No help to be had there.
“I, uh ...” Maddie began, preparing to stand up and move aside as soon as she broke the bad news in case someone else felt more qualified than she did to attempt doggie CPR. Just then she felt something warm and wet on her fingers. Her gaze shot back to the animal.
“She’s licking my hand,” she said with relief.
“Give her to me.” Mrs. Brehmer strong-armed her way to the front of the group and held out her arms. Instinctively complying, Maddie gathered up the dog and stood. For all its seeming stockiness, it was surprisingly lightweight, she discovered, not much heavier than a good-sized cat. The abundant hair gave visual bulk to a tiny body.
“She’s moving,” Maddie was pleased to report as the dog stirred in her arms. Clearly, she thought, looking down at it, this was a pampered pooch. Its coat was shiny and well-brushed, its collar was lavender patent leather studded with what looked like real amethysts, and it smelled—maybe too strongly—of some floral perfume.
It was also very sweet. Its eyes had blinked open now—they were slightly protuberant and shiny-black as olives—but it was still licking her fingers. Avidly. The eager swipe of the rough, warm tongue continued even as Maddie handed the animal to Mrs. Brehmer, who clasped it to her bosom like a baby. Mrs. B. must have been holding it too tightly, because it immediately began to squirm to get free. Or perhaps, Maddie thought, it had not yet quite recovered its wits.
“She likes you.” Susan regarded Maddie with what looked like surprise. For her part, Maddie was just barely managing to resist the urge to wipe her licked fingers on her jacket. They felt surprisingly sticky, stickier than she would have imagined that a small dog’s tongue could make them. Then, remembering the pastry that had been shedding cream filling when she picked it up earlier, Maddie realized that she’d found the answer to the animal’s apparent affection. But if Susan and the others chose to think that the dog had been licking her because it liked her, well, who was she to correct them?
At this point, Creative Partners needed any advantage it could get.
“She’s cute,” Maddie said, putting her sticky hand in her pocket.
“Cute?” Mrs. Brehmer, glancing at her, sounded affronted. “I don’t think I’d call her cute. This is Zelda von Zoetrope. She’s a Grand Champion Pekingese who’s taken best of breed at Westminster. Twice.”
“Oh, my.” As responses went, this probably ranged right up there with “cute” in the inadequate department, but at the moment it was the best Maddie could come up with. Ready and willing to acknowledge herself as a philistine as far as the world of championship-winning dogs went, Maddie struggled for a more fulsome reply even as she looked at Zelda with fresh eyes. With the dog wrapped in Mrs. Brehmer’s arms, though, there wasn’t much to see but a still-squirming tangle of brown fur.
“You must be very proud,” she achieved.
Too late. Mrs. Brehmer was no longer looking at her. She was once again focused exclusively on the dog.
“Oh, we are,” Susan said.
“Zelda, Zelda,” Mrs. Brehmer crooned as she hugged her wriggling pet. “My dear, darling girl, whatever were you thinking? You might have been killed!”
Zelda growled, the sound low but unmistakable. Mrs. Brehmer stiffened. Then, lips tightening, she set the dog on its feet. Zelda seemed momentarily unsteady. Then she shook herself vigorously and started to trot away, only to be brought up short as she reached the end of the leash Mrs. Brehmer held. Zelda tugged. Mrs. Brehmer reeled her back in, and at the same time looked daggers at Susan. “Where is that fool, Linda? I pay her good money to look after this dog.”
“Now, Mrs. B.,” Susan began in a conciliatory tone, taking the leash from Mrs. Brehmer. “You know Linda is doing her best. She ...”
Susan was interrupted by the arrival of a heavyset woman in a light blue maid’s uniform who stopped in the doorway to glare at the assembled company.
“Oh, Linda, there you are,” Susan said with obvious relief.
“She bit me again.” Linda’s chin quivered with indignation as she pointed at her ankle, where an extra-large Band-Aid had been stuck on top of a torn stocking. It was spotted with blood. “Just as soon as I let her out of her carrier. It was like I no sooner set her on the ground than she went chomp. Hurt like a mother.”
“You see?” Mrs. Brehmer said to Susan. “You see? I want you to call that groomer right now and ask what happened during that last session. That was five days ago, and my poor darling has been cross as a bear ever since! Why, she’s bitten Linda twice, and she growls at everybody all the time, and now she’s tried to jump out the window.”
