paused.
“Oh, gosh, should I not wear this? I can take it off real quick if something happens. See?” She proceeded to demonstrate, whipping the mask off and on several times in quick succession, until her hair looked like a static plasma ball.
“I’m not worried,” I said, with a grin. “Just get some sleep, okay?”
I turned off the light and lay on my back. In the darkness, I took a few deep, calming breaths. I had it in mind that I might try astral projection again. Maybe I could learn more about what was going on from Elaine herself.
But scarcely had I closed my eyes, when a shrill rock anthem blared into my awareness. I sat up with a start. It was morning.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” mumbled Farrah, blindly hitting her cell phone on the nightstand until the music stopped.
I rolled out of bed. “It’s okay. I need to get ready anyway. I have a court appearance this morning.”
“That’s right. And then you have the interviews.”
“What interviews?”
She pulled off her sleeping mask and blinked against the sunlight. “Didn’t I tell you? I scheduled five interviews for you today at your office, starting at eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, right. The interviews.” This was going to be a busy day. First, I needed to run home and change into a business suit. Then I needed to go over my file for the hearing and get to the courthouse. And then there were the interviews.
On top of all that, I was acutely aware that this was my third day at the manor—and time was money. Crenshaw was counting on me. Perhaps, on the astral plane, Elaine was counting on me, too.
At this point, I almost hoped Wes would win our bet and find Lana already. Because I sure wasn’t having much luck.
Chapter Twenty
I hurried down the courthouse steps and jogged across the square. The hearing went fine, but the judge was a bit chatty afterward. He wanted to tell everyone about the New England fall foliage tour he and his wife would be taking in a few weeks. Someone mentioned that the foliage here in Southern Illinois was just as beautiful, especially in Shawnee. I had to agree. I loved hiking in the national forest. I always felt close to the Goddess and at one with the living earth under the majestic canopy of trees.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to hit my favorite trails lately—and I definitely didn’t have time to talk about it now. My first interview was scheduled to begin in five minutes.
I rushed down the sidewalk, barely noticing the fall decorations gracing storefronts and light poles, or the brown, orange, and yellow banners advertising the upcoming harvest festival. By the time I burst through the doors of the old bank building, I was out of breath and starting to perspire. The line of applicants outside my office door did little to calm my nerves. Had Farrah scheduled all the interviews for the same time? Plus, I thought she’d said there were only five appointments today. There had to be at least three times that many people crowding in the hallway.
“Hello,” I said, as I fumbled with my door key. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Um, just one more minute.” Once inside, I flipped on the light, set down my briefcase, and grabbed a yellow legal pad.
“Okay,” I said to the first person in line, a middle-aged woman wearing a smart suit and a rather severe high bun. “Come on in.” I led her to my inner office and invited her to have a seat at the single guest chair opposite my desk. As soon as I sat down, I asked for her name and a copy of her resume.
“My name is Cheryl Finch,” she said briskly. “Currently, I’m an office manager at an international accounting firm based in Carbondale, where I lead a staff of twelve clerks and secretaries. I’ve been employed there for the past ten years. Before that, I managed a mid-sized law office for several years, overseeing billing, budget, personnel, and more. I value hard work, efficiency, directness, and, above all, punctuality.”
She gave me a pointed look at the end of her spiel. Was she implying I was late for the interview? I glanced at the clock. It was only five minutes past the hour now. I swallowed and looked down at her resume. It was three pages long, including references.
“Um, Ms. Finch, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you interested in this position?”
“Why? I should have thought it obvious. The pay rate eclipses what I’m currently earning. After working here for two years, I’ll be able to retire early.” She gazed around my small office with barely disguised distaste. “I’ve always heard nice things about Edindale. But . . . this isn’t the job site, is it? I would like to see my actual working environment before accepting the position.”
I stared at the woman, at a loss for words. She was either missing a marble or two, or she’d been sorely misinformed. I hadn’t included any pay rate in my ad. Even if I had, there was no way it would come near to what she must be making now. I thanked her for coming and walked her to the door.
The second person in line was a preppy-looking young man with short blond hair and a smug grin. He shook my hand with a grip so firm I flinched.
“Have a seat,” I said, glancing at his resume, “Mr. Bigsly.”
“Call me Ace.” He sat down and unbuttoned his blazer. “First off, I want to confirm that this is a nine-to-five job, right? Monday to Friday? ’Cause I have a very active social life and a heavy sports schedule at the club. So, overtime is not an option for me.”
