Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  Amy also had a flurry of borderline dirty emails from Mr. Lascivious Lobbyist. Murder or no, neither one had wasted any time.

  What was the proper mourning period for a dead boss, anyway?

  The double entendres were flying, and they had a “dinner meeting” set up for later this week. If it were anyone but Amy, I’d feel sorry for her. The man was a toad.

  Sandwiched in between the emails were memos to Walters and various C&W execs, earnestly alerting them to her progress in securing the parks department account.

  Then a subject heading dated late yesterday afternoon caught my eye. Walters had scheduled an office-wide staff meeting. Purpose: to discuss updates in the Coleman investigation, announce details of the pending funeral arrangements, and alert staff to recent business developments.

  That last bit, dropped in almost as an afterthought, was the real reason for the meeting. It had taken Walters and his cronies less than a day to divvy up Coleman’s client roster. With time out for grieving, of course.

  Compared to the minor-league squabbling over my office, this would be the World Series of blood sports. If the killing was business-related, this meeting could give me some major leads. And it was scheduled for 9:30 this morning.

  I checked my watch. It was 8:40. The minute anyone with any authority arrived, which could be any time now, Amy would run and tattle. Then I’d be tossed. And my access to this place would be kaput. No meeting. No leads. No other suspects.

  But not if they couldn’t find me.

  I decided the ladies’ room was the best place to hide. I tiptoed out of my office, checking both ways before crossing the hallway. I even managed to grab a magazine off the hall table before dashing (in three-inch heels, thank you), for the ladies’ bathroom twenty yards down the narrow back hall. I checked under the stalls—no feet!—and threw myself into the last one, bolting the door. My shoes were generic tan pumps. If anyone saw them, they still wouldn’t know it was me.

  I closed the toilet lid, sat down, and opened my mag. Public Relations Today. Ugh. I could’ve sworn I’d snagged a People.

  The only thing worse than working in P.R. would be writing about people working in P.R. But the egos at C&W lived for a mention in this rag. Coleman was in it regularly. Ironically, his death would win him a couple more paragraphs, maybe even a full-blown feature.

  Benjamin (never Ben or, God forbid, Benny) Walters would have killed to see his name in its pages more than once a year. The real question: would he have killed Everett Coleman?

  I’d been in the stall only a few minutes when the restroom door banged open. I flinched. And reflexively pulled up my feet.

  “Well? Are you or aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even take a test for a few more days. That son of a bitch! Broken condom, my ass! I know he did it on purpose. The great Everett P. Coleman marking his territory.”

  The first voice, I didn’t recognize. The second one was Jennifer Stiles, one of the newest senior execs. A few years younger than me, she’d come on board about two weeks after I did for some special project Coleman was hatching. I didn’t know any of the details, except that he’d wooed her away from a big New York firm. And, from what I’d heard, it involved mucho bucks.

  My gut reaction when I first saw her at the time: “Uh-oh, here comes trouble.” And that wasn’t jealousy over the fact that she was petite, stylish, and sophisticated on a level I could never hope to achieve. Or even that her salary was rumored to dwarf mine. No, it was more the fact that, even on her first day, she looked way too comfortable and confident for someone starting a new job. And what I witnessed over the next few months only reinforced my first impression.

  Coleman grinned like a frat boy whenever she was in the room. Which was constantly. For her part, Jennifer strutted around Coleman & Walters in a collection of pastel micro-mini suits and stilettos as if she owned the place.

  But for me, it was the little things. The details that, as a reporter, I was paid to notice. When they thought no one was watching, she’d straighten his tie or pluck invisible lint from his lapel. Or he’d give her a collegial pat on the shoulder. And leave his hand there just a millisecond too long.

  OK, it wasn’t Girls Gone Wild, but anyone who’s ever worked in an office could fill in the blanks.

  I expected fireworks from Margaret. Instead, nothing.