“I’ll check into it,” Susan said. “Shall I take her and ...”
“I need you here,” Mrs. Brehmer interrupted decisively, and looked at the new arrival. “Linda, you take her on downstairs to the car. Mind you don’t let her get away from you this time. She could have been killed.”
Linda flung both hands in the air as if in surrender and took a step backward. “No, ma’am. I ain’t gettin’ paid enough to take care of that dog no more.”
“Now, Linda ...” Susan began.
Linda shook her head. “Uh-uh. I mean it. I quit.”
“With that attitude, you’re fired,” Mrs. Brehmer shot back.
With an indignant hmmph, Linda turned on her heel and limped away. Susan looked alarmed.
“Oh, let her go,” Mrs. Brehmer said when Susan would have hurried after her. “She’s only been with us for two weeks and now she’s been fired for cause, so we don’t owe her any severance. And Zelda obviously doesn’t like her.”
“I hope she doesn’t sue us,” Mr. Bellamy muttered.
Mr. Oliver pursed his lips. “This is an excellent example of why we have an umbrella policy.”
“Mrs. Brehmer,” Jon said, in the tone of one who had just had an epiphany. “If you don’t want to be the face of Brehmer’s Pet Food, why not let Zelda do it?”
A heartbeat passed in which everyone stared at Jon. Then Maddie took one look at Mrs. Brehmer’s expression, grabbed the idea, and ran with it.
“Zelda would be perfect,” Maddie said with enthusiasm, beaming down at the dog who was now sniffing around her ankles. She could clearly feel its warm doggie breath through her hose. Given Linda’s recent experience, Maddie had a horrible suspicion that she just might be about to experience the power of Zelda’s chomp for herself. Having Mrs. Brehmer’s prized pet sink its teeth into her ankle would be a bad thing in more ways than one. Certainly, it would not enhance Creative Partners’ chances of turning this thing around. In the spirit of heading trouble off at the pass, Maddie went down on her haunches and held her hand out to the animal. Zelda, who’d jumped back, looked at her extended fingers suspiciously while Maddie, trying not to cringe, held her breath.
Zelda’s nose quivered, and she seemed to inhale. Then she trotted forward and started licking Maddie’s fingers as sweetly as could be.
It was only when Maddie heard a funny whooshing sound overhead that she realized that the rest of the group had been holding their collective breath.
Never underestimate the power of a cream-filled pastry, Maddie thought, and patted Zelda’s perfumed head.
“Susan’s right, she likes you,” Mrs. Brehmer said abruptly. “I’ve always said that the very best judges of character are dogs. Very well. Your company has our account, Miss Fitzgerald. Don’t screw it up.”
For the space of a couple of heartbeats, Maddie couldn’t believe her ears.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Brehmer, I mean, yes, Mrs. Brehmer,” Maddie gasped when it finally sank in, and stood up so fast she was momentarily lightheaded. Thrusting her hand out at Mrs. Brehmer before she remembered her telltale sticky fingers, Maddie could only hope that the old lady wouldn’t notice as they shook hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Brehmer.”
“We’ll do a good job for you, Mrs. Brehmer,” Jon said, also shaking their new client’s hand. A glance at him told Maddie that he was having as much trouble ke
eping his excitement in check as she was. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were bright, and he was grinning from ear to ear. Now shaking hands with the suits, Maddie only hoped she didn’t look quite as much like a kid on Christmas morning.
“You will indeed, young man, or I’ll jerk this account away from you so fast it will make your head spin,” Mrs. Brehmer said. Maddie, for one, had no doubt whatsoever that she meant it. “Susan will be in touch with you next week about the details.” Mrs. Brehmer looked at Susan, and her mouth tightened impatiently. “Oh, give the leash to me and I’ll take Zelda down myself. It’s almost time for lunch anyway.”
“I’ll be glad to take her ...” Susan said, sounding slightly alarmed.
Mrs. Brehmer practically snatched the leash away from her assistant. “I said I’ll take her. I’m going home now anyway. She can ride in the car with me. We haven’t spent much time together lately. Maybe she’s upset because she’s been missing me.” With a curt nod at the suits and an unsmiling good-bye for Maddie and Jon, she started to walk away. “Come, Zelda.”
