No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7

by Barton, Sara M.

  “I would love a cup of coffee,” I smiled through my tears. “And can you ask Kendall to step in? I need to ask her about Unger.”

  “Sure, doll. Let me put these flowers in a vase. I’ll be right back,” she promised. I watched her swish out of my office in her vibrantly-colored broomstick skirt, and ruffled black blouse. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, with curls casually cascading down as they escaped from the scrunchie that barely held them in place. Gloria looked like a modern-day revamped earth mother from the sixties. She wore chic gold jewelry and had a penchant for designer clothing, but her style was what Bosco had called “eclectic barefoot”. I often suspected that Ralph was enamored of her, especially when I caught sight of his longing gazes. The long-married Ralph had a wife with a sour disposition, three daughters, and a slew of grandchildren. Ever since he had hired her five years ago, Ralph had a spring in his step. He always seemed to relish coming to work, and I thought I knew the reason.

  For her part, Gloria seemed oblivious to his attention. She was too busy with her new baby granddaughter, her Pilates classes, and her love of her four rescued cats to notice him. She had been single for the better part of twenty years, no longer actively looking for Mr. Right. Instead, she threw herself into caring for the people around her. I suddenly appreciated how much I counted on Gloria’s goodness, especially today. I knew she would handle the delicate situations with tact because she cared about people, and I needed to believe that there were still good people on this planet.

  “You wanted to see me?” The long, leggy Kendall popped her head into my office doorway.

  “Yes,” I looked up. “How close are we to being ready to give Unger a showing?”

  “Well, we still have the final three close-ups to do. I suppose we could get those done today. Dom can handle that. And we have to do the voice-overs, but we have to tweak the script to match the timing. With a final edit session tomorrow, we could probably do it by Thursday.”

  “Could you get the ball rolling on all that and give Paul Unger a call by five, just to give him a heads-up?”

  “Sure, Dori. Listen, I don’t know if this is a good time to ask,” Kendall began, “but is there any chance we can hold off on the Renschler project until next week?”

  “Is there a problem?” I looked up at her earnest face, framed by the boyish haircut. Kendal was an accomplished camera woman, more comfortable behind the lens than in front of it, even though she had been a teenage model. For all the years she walked the local catwalk, wearing designer clothes across the runway for local retailers, she loved the money and hated the work. Once she had paid for her college education and saved enough for her first place, she quit modeling and rebelled, heading to film school. Kendall never wore any makeup and the only pieces of jewelry she sported were plain gold ball earrings and a simple gold chain around her neck. It was as if all the years of artifice had taken their toll on her soul, and Kendall’s choice was to abandon them in favor of a more natural life. It gave her camera work an edginess that didn’t work for every client, so Ralph and I often tangled over her work, especially with the more commercial applications. Give Kendall a non-profit spot to film and she was in heaven. Give her a commercial for a bank, and she was looking for an “Occupy Wall Street” opportunity to find a way to throw in a subtle little dig at corporate greed, usually as a visual joke in the background of the commercial. One of our clients spotted it in his commercial and was less than thrilled. We almost lost the account because Kendall refused to remove it, until she realized we meant business.

  “We picked up the House of Hope spot for their fundraiser in September, and they want to start the campaign as soon as possible. I have some ideas about the storyboard, so I was thinking maybe you would let me take the lead on this and punch it out.”

  “That depends,” I replied, keeping my gaze steady as I watched her. I knew she really wanted to work on the House of Hope public service announcement. “If I say yes, I want you to put as much attention to the Renschler project as you do to the PSA. I don’t want our paying client to get less than what our non-paying client gets.”

  “Sure, boss. You have my word on it.” Kendall gave me a big smile. “Thanks. I’ll tell Bing that it’s a go.”

  Lanny Bingler was Kendall’s boyfriend and she often used him to help her film the PSA shots she made in our off-hours. We gave her the chance to use our equipment, but we benefitted from the experience she gained behind the camera and in the editing room. She developed a reputation among non-profit organizations for her quality work, and the local broadcasting stations were more than happy to give her prime time slots because her public service announcements were attractive and clever. I just wished sometimes she would put as much effort into the work she did for our paying clientele.

  I took a break at eleven, walking down to the Caulkins Corner CVS to pick up a few things. All morning long, I had thrown myself into my work, blocking out the horror of the day before and the loss of my home. Now, as I headed down the sidewalk in the late morning sunshine, I was struck by the magnitude of it all. It was more than just the house. Why would someone deliberately tamper with the gas line? I thought about the neighbors who could have been killed. Why was George so determined to ruin me? Was it really only because of Bosco’s work on the Feed the World fraud? Was it only because he followed the money trail? I thought about George as a man and a lover. Looking back, without the glow of hormones and happiness, I could see the chinks in the knight’s shining suit of armor. What did it take for a man to manipulate a woman like me to that extent? How big a role did Tati play in my seduction?

  When Bosco identified the Feed the World embezzlers, who received kickbacks from the local administrators, there was still almost $1.8 million dollars missing from the $5 million dollar fund. Where was that money? Someone had taken it, and taken it successfully. The vice president of food distribution got caught with $600,000 in his bank account. The chief financial officer of the non-profit agency had funneled $2.2 million dollars into a small start-up company that made meals-ready-to-eat for civilians, as part of an effort to provide non-perishable foods for famine relief, which he then recommended Feed the World purchase for its food distribution program. In exchange for his financial support, he received stock options that were worth about a million dollars before the U.S. Attorney in Pennsylvania indicted him. That still left some other money out there, unaccounted for, and Bosco’s colleagues were in the process of tracking that down in the States. His work was done in Somalia, and he had moved on to a couple of other financial frauds, including a bank in Portland, Maine that was robbed by a gang in Eastern Europe that hacked its way into ATMs.