  Margaret was, as always, totally efficient, indifferent, and serene. I have to admit, I was disappointed. Then I started to wonder: Did she see it? Did she even care anymore? Or, like every third woman in D.C., was she dipping into her own doctor-supplied stash of happy pills?

  “Son of a bitch!” Jennifer screeched.

  “Are you going to keep it?” asked the second voice, whom I finally recognized as Meghan, a junior exec in events planning. From what I’d heard, these two had been sorority sisters in college. And Meghan had been the one to float Jennifer’s name the last time C&W was hiring.

  “How the hell should I know? Good God, what kind of market is there for a pregnant, unmarried P.R. exec? How the hell can I make a presentation with a belly out to here? Oh God, my tits will sag.”

  “If he’d lived . . .”

  “If he’d lived, he damn well would have married me, baby or no baby,” she huffed. “Now I’m screwed.”

  Meghan giggled. “Well . . .”

  Jennifer must have shot her a dirty look because there was dead silence.

  Or had they realized they weren’t alone? My heart jackhammered in my chest.

  After a long moment, Jennifer finally spoke. “Look, we had plans. Business plans. We were going to turn this place into something. A brand name. The premier boutique P.R. firm in the country. And I’d have owned half of it.”

  “What about Walters?”

  “Walters is a dinosaur. A relic. And Everett knew it. The only reason dorky Walters even got into P.R. is because his father handed him a dinky little firm. Everett was the one who made it a success. Walters was deadweight, holding him back. He acts like a fossil. He thinks like a fossil. He’s lost his edge. If he ever had an edge.

  “Everett and I were going to transform this company. We were handpicking a dream team. Young blood. Winners who aren’t afraid to do what it takes. We were going to reinvent this place and take it straight to the top. Now he’s dead, and I’m fucking knocked up! This is not happening!”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I bit my tongue and tried not to fall over as I perched precariously on a closed toilet lid.

  I couldn’t believe it. This place had more drama than Days of Our Lives, and the police hauled me in for questioning?

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “God, no! I’ve got to get my ass out of here—and fast. The only chance I’ve got is to sell myself to the highest bidder before anyone knows I’m looking.”

  “How much is Everett’s estate worth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everett’s baby might be entitled to a share of his estate.”

  “He’s already got two kids. And that Shrek of a wife.”

  “So the wife gets, what, half? The other half could be split three ways.”

  “So I get one-sixth, while Margaret and her lazy brats get the other five?”

  “Do the math, and see if you could live on it. At least it would keep you going. You could start your own P.R. agency.”

  “And scrimp and save and suffer? I didn’t come this far to become some one-woman joke firm operating out of a cheap little office in the suburbs. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

  “Burgoyne & Co. is looking,” Meghan suggested. “I had lunch with Souci last week. She’s making a bundle over there. They have all those sports contracts, so it’s high profile. Good money and great perks. You’d be perfect.”

  “Now. In a couple of months . . .”

  “A lot can happen in a couple of months. So you jump now. Then decide what you want long-term. You could always say you had artificial insemin
ation.”

  “Well, doesn’t that just scream desperation.”

  “It says that you’re a maverick. You go your own way. You’d be gold with the single, working-mom clique.”

  “Just what I want. Fit in with a bunch of worn-out, sexless drones. I swear to God, if Everett wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him.”

  I heard heels clicking across the floor, followed by the sound of the bathroom door swinging open and shut.

  Damn.

  Chapter 6

  If I wanted to “attend” the staff meeting, I was going to have to employ some stealth.

  Otherwise, there was a pretty good chance I’d be booted—publicly—before I heard word one. Then it hit me: the handheld digital recorder I used to keep in my purse. But was it even still in there?

  I fumbled through my bag. Brush, complete with wad of hair. Lone earring. Crunched-up twenty-dollar bill—didn’t know I had that. Old bank deposit slip with lipstick stain. Discarded gum wrapper, wrapped around discarded gum. Emergency purse chocolate.