Zelda, who was looking longingly toward the window again, didn’t move. Mrs. Brehmer was forced to stop as she reached the end of the leash. Having already decided that it probably would be best to get out of Mrs. Brehmer’s orbit before something happened to make her change her mind, Maddie had moved away to start packing up their gear and was thankfully a couple yards away from the center of the action by that time. From the corner of her eye, she watched Mrs. Brehmer glower at her dog.
“Zelda!” Mrs. Brehmer said. “Zelda!”
Zelda didn’t move. She didn’t even glance around until Susan, who was standing near Mrs. Brehmer, clapped her hands.
“What did that groomer do to her?” Mrs. Brehmer demanded of her assistant. “She hasn’t been the same since she got back from her weekly shampoo and blowout.” While Susan shook her head in apparent mystification, Mrs. Brehmer looked despairingly at Zelda, who was standing stock-still at the very end of the leash, with all four feet planted like she never intended to move again. “Maybe she cut her toenails too short. Darling girl, is that it? Do your little feetsies hurt?”
Zelda didn’t reply. Mrs. Brehmer, muttering something that Maddie was too far away to hear, turned away.
“Come, Zelda,” she said again, giving the leash a yank. As Susan held the door open for her, Mrs. Brehmer exited, hauling a still clearly reluctant Zelda in her wake.
“Oh my God, we got the account,” Maddie said to Jon a few minutes later, after the elevator doors closed behind them and they were headed down. She was dazed with excitement, jittery with it, still not quite able to take it in. “I don’t believe it. We got the account!”
“Yeah,” Jon said. “We did.”
They looked at each other. Then they whooped, high-fived, and did a little dance that ended with Jon picking Maddie up off her feet and swinging her around in a bear hug. Their celebration stopped abruptly when the elevator paused on seventeen and three other people got on.
For the rest of the ride down they were circumspect. Then, as they stepped out into the lobby, Jon looked at her and grinned.
“Now, how about that raise?”
“We’ll talk,” Maddie said, “when the money starts coming in.”
“Admit it. I was brilliant.”
With Jon behind her, Maddie pushed through the revolving door and stepped out into the scorching heat.
“You were pretty good,” Maddie admitted, twinkling at him as he joined her and they headed toward the corner where, with luck, they might be able to flag down a cab. The street was noisy, crowded. The sidewalk was packed with people, and they had to weave in and out to keep from running into anyone. Vehicular traffic was heavy in both directions. “I was brilliant. Oh my God, we got the account!”
This time they low-fived right in the middle of the sidewalk.
Jon said, “Does this call for a celebration or what? How about if we take ourselves to lunch at some really swanky restaurant? Be a shame to leave New Orleans without trying, say, Chez Paul.” He looked hopefully at Maddie.
“I don’t know what planet you’re living on, but down here in the real world, Creative Partners still has bills to pay.” The sugary-sweet smell of frying dough from a stand on the corner they’d nearly reached reminded Maddie that she really was hungry. When had she eaten last? That cup of coffee with Mr. Special Agent didn’t count ...
Just as quick as that, the euphoric bubble that she’d been floating along in burst. The good news was that they had the account. The bad news was that someone had tried to kill her, and the FBI was sniffing around, and the whole can of worms that was her life felt like it was getting ready to explode at any minute.
Any way she looked at it, the bad news won.
“We’ll grab something at the airport,” she said, suddenly almost desperately eager to get out of New Orleans. One unpleasant but necessary stop by the hotel to pick up the luggage that the concierge had promised to hold for them, and they could go to the airport and get on a plane and fly away. Not that getting back to St. Louis would necessarily solve her problem ...
The hair on the back of her neck stood up as her sixth sense suddenly went on red alert. Jon was looking at her with a frown and saying something, but Maddie didn’t hear whatever it was. She could feel eyes boring into her back. There was someone watching her, someone coming up behind her ...
Whirling, she beheld a wild-eyed stranger rushing purposefully toward her, extended right hand wrapped around something black and metallic that was aimed right at her. Her heart leaped. Her stomach did a nosedive.
