by Mike Brogan
“What’s that seductive, alluring fragrance?” she asked.
“Jehosaphat.”
“No, it’s sweeter.”
Kevin sniffed the air. “Ah ... that would be Ryba’s famous peanut butter fudge. Which, by the way, you ate an entire box of yesterday.”
“I was terrified it would go bad!”
“You were terrified I’d eat some.”
“That, too.”
She listened to the clippity-clop of Jehosaphat’s hooves. It was hypnotic, a mantra luring her into the peaceful serenity of the lush green forests surrounding them.
Being on Mackinac Island was sort of like breathing Valium, or waking up in America, circa 1850. A quiet America. No cars, trucks, or other motor vehicles are allowed on the island. You walked, bicycled, horse-carriaged or galloped your way around.
The land originally was inhabited by the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians. The pious French missionaries sailed in around 1665, followed by greedy French fur traders, then the imperialist British in 1780. Finally, the uppity American colonists kicked the Brits out in 1815.
Jehosaphat shook her head, whinnied and politely farted her arrival at the magnificent Grand Hotel, built in 1887. As they stepped onto the Grand’s porch, she marveled again at its length. At 700 feet it was the longest porch in the world, and lined with white rocking chairs and decorative urns sprouting over two thousand red geraniums and a small Dixieland band playing “Basin Street Blues.”
Below the hotel was the large tea garden with thousands of dazzling red tulips and the large swimming pool where Esther Williams once swam in the movie This Time for Keeps.
They sat down at a porch table and gazed out at the magnificent view of the five-mile-long Mackinac Bridge. She was amazed to learn that Michigan had more shoreline than Florida or California.
“Would you care for somethin’ to drink, ma’am?” asked a young waiter with a thick Caribbean accent that made her think of St. Kitts. She noticed Kevin smiling at the accent.
Moments later the waiter placed their drinks on the table.
Kevin clinked his Heineken against her Chardonnay. “To the two of us.”
“Maybe the three of us, after last night.”
“Honeymoons sure are fun!”
She smiled, remembering their passionate nights and mornings and afternoons of lovemaking. Just five days ago, to the delight of Kevin’s mother and her father, they were married in St. Joseph’s Polish Catholic church in Camden, N. J. in a half-Polish, half-English ceremony followed by a completely wild and crazy reception.
Her cell phone rang and she fished it from her purse.
“Hello....”
“Detective Loomis.”
“Oh, hi, Detective.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Not at all.”
“You asked me to update you on Alison Whitaker.”
“Yes, please,” she said, recalling that three weeks ago, a jury had found Whitaker guilty of the murders of Bradford Tipleton, Philip Carter and Harry Burkett – and the attempted murder of Linda Langstrom, Kevin and her. She also was found guilty of misappropriating $8.7 million from National Media over many years, and blackmailing three Turner Advertising directors.
“The judge just nailed her with four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.”
“Sounds about right!” Madison said, feeling a sense of closure wash over her.
“By the way, Karla Rasmussen was never involved with Whitaker. Not even years ago when Whitaker called herself Blanchector.”
“Good for Karla.” Madison felt guilty for suspecting Karla and would somehow make it up to her. “How could I have missed the name Blanchector? ‘Blanche’ and ‘hectar’ are very loose French translations of ‘white’ and ‘acre’, or ‘Whitaker.’ I probably saw the word fifteen times and still didn’t get the connection.”
“I missed it, too.” Loomis said.
Moments later, they hung up and she filled Kevin in.
“Poor Alison,” he said. “From a Fifth Avenue apartment to the slammer.”
“Yeah, life’s a bitch.”
“But this bitch got life!”
Laughing, she gave him a high five.
They sipped their drinks and listened to the band belt out “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey.”
Suddenly, her phone rang again. What’s going on? Four days with no calls and now two calls in five minutes?
“Hello,” she said.
“Madison....” It was Evan Carswell.
“Hi, Evan.”
“Sorry to bother you, Madison, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Know what?”
“I just received a phone call from the CEO of our former client, FACE UP Cosmetics.”
“Why?”
“He called to say that he just shitcanned his advertising director, the lecherous Maurice Dwarck, after three secretaries filed sexual harassment suits against Maurice and the company. The CEO also asked if we’d please reconsider handling his FACE UP advertising again now that Maurice is gone. I said we’d be delighted to.”
“You’re right. That’s terrific news!”
“But Dana Williams isn’t, I’m afraid.”
“What happened?”
“Our Ease-Z-Sofa client just told me that Dana tried to persuade him to move his business over to Griffen-Girard. He told her no.”
So, Madison realized, Dana’s relationship with Griffen-Girard’s Lamar Brownlee was much more than one romantic lunch at Club ‘21’.
“Did you confront her?”
“Yeah.”
“And...?”
“She looked like she needed an adult diaper.”
Madison smiled.
“With your permission, I’ll fire her ass outta here right now!”
“Do it.”
“OK, but I’m afraid there’s more bad news: Leland Merryweather and Finley Weaver.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The night before the ComGlobe vote, Christine was working late and saw a computer technician in your office putting something inside your credenza. She called Security and they called the cops who came and arrested him. Yesterday, the fake technician finally confessed to stashing a pound of heroin and a couple hundred ecstacy pills in your drawer. When the cops pressured him, he admitted that Merryweather and Weaver paid him three grand to hide it in your office. The bastards were gonna frame you for possession. Get you kicked off the board so the merger would pass.”