Oh-kay. I tried not to let my surprise show. He was young, after all. “I don’t anticipate overtime being necessary, Ace, but we can talk about your schedule later. Let’s talk about your experience first.”
“Yeah, sure. I have lots of experience.”
“Have you worked in an office before?”
“Oh, you mean that kind of experience.”
I glanced at his resume again. “I see here you majored in political science. What are your career goals?”
“Yeah, well, I thought about going to law school, but I figured there are easier ways to make money. Then I saw your ad in the paper this morning and knew I was right.”
“This morning? You mean yesterday.”
“No, this morning. You didn’t give much notice, but that was kind of smart. Otherwise a lo
t more people would have showed up. This way you get only the ones who are really on the ball.”
I was so confused. Maybe I was the one short a marble or two. “Do you happen to have a copy of the ad with you?”
“Yeah, sure.” He pulled a newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. I almost fell out of my chair when I read it.
Office Assistant for Rising Attorney
Open Call Interviews
Wednesday, 10–3
Law Offices of Keli Milanni
132 Hawthorne Street, Suite 102
Starting salary: $70, 000. No experience necessary.
The only part of this ad that matched the one I had placed were the words office assistant.
“This must be some kind of joke,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, Ace, but there’s been a mistake. This isn’t the salary I’m offering. And I actually am looking for someone with relevant experience.”
When Ace left, I looked down the hallway in dismay. The line now snaked around the corner and out the front door. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the din of chattering voices.
“Hello, everyone! Did anyone here receive a phone call with a scheduled interview time?”
“I did!” yelled a voice at the far end of the hall.
“Come on up, please!”
As I waited for the applicant to make her way through the crowd, I heard grumblings all around me.
“I was here first!”
“I’ve been waiting for more than an hour!”
“Unfair!”
When the woman reached me, I steered her inside and closed the door. “Sorry about all that,” I said. “There was some kind of mix-up with my newspaper ad.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I have time. Yes, ma’am.” She bobbed her head, making her silver curls bounce. She had a pleasant, if slightly manic-looking, smile. Regrettably, she also smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.
I sat back in my chair to put a little distance between us. “I’m Keli. And you are?”
“Berty Finkle. Yes, ma’am. Like I said, I have time, because I’m not currently working. There was a little incident at my last job, but it really wasn’t my fault. Anyway, there were two other ladies here with appointments, but they took one look at the line and turned around and left. They said they didn’t have time for this. But I have time.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad you have the time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I conducted the rest of the interview as quickly as possible. Berty Finkle might have had plenty of time, but I didn’t. And I was starting to fear a revolt from the masses in the hallway. As Ms. Finkle pushed her way toward the exit, I bit my lip and tried to decide what to do.
A booming voice from the end of the hall cut through the noise. “Make way! Coming through.”
The crowd parted, and a large man came clomping up to my door. He was an imposing figure, with shoulder-length, curly hair as black as his buckled combat boots. The horn-shaped silver earrings spiking through both of his earlobes gave him an extra fierce look, as did the clench of his beefy, skull-ringed fingers. But the most incongruous part of his appearance was the gray business suit and pin-striped, white Oxford shirt.
“Hiya, Miss Keli,” he said, when he caught sight of me. “Everything all right here?”
“Arlen! What a surprise.” Arlen Prince, aka the necromancer, was a former client of mine. I hadn’t seen him in months. “There’s been some kind of crazy misunderstanding, and all these people think I’m hiring for a position that doesn’t exist.”
“You mean you’re not lookin’ to hire an assistant?”
“Don’t tell me you’re here because of the ad, too?”
He furrowed his heavy eyebrows. “Well, yes, I called you after I saw your ad on Monday. A gal named Farrah gave me a call-back.”
“Oh! You have an appointment then?”
“I was supposed to be here at eleven-thirty. Thought I’d be early, but there’s no place to park out there. Now I see why.”
No kidding. “You’re right on time. I’d be happy to interview you. Um, do you mind making an announcement for me? I need to tell these people the interviews are now closed—with my apologies for the inconvenience.”
I slipped back into my office and let Arlen disperse the crowd. Evidently no one was inclined to argue with him. He came inside a moment later.
“How have you been, Arlen?” I asked, after we sat down across from one another at my desk.