Hefting her way-too-heavy briefcase in front of her for what little protection it might afford, she gasped and stumbled back.
She should have expected it. She had expected it. She just hadn’t wanted to face the awful truth.
She should have run when she had the chance. Now she was going to die.
“HOLY CHRIST, there he comes!” Sitting bolt-upright in his seat, Sam grabbed for his gun and the door handle at the same time. Beside him, Wynne cursed and did the same thing. They’d been sitting there in the car, idly watching Madeline Fitzgerald as she practically waltzed down the sidewalk with the same tall, blond, good-looking guy she’d been with in the lobby. Sam personally had been admiring her legs while Wynne speculated with good-natured vulgarity about her prowess in bed and whether Blondie, as Wynne had dubbed the guy, was getting any.
That all changed in the space of a heartbeat as she whipped around and they spotted the man racing toward her. Terror was written all over her face, and Sam didn’t blame her. If the creep had a gun—he had something in his hand, something he was pointing at her ... Jesus, if it was a weapon, she was as good as dead. Sam was right there but not close enough. Instead of saving her life, he was going to witness the ending of it.
Shit.
With 9mm in hand, Sam rolled out of the car and sprinted for the sidewalk, barreling past startled onlookers, knocking a portly businessman on his ass. Meanwhile, the lady screamed, the crowd scattered, the boyfriend took a couple steps back and looked surprised, and the creep kept coming on.
“Federal agents! Freeze!” Sam roared, leaping between the onrushing man and the woman at what, in his estimation, was probably the last possible second before a shot was fired. He braced himself, half expecting to get slammed by the bullet that was meant for her if the creep was even a little slow on the uptake, which in his experience creeps universally tended to be. But no: The creep saw the gun leveled at him and let out a shriek, stopping dead and dropping the object in his hand. Shiny black, it hit the sidewalk with an unmistakably metallic sound. The crowd had already started breaking up; now those still nearby doubled over, scrambling for safety. Screams filled the air. Cars braked and honked. Sam heard at least one crash.
Wynne, beside him now, bellowed, “Get your hands in the air!”
“WGMB! WGMB!” the creep cried, thrusting both hands high in the air. “I’m a reporter! We’re a TV cr
ew, you idiots! Don’t shoot!”
TV reporters. Sam’s jaw went slack as he saw his life pass before his eyes. They’d drawn on a television camera crew and, yep, here it came ...
“Gene, Gene, I got it all! Oh, man, if we hurry, we can make the noon news!” Another man came running up behind the first, a black, boxlike camera perched on his shoulder. He was tall, thin, and freckled, with long, dark red hair drawn back into a ponytail. “This is great!”
“Great my ass! I almost got shot!” Gene snapped.
Feeling like every kind of fool, Sam thrust his gun into his waistband, out of sight. Beside him, Wynne performed a similar sleight of hand with his weapon. The guy with the camera was turning, filming the ducking, staring, exclaiming crowd. The reporter—Gene—was a black-haired Geraldo Rivera-type, complete with Frito Bandido mustache and white dress shirt rolled to just past his elbows. He bent, scooping up the round black thing he’d dropped and holding it in front of his face.
A microphone. Great. Just fucking great. If this got out—and there was no way it wasn’t going to get out—he and Wynne were never going to live it down.
Looking at the camera, Gene spoke into the microphone. “As you just witnessed, talking to the survivor of last night’s attacks on two different women with the same name got a little hairy there, but we survived and we are, as always, doing our best to get the story for you. After what appears to be the contract killing of Madeline Fitzgerald of Natchitoches last night, federal agents are on the job, protecting another Madeline Fitzgerald from St. Louis, Missouri, who was apparently attacked by the same killer by mistake and survived. Ms. Fitzgerald”—Gene moved past Sam, thrusting the microphone out toward the surviving Madeline Fitzgerald, who was looking unnerved and horrified in equal measure as she stared into the camera—“what can you tell us about what happened last night?”
“I—I,” she stuttered, backing away and holding her briefcase up in front of her face to block the camera’s view. “I have no comment.”
“Is it true that you were attacked in your room at the Holiday Inn Express on Peyton Place Boulevard last night?” Gene persisted, following her. The cameraman was right behind him. They brushed past Sam as if he wasn’t even there.
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