  In my book, being trapped in a bathroom stall qualifies as a chocolate-worthy emergency. I unwrapped the candy and popped it in my mouth.

  Then I plunged my hand into the bottom of the purse and groped around. That’s when I felt it. Still there, after more than three months.

  Take that, clean freaks.

  The batteries would still be fresh enough. And with fifteen hours of recording time, it should catch what I needed and then some.

  I just hoped it worked. It was a gift from my sister. And Annie always bought the best.

  But I’d never used it. My track record with recorders was mixed. Probably because I always picked up the cheapest model I could find. Half the time, I’d get back from an interview, discover that the machine hadn’t recorded a word, and be grateful I’d never stopped taking notes.

  One time, though, one of those cheap gadgets had saved my life. My career, actually.

  Put it this way, sometimes a source had a memory lapse once he saw his name above the fold. But it was hard for him to deny talking to a reporter when the reporter had his voice on tape. Saying exactly what she quoted him saying. Followed by ten minutes of him grumbling about what a “tightwad schmuck” his boss was.

  The real reason newspaper reporters almost never use recorders: we’re lazy. (Yeah, who knew?)

  Every minute of conversation takes at least two minutes to transcribe. Who has that kind of time? Especially when you have an editor with onion breath barking at you to finish a story so you can get out to the fairgrounds to cover the heartwarming tale of a tyke who raised a 1,200-pound steer from a calf, then sold his blue-ribbon best friend to a meatpacking company for a buck five a pound.

  Give me a pad and pen any day.

  Now all I had to do was plant the recorder. The meeting was being held in the main conference room—the only space large enough to accommodate the entire staff. Designed to impress both clients and employees alike, the room gave new meaning to the word “opulent.”

  Jennifer could say what she liked about Benjamin Walters and his “dinky” firm. For good or bad, C&W has always had a reputation for old money. Old-money décor. Old-money connections. Old-money values.

  And that was pure Walters.

  Jennifer described the company Walters had inherited as “little.” I’d have said “select.” With a client roster of D.C. insiders who were loyal as hell. The kind of people who didn’t hire a P.R. firm to get their names into the papers so much as to keep them out. Or to put a good spin on things when, despite their best efforts, they couldn’t avoid publicity.

  Walters knows where a lot of bodies are buried. In this town, that counts.

  I only had a few minutes before people would start flooding into the office. Mentally, I pictured the scene. Walters would lead the meeting. From the head of the table, no doubt. And just behind that chair was a huge antique bookcase, which housed a matching pair of large Wedgwood vases. Perfect.

  I checked both ways before leaving the restroom and fast-walked to the side door of the conference room. I passed only one secretary. And she was on the phone, with her back to me.

  The recorder was ready to go, and I popped it into the vase directly behind the chair where Walters would likely sit. Since the device was voice-activated, I was hoping it would ignore the background noise and start recording when he started talking. But, as it hit the bottom, I heard a distinct “click.” Was it still on?

  Somewhere, Richard Nixon was laughing.

  I was reaching a hand in to check, when I heard a woman’s voice right outside.

  “Yeah, in a sec,” she said.

  I quickly crouched low beside an oversized antique cabinet, just as she popped into the room.

  It was Elizabeth, C&W’s receptionist. If she came around to the head of the table—where Walters would be later—I was dead meat.

  I held my breath.

  Elizabeth called to someone just outside the door. A muffled male voice said something in response.

  “OK,” she replied. “Powdered or glazed?”

  Another muffled answer. Followed by a rustling in the conference room.

  “I snagged three, including a jelly donut—that should hold us ’til lunch,” Elizabeth called as she walked out, shutting the door behind her.

  I stood up, clutching my purse, and beat it out the side door. The same secretary was still on the phone, still facing the other way. But now she was doing leg lifts with her shoes off. I bolted for the restroom again.

  Empty.

  I quickly ducked into “my” stall. So much for trading the stress of deadlines and twelve-hour days for the boring, nine-to-five grind.

