Killer Deal

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Garth had an eye for beauty and an eye for talent. And a knack for finding both in one place. His creative directors are some of the most exquisite young women in advertising. The rest of us jealous bastards call them the Harem.”

  Visions of Bond girls danced in my head. Why, yes, she’s a nuclear scientist, but she’s a swimsuit model, too! Still, given GHInc.’s track record, whoever these lovelies were, they had to know their stuff.

  “You don’t approve,” Ronnie noted, making me aware I was not controlling my facial expressions.

  “I’m sure I just don’t appreciate the joke fully,” I said diplomatically.

  “That statement’s not for attribution,” Paula said firmly.

  “Relax, Paula, Molly isn’t here to get us into trouble. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

  “It’s less than professional,” Paula said, without indicating whether she was referring to the nickname or his delight in it.

  “Thing is, they’re the soul of that agency. I’m just hoping I can inspire them to anything like the heights Garth led them to. God knows I miss Garth, but I still have a company to run, a reputation to sustain, and I am gonna use each and every asset at my disposal to make sure that happens. Anyone brave enough to come along for the ride is absolutely welcome.” Paula caught his eye and he took a deep breath. “Everything I have is in this now and I’m gonna make it work.”

  Did he want pity or respect? Or both? I did feel for him, the sum total of his professional life hanging in the balance because of Garth’s death. But a man with that much hanging in the balance was a man that much more likely to take desperate steps. Had he created the situation he was now proclaiming he could overcome? Brimming with questions I couldn’t ask, I went back to the subject at hand. “What does Gwen think of the … creative directors?”

  Ronnie’s thin lips twisted. “She recognizes them as a tremendous business asset,” he said with an utter lack of conviction, sounding like he was quoting from an annual report.

  Again, I tried to home in on the source of his discomfort. “Were any of them anything more to Garth?”

  Before Paula could object, Ronnie answered smoothly. “I never name names. That way, no one’s ever tempted to do it to me.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Why, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “But completely irrelevant.”

  “Not at all. I like to know everything possible about the people I’m talking to, don’t you?”

  “That is part of being a reporter.”

  “Tell me something else about yourself.”

  “I’m very anxious to ask you more questions about Gwen Lincoln.”

  “She’s not easily distracted, is she, Paula?”

  “What’re you trying to distract me from?”

  Ronnie laughed, but it came from too high in his chest to be real. I’d caught him and he didn’t want to admit it. What didn’t he want to talk about?

  “Tell me more about the Harem,” I asked, trying to sound playful.

  Ronnie shook his head. “I’m not gonna waste your time rambling. You wanna know about Gwen. What else can I tell you about her?”

  I wanted to talk about Gwen and the Harem, even more so now that he didn’t. I needed to come at him sideways. Remembering the odd look on the receptionist’s face, I asked, “How long have you known each other?”

  I could’ve sworn what flickered through his eyes was admiration. I’d hit on the very thing he didn’t want to talk about. “We were acquainted in the days before she married Garth.”

  “Acquainted” struck me as an evasion Bill Clinton would’ve been proud of. I had to press. “Ever anything more?”

  His smile went a little rigid. “Yes. Now we’re very good friends. And about to be successful business partners.”

  “You’ve forgiven her for stealing Emile Trebask from your agency?”

  “Makes me admire her business savvy that much more.”

  “And now that you’re all back together again, it doesn’t really matter.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze cool and direct, and I knew whatever he said next, it was going to be a lie. “True.”

  “When does the merger become official?”

  He leaned back again, waving his hand dismissively. “Any day now. We put everything on hold when Garth died, of course, but the lawyers are smoothing out the last few details. And some redecorating’s being done over there before we move in.”

  “Are you involved in the campaign for Success?”

  “Of course. We’re all very excited about it. The campaign and the perfume. The print campaign will be previewed at Emile’s gala. Awesome work.”

  “So you’re looking forward to the future.”

  “You bet.”

  “No regrets about having to give up your autonomy and individual creative vision to merge with a company that’s now less than what you were expecting?”

  Ronnie stared at me for a cold moment, lacing his long fingers together in front of his face. “You’re way too young to understand the true meaning of a question like that.”

  “I understand whoever killed Garth Henderson took more away from you than a partner. Do you think that was the goal?”

  Fear dashed across Ronnie’s face and his hands fell away. “No. This isn’t about me.”

  “And yet you’re concerned you could be next.”

  “As a loose end, not a primary target. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “And Mr. Henderson did?”

  Paula tapped her pen on the table. “I don’t see how idle speculation could possibly add to a profile of Ms. Lincoln. Perhaps you’d like to e-mail me the rest of your questions and we’ll reply in kind.” Interestingly, Paula seemed more upset with Ronnie than with me, but whichever, she was pulling the plug. She stood and waited for Ronnie to do the same.

  He hesitated, then rose slowly, his face settling back in that same “here comes a lie” expression. “Let me say one last thing. I’m gonna miss the hell outta Garth, but I take comfort in the fantastic possibilities of my new partnership with Gwen Lincoln, a woman of tremendous business instincts and creative drive.”