Madison was stunned. “Where are they now?”
“I was just about to go fire their asses, too.”
“Don’t let me hold you up.”
They hung up and she told Kevin.
“I never trusted Merryweather and Weaver,” he said.
They sipped their drinks and listened to the music awhile. The waiter walked up and handed her a note saying her father had called.
She dialed his number and he picked up.
“So how’s Mackinac Island?” he asked.
“Everything you said it was, and more! What’s up?”
She punched her phone’s speaker button so Kevin could hear.
“My attorney and I just came out of the most unbelievable meeting I’ve ever been in.”
“What meeting?”
“Between National Media and the three Caribbean banks involved with the $8.7 million. Turns out, Alison Whitaker was planning to transfer the money to the Banco Nacional de Cuba after the ComGlobe merger meeting. When Millennia Trust found out she’d been arrested, they froze her money.”
“Good.”
“But here’s what’s interesting; National Media claims they can only document two-hundred-ninety-three thousand missing from their books. Not $8.7 million.”
“But Bradford Tipleton told me $8.7 million was deposited.”
“Yes, $8.7 million was deposited, and $8.7 was misappropriated. But National Media is terrified of bad PR. If the networks and newspap
ers announce that National mishandled millions of their clients’ money, the company fears many of their clients would bolt for the doors!”
“They probably would. What about the two-hundred-ninety-three thousand?”
“They figure they can weather any bad PR on that. That’s chump change for them.”
“So what happens to the $8.4 million that’s left?”
Her father started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
More laughing.
“Dad?”
“The banks declared that the $8.4 million legally belongs to the name attached to the account.”
“But that’s your name.”
“Correct.”
“But Dad, you didn’t deposit the money.”
“They know. But the banks decided that because the account had my name and my social security number and my Manhattan address on it, and because no other Mark McKean has come forward to claim the money, the $8.4 million is mine!”
She started laughing. “And who are you to argue?”
“Damn right! And after I reimburse New York City $320,000 for their costs in searching for my body in the East River, I’m donating roughly half of what’s left to the New York Fire Department, NYPD and research institutes for childhood diseases, like St. Jude’s Hospital down in Memphis.”
“That’s terrific!”
“And the other half is for you and Thaddeus to split.”
She tried to say something, but couldn’t. Her eyes filled. “Really...?”
“Yeah, but only after I kick the bucket!”
“You already kicked the bucket,” she said, smiling.
“I have your death certificate.”
“Don’t be a smart ass!”
“Dad, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Talk to you later.”
She hung up,
Kevin was staring at her. “Did I hear what I think I heard?”
“You did.”
“Millions?”
“Millions.”
Kevin shook his head, smiled, then started laughing. “Do I know how to pick a wife or what?”
“You do.”
“You know what this means?” he said.
“What?”
“All the Ryba’s fudge you want.”
Know anyone who might enjoy reading
Madison’s Avenue?
If so, just phone AtlasBooks at 1 800-247-6553
or log on to AtlasBooks.com
and order MADISON’S AVENUE.
ISBN: 978-0-692-00634-4
VISA, MasterCard, American Express accepted.
Or order from mikebroganbooks.com
Also by Mike Brogan
BUSINESS TO KILL FOR
Business is war. And Luke Tanner is about to be its latest casualty. He’s overheard men conspiring to gain control of a $1 billion piece of business using a unique strategy – murder the two CEOs who control the business. The conspirators discover Luke has overheard them and kidnap his girlfriend. He tries to free her, but gets captured himself.
Finally, they escape, only to discover that the $1 billion business is his company ... and that it may be too late to save his mentor, the CEO. The story takes you from the backstabbing backrooms of a major advertising agency to the life-threatening jungles of Mexico’s Yucatan.
Writer’s Digest gave BUSINESS TO KILL FOR a major award, calling it, “the equal of any thriller read in recent years....”
Available at Amazon.com
or mikebroganbooks.com
ISBN 0-615-11570-5
Also by Mike Brogan
DEAD AIR
Dr. Hallie Mara, an attractive young MD, and her friend, Reed Kincaid, learn that someone has singled out many men, women, and children to die in ten cities across the U.S. in just a few days. But because Hallie has no hard proof, the police refuse to investigate.
When Hallie and Reed try to find proof, they unearth something far beyond their worst fears. And as they zero in on the man behind everything, the man zeros in on them. Barely escaping with their lives, they finally convince the police and the federal authorities that a horrific disaster is imminent. But by then there’s a big problem: it may be too late. Midwest Book Review calls DEAD AIR, “a Lord of the Rings of thrillers. One can’t turn the pages fast enough.”
Available at www.PublishAmerica.com
mikebroganbooks.com
or Amazon.com
ISBN 1-4137-4700-0
About the Author
MIKE BROGAN is the Writers Digest award-winning author of BUSINESS TO KILL FOR, a suspense thriller that WD called, “... the equal of any thriller read in recent years...” He writes about a world he lived – the increasingly dog-eat-dog world of international business. His years working in Europe gave him a unique perspective on global corporations. He witnessed hostile takeovers, consolidations, mergers and buyouts. He saw winning companies roll out champagne ... and losing companies roll out heads. He brings that experience to his novels, like MADISON’S AVENUE. Brogan now lives in Michigan where he’s completing his next novel.
To learn more, visit mikebroganbooks.com