“Not bad, not bad.” He gave his collar a little tug and popped a button. Shrugging, he pulled a rattling bone necklace outside his shirt, letting it drape across his wide chest. Talk about the witch-doctor look, I thought, remembering what Crenshaw had said when he saw my amulet. But on Arlen it made sense. As a necromancer, he worked with animal bones to contact the spirit world and work magic. Like me, he was a Pagan. He just communed with nature in a slightly different way.
“I’ve been thinking of going back to office work—with a little nudge from my partner. The taxidermy business is slow. Not as many hunters want trophies as they used to.” He crinkled his eyes good-naturedly. “I suppose that makes you happy.”
I smiled. It was true, it did make me happy. But I didn’t want to be rude about it. “To each his own,” I said. “But what did you mean, ‘back to office work’?”
“Believe it or not, I worked the front desk at a dentist office a while back. Made the appointments, handled the billing. I have a degree in bookkeeping. In fact, I even worked for a lawyer for about a year after college, until he up and retired.”
“I had no idea,” I murmured.
He handed me a bundle of papers. “That’s my resume, college transcripts, writing sample, and references.”
“Wow.” I almost whistled, as I reviewed his resume. On paper, he was surprisingly impressive. But I still had a hard time picturing him as a receptionist. He seemed uncomfortable in his suit. When I’d first met him, he was wearing black motorcycle pants and a black tank top under a long, black trench coat. And lots of chunky jewelry. As much as I hated to think it, I wondered if he would scare away potential clients.
“I can type seventy words a minute, if that sort of thing is important,” he said.
I set down his papers and gave him a thoughtful look. “Are you sure you’d be happy working in an office? I always thought of you as an outdoor type.”
“Of course I’m an outdoor type—just like you are. But I can work anywhere.” He leaned forward, with a twinkle in his eye. “I may not look it, but I’m actually pretty flexible.”
I laughed out loud at his joke. And suddenly I felt ashamed for judging his appearance.
At that moment, the beep of a car alarm sounded from the alley outside my office. It cut off abruptly, as if it had been activated by mistake. Arlen nodded at the open window behind my desk.
“Somebody must be lost,” he remarked. “The same fancy, black car has gone by at least three times since we’ve been sitting here.”
I hopped up, opened the window wider, and looked outside. At the end of the alley, a black car stood idling. From what I could tell, it seemed to be a sporty-looking luxury car with tinted windows. A Bentley, maybe? That was how Farrah had described the car she thought was following her the other day.
“I wonder what they’re up to,” I muttered.
Arlen came around and stood next to me to have a look. “Huh. Want me to go ask?”
I glanced up at him, towering at my side like a pro wrestler. Or a bodyguard.
The mysterious car took off suddenly, spraying gravel in its wake. As I closed the window, it dawned on me that having an intimidating figure at the front desk might not be such a bad thing after all. In fact, it could be exactly what I needed.
Chapter Twenty-One
After Arlen left, I peeked down the hall to make sure there were no lingering job applicants. I was glad Annie and the other first-floor tenants weren’t around tod
ay. The fiasco in the hallway was bad enough as it was. I would have felt even worse if it had disrupted my neighbors.
Relishing the quiet, I sat back down at my desk to make a few phone calls. The first was to the classified ad department at the Edindale Gazette. When I asked who had placed the ad for the open interviews at my office, there was some confused stammering on the other end of the line.
“What do you mean, Ms. Milanni?”
“I mean, who bought this ad? And when?”
“Why, you did. Just yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t. I called on Monday about the ad that ran yesterday. But there was another ad today. That’s the one I’m asking about.”
“But I have it right here in my database that you bought the second ad. I even took—no, wait. Now I remember. It was a gentleman who called. But he said he was calling on your behalf!”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No . . . I only got your name.”
I went around and around with the newspaper clerk and didn’t learn a thing. The unknown “gentleman” had used a prepaid debit card to pay for the ad. I hung up in frustration and called Wes. Hearing his voice made me feel instantly better.
“Hey, babe,” he said when he answered. “I was just thinking about you!”
“Now who’s the psychic?” I teased.
“Nah, I just miss you. I feel like I’ve been gone for ages.”
“I miss you, too. Things here have been . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to worry him.
“Things have been what? What’s going on?”
“Things are weird. You’re not going to believe what happened this morning.” I told him about the flood of misinformed job applicants.
“Man, that’s crazy! I’m gonna talk to Al. Somebody messed up big time.”
“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble,” I said. “Anyway, on the bright side, I think I found an office assistant who will work out nicely. He’s actually a former client.”
Autumn Alibi Page 15