  I flipped off my recorder and slowly gathered up my things. Now I was certain he was hiding something, but I also knew if I pushed it, Paula would make sure I never talked to him again. “I appreciate your candor and your time, Mr. Willis. I’ll be in touch, Ms. Wharton.”

  I shook both their hands. Hers was the same rote jiggle she’d given me when she’d entered. But Ronnie, who had barely bothered on the way in, now held my hand in a death grip. “I don’t need to tell a smart one like you how delicate all this is,” Ronnie said, that hint of fear creeping back into his voice.

  “I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone,” I assured him, thankful that no one who knew my track record was around to dispute that.

  The slouching assistant materialized to escort me to the elevator. I said I could find my way, but she insisted. I wasn’t sure if they were worried I’d get lost or if I’d steal something on the way out. I had hoped to chat with the receptionist again, but she wasn’t at the desk, replaced by a young man who sat up so straight with his hands folded on the desk that I suspected electrodes in the chair or drugs in the coffee.

  Back down on the street, I paused to turn on my phone and consider the potential guilt of Ronnie Willis. He was hiding something, but was it related to Garth’s death or some other aspect of the merger? Were professional or personal demons haunting him?

  Before I could formulate an answer I was happy with, my phone rang. It was Tricia, wondering if I’d heard from Cassady. My head was so full of Ronnie and Gwen that it took me a moment to remember Cassady’s lunch with the physicist.

  “Maybe they aren’t done yet,” I suggested, heading back toward my office.

  “It’s almost three o’ clock,” Tricia said.

  “Maybe it’s a good lunch. Or the serv
ice is slow.”

  “I’m just so intrigued. It’s not like her to withhold so much information. Speaking of which, how did your interview go?”

  “Interviews, plural.”

  “Tell me, tell me.”

  I was beginning to when my call-waiting beeped. “Hang on, let me see if this is Cassady.”

  “I’ll hang up and you can three-way me back in.”

  Tricia did just that and I picked up the second line just before it escaped to voice mail. “Hey, you,” I said, not bothering to look because I was so sure it was Cassady.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  It wasn’t Cassady and I could hear him chuckling as I groped for a clever response and failed to find one.

  “Of the many things I love about you, the fact that you haven’t changed your cell number is pretty high on the list right now,” he continued. “I need to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Many reasons, but primarily because we seem to be working on the same story.”

  Which is, I swear, the only reason I agreed to have drinks with Peter Mulcahey.

  Five

  “WE CAN’T ALLOW THIS TO happen.”

  “It’s just drinks.”

  “I’ve lost count of the number of disasters that have begun with that phrase.”

  Tricia and Cassady had arrived at my office hoping to swoop me off for cocktails and I had stunned them with the news that I was otherwise occupied. With Peter. Stunning the two of them is no mean feat and normally I would’ve taken a certain amount of pride in the accomplishment, but there was that little gnawing feeling in my stomach that knew their misgivings had some merit.

  “Why on earth?” Cassady asked.

  “He says we’re working on the same story.”

  “How would he know?” Tricia asked.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “All the more reason not to see him,” Cassady said. She leaned against the desk of Carlos, the editorial assistant who camps out next to me, and I could see the muscles in his neck clench as he resisted the urge to lean back into her.

  Tricia took my chair, but Cassady’s side. “You know Peter, he’s trying to steal information and sources from you. He always wants someone else to do the hard work.”

  “So maybe I’ll beat him to the punch and steal something from him.”

  “Do you have a suspect yet?” Cassady asked.

  I glanced around the bull pen to determine how many eavesdroppers were on alert. Carlos was mesmerized by Cassady’s cologne, but plenty of other ears looked a little too perked up. “Of course not. I’m just doing an interview and the whole point of the interview is that she isn’t a suspect,” I clarified for all within hearing range.

  “Maybe you do need to see him,” Tricia said suddenly.

  “Traitor,” was Cassady’s response.

  “He has information about what she’s doing that she didn’t think was public. She needs to at least figure out what his source is. If there’s a leak, we need to know.”

  Cassady thought about that one briefly. “I really hate that there’s a good reason for her to spend even two minutes with him.”

  Tricia shook her head. “It’s like Eva Marie Saint having to shoot Cary Grant in North by Northwest. Just part of the intrigue.”

  “But they wound up together at the end of the movie.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” I assured Cassady. “Peter is ancient history and will stay that way. But I do want to find out how he knows what I’m doing. And if he has any insights into this story that he’s willing to part with.”

  “Just be careful what kind of bargain you strike with him.”

  “You think that poorly of my self-control?”

  “The mother of us all fell prey to a snake. I hate to see any other woman make the same mistake.”

  “Perhaps we should chaperone,” Tricia suggested as we made our way to the elevator.

  “It’s really all right,” I assured them both now. “I’m over Peter—”

  “But he’s not over you,” Cassady interjected.

  “Of course he is. This is professional taunting, nothing more. I’ll check for leaks, see what else I can learn, and be out of there in record time.”