  I checked my watch: forty minutes to showtime. I’d go late and hover outside with the overflow crowd. By that time, and with any luck, the others would be too absorbed in the meeting to even notice me. And I could catch most of what was said.

  Hopefully, I’d never need the damned digital recorder.

  Chapter 7

  By the time I sidled up to the conference room door, the meeting had been going on a good ten minutes. They would have already dispensed with the sad preamble.

  And the donuts.

  If past meetings were any indication, I had a pretty good idea of who was sitting where. In the corporate world, just like real estate, it’s all “location, location, location.” The most important people, or those who wanted to seem important, would be sitting closest to Benjamin Walters. Lesser gods would be farther down the table. And wannabes would ring the room, most of them standing.

  Once in a while, especially in the newspaper biz, you’d get a late arrival standing near the door, arms crossed, as if to say “I’m too valuable to spare more than a few minutes of my time for this bullshit.” Somehow, I didn’t think that would happen here.

  Out in the hall—unseen—would be the interns and a gaggle of secretaries to the lower-level execs. And, hopefully, me.

  When I approached, Walters was talking about Coleman’s funeral. The tentative date, “absent any unexpected developments” (translation: if the police release the body), was Friday afternoon.

  “Margaret and the children will be accepting condolences at their home on Thursday evening,” Walters intoned soberly. “I trust that everyone in the Coleman & Walters family will stop by and offer their sympathies.”

  Walters cleared his throat. “Friday evening, after the interment, this firm, in conjunction with the Washington chapter of the International Institute of Public Relations Professionals, will host a wake in Everett Coleman’s honor at The Barclay.”

  OK, for those of you outside the beltway, The Barclay is one of D.C.’s most elegant watering holes. Situated on the ground floor of the stately Standard Hotel, it’s a favorite of the P.R. crowd.

  I’d been there exactly twice, on business both times. The cheapest glass of wine was twenty dollars. And if I’d wanted a mixed drink, I’d have had to hock my hubcaps.

  Still, the wronged wife, t
he possibly pregnant mistress, and the sole surviving partner together in the same room with booze flowing? Love to be a fly on that wall.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I recognized the voice even before I turned to see Margaret Coleman, hands on hips, glaring at me. Taller than my five ten, and clad in a shapeless black dress with her trademark blond braids wrapped around her head, she looked even more formidable than I remembered. Like an angry Valkyrie.

  For some reason, I felt like a child caught listening at the door. Like I really didn’t belong here anymore. My face went hot.

  “You get out,” she practically spat at me, raising the volume as she carefully pronounced each word. “Now.”

  “Margaret, I’m very sorry for your loss . . .”

  “How dare you!” she screeched, the muscles and sinews in her jaw working overtime. And I smelled something on her breath that definitely wasn’t Scope. Vodka?

  “You killed my husband! And you have the gall to show up here? How dare you!”

  “Margaret,” I said softly, hoping to appeal to reason. “I didn’t lay a hand on him. You must know that.”

  At that moment, Benjamin Walters appeared in the doorway. He glanced back and forth between Margaret and me, then stepped out into the hallway and shut the conference room door behind him. The interns and secretaries scattered.

  “Is everything all right, Margaret?” he asked gravely.

  “The woman responsible for my husband’s death decided to just waltz right in here this morning,” she said, jerking her chin in my direction.

  Walters straightened his tie and squared his shoulders. With his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, charcoal suit, and drawn complexion, he was literally a study in gray. “I think it’s best for everyone if you leave now,” he said quietly.

  Part of me wanted to run. I hated this place. Now more than ever. And that was saying something. But a small, increasingly vocal, part of my brain was screaming, “This isn’t fair.” OK, it’s a five-year-old’s argument. But in my case, it was true.

  I matched Walters’ even tone. “I work here. I haven’t done anything wrong. If I had, I’d have been arrested. You can’t fire me for something I didn’t do. And, for the record, I was trying to offer my condolences.”