  “But not too fast,” Tricia suggested.

  “Snakes don’t deserve good manners,” Cassady said.

  “But if we are going to be working the same turf,” I said, assuming I was getting Tricia’s point, “it makes sense not to antagonize him.”

  Tricia nodded and Cassady sighed in capitulation. “All right. But mark my words. You’re going for cocktails with a man you used to sleep with, a man you then dumped, who now has something you want. What good can come of it?”

  “Thank you for the warning and a special thank you for issuing it in a crowded elevator. Good evening, everyone,” I said with a smile to the rest of the passengers as I let Cassady and Tricia exit ahead of me. I tried to think of the variety of smirks I saw as moments of unexpected joy my friends and I had been able to bring to our fellow Manhattanites. That’s better than dwelling on the concept of people laughing at you on their way home.

  Cassady stepped to the curb, raised a hand, and a cab stopped. She’s gifted that way. “If you don’t call us by eight, I’m sending the SWAT team in,” she vowed, opening the door for Tricia.

  “Speaking of calls, how’d lunch with the physicist go?”

  “Gee, I’d love to tell you, but you have other plans. Guess it’ll have to wait.”

  Tricia leaned back out of the cab. “Be careful.”

  “As always.”

  She and Cassady rolled their eyes at each other as Cassady got into the cab. “Eight o’clock,” Cassady reminded me.

  “Sooner,” I assured her as they drove off. I hailed another cab for myself—not with Cassady’s ease, but eventually—and headed down to the Flatiron Lounge.

  The only thing I handle with less confidence than current boyfriends is former boyfriends. In my relationship with Kyle, I was exerting supreme effort to relax and enjoy the natural progress of things. Until that little voice started whispering that there is no natural progress, that a relationship requires guidance and training and cultivation. Or is that roses? I wonder sometimes if it’s the downside of being an advice columnist—you become so acutely aware of the myriad ways people screw up relationships that it seems impossible to take a step without detonating a landmine. The shoemaker’s shoeless children and all that.

  But the care and feeding of an ex is a whole different obstacle course. Normally, I move on and pretend neither to care nor consider how he ever thinks of me, mentions me, spits when he sees me coming, etc. But it’s a pretense because I do care, I do consider, especially when I did the dumping. It’s as Dorothy Parker said, in reference to her heart being broken, “Once there was a heart I broke; And that, I think, is worse.”

  Not that there was a chance I’d broken Peter’s heart. I was pretty sure it was unbreakable. But I had dumped him pretty abruptly because Kyle had taken my breath away and I regretted not being more civil about it. The burning question was if I was about to pay for that.

  He was waiting for me at the bar, half-leaning, half-perched on a stool like he owned the place. I saw him first, which gave me a chance to absorb the fact that he looked really good, in that effortless, Nautica-ad way of his. He was wearing his golden hair shorter, which suited him, and had gotten a lot of sun—probably sailing with his cousins at Martha’s Vineyard—which made his pale blue eyes stand out even more. Or maybe it was the cobalt blue lamps above the bar that electrified them.

  I was surprised by a butterflyish sensation in my stomach. What was there to be nervous about? Other than letting him play me into making a fool of myself. Or doing it all on my own. He was up to something, had to be, and I needed to be on guard.

  One thing at a time. Taking a deep breath and walking up to him, I debated how to greet him. A handshake might be too cool, but a hug and a cheek kiss might be to
o insincere. What would Barbara Stanwyck do? No, that didn’t help, because she would have shot him rather than break up with him and wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

  Lucky for me, he spotted me as I approached and dropped me a mocking bow, which left me no alternative but to offer my hand. He took it, kissed it lightly, then put his other hand over it as he straightened up. “Good to see you, Molly,” he said.

  “Good to see you, too, Peter. You look great.”

  “Just trying to keep up with you.” He kissed my hand again and swept me onto a bar stool. “What’ll it be?”

  “Scotch mist, please.”

  I watched him carefully as he ordered, trying to remember what had first attracted me to him. Probably that I’d never dated anyone like him—he was very Ivy League and I am anything but—and he was a charmer par excellence. We’d had a lot of fun, but it had all stayed pretty close to the surface, whereas with Kyle, things had gotten so deep so fast, it still made my head spin sometimes.

  He turned back, blatantly looking me over. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “You made it pretty hard to resist. How’d you know what I was working on?”

  He pulled a mock frown. “Do we have to talk business right away?”

  “I’m sorry, is there something we should discuss first?”

  “Sure. Weather. Politics. The cop.”

  “Do I get to pick?”

  “You still with him?”

  “Which candidate are we talking about?”

  “The cop.”

  “Yes.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Not at all.”

  “For me.”

  He gave me a lazy smile to show he didn’t mean it, but I decided to take the opportunity anyway. “Peter, I am sorry.”

  “Wanna come back?” he asked, his smile growing.

  “Sorry about how I handled things, I meant.”

  “If I forgive you, wanna come back?”

  I couldn’t help but smile in return. “You don’t want me back.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Because you’re willing to say so.”