  I understood why Bosco believed he was the real target of all this dreadful destruction. It all made perfect sense from the viewpoint of an experienced forensic accountant, used to financial fraud. But what if he was wrong? What if George had nothing to do with anyone at Feed the World?

  Chapter Six —

  As long as Bosco thought he was responsible for my financial downfall, he would pursue it relentlessly. But what if the real culprit had a different motive and target? What if someone was out to get me?

  Why didn’t George steal from Bosco, if the idea was to punish him for his work unraveling the embezzlement? After all, I was divorced now, living a life separate from Bosco. Why come after me?

  This nagged at me as the day wore on. Maybe it was the reality that I was now completely dependent on my ex-husband, save for the money I had trickling in from Dynamic Productions. George had stolen the bulk of my money, along with the money from the second mortgage, obtained by fraud. It was my house that blew up. It was my life that imploded. Did that mean someone wanted me dead? Did someone hate me that much?

  In my mind, I went over the early days of knowing George. What had happened after that trip to the Pleasant Bay resort? I had returned home to find several emails from him. He was back in New York, media marketing specialist for Farley Hinson Day, the adve
rtising agency. We began calling each other to talk for hours, in between messages and emails. Four months later, he had quit his job and moved into my house, starting his own business as a media marketing expert in Caulkins Corner. Once embedded in my house, he wanted his first clients to be Dynamic Productions, but I refused to mix romance with business. Despite his best efforts to charm me, I had simply told him that wouldn’t work. You can’t be married to a guy like Bosco for two decades without learning a thing or two about business. But how did George get into my house? Why did he get there?

  I went back to the day George asked me to move to New York, to be with him. We had been meeting for three months at the halfway point between New York City and Caulkins Corner. He would take the train to New Haven every Friday and I would drive down to pick him up. We would go off for the weekend, finding little inns here and there. Sometimes we’d head for the mountains and spend the hours hiking. Sometimes we’d head for the ocean and walk on the beach, even in the chill of spring, or explore the tourist attractions and shops. At first, we would get separate rooms, but after the first month, George said it was a waste of money, because he was ready to commit to me. On the weekend he announced I should consider living with him, he wanted me to visit his apartment in Manhattan. I told him I was never a city girl. I had lived in Philadelphia while I was a student at Pantheon College. Even though I had enjoyed my school days, I wasn’t a fan of the hustle and bustle of high rises and cramped buildings, crowded subway trains, or constant street traffic. I had no intention of giving up my job at Dynamic Productions. What I hadn’t told George was that I had invested a lot of my time and money in the company over the years, and I wanted to be around to see it pay off for me. It had been my lifeline after Kevin died, and it looked like it would be again after the divorce.

  “We should live together,” he announced over dinner at Le Rochet du Nuit.

  “It’s rather soon,” I had replied.

  “When it’s right, you know it. We make beautiful music together.”

  “I hardly know you,” I pointed out to him over a plum galette for two.

  “How else will we ever find out everything there is to know about each other unless we’re always together?”

  George had showered me with attention, constantly wanting to know the details of my life — where I was born, what my parents were like, the family history, the genealogy, even things like when Bosco and I bought the house and how much we had paid. Looking back, I could see the reality. He was trolling for the information that would unlock the gates of my castle. I had been flattered by his intense interest in me, mistaking it for love. How disappointing to learn the gazes we exchanged were driven by his greed, his desire to steal what mattered most to me. I felt even more the fool. Was I so hungry for love and attention that I threw all caution to the wind? At least I had the good sense to remember all the business lessons learned at Bosco’s side. “Never mix business with pleasure,” had been a constant phrase in his repertoire. “Business is business. It’s about money.” At the time, I had viewed that as a cynical, cold-hearted perspective on life, but it may yet turn out to be my saving grace. At least I still had my investment in Dynamic Productions.

  In all the time I had spent with George, I had never been in his home or his car. When he moved in with me, he announced that he had rented his Manhattan apartment fully furnished, in order to avoid having to store his belongings. He came with three suitcases of clothing, a laptop, and his cell phone. As if he were only planning to stay a short while. As if he were on a business trip.

  With my purchases in hand, I now strolled back to work, preoccupied with the remembrance of that auspicious start of my budding romance with George. I was missing something, some clue that I should have caught, some little piece of information that could now explain how I had lost my life to a heel like George, but I just couldn’t seem to grab it when it came close to the surface.

  The minute I was through the front door, Gloria greeted me with phone messages that needed immediate attention. I kept busy handling day-to-day tasks. By one thirty, I was ready for some lunch. We sent out for food, so we could have a group meeting, to discuss several upcoming projects.

  Ralph was out most of the afternoon on a video shot for a well-known medical center with Dom and a couple of college interns working for us for the summer. The three students were getting credit for learning the ins and outs of video production. At quarter to five, I took the daily notes and put them on Ralph’s desk. His normally tidy desk was loaded with paperwork. Afraid that the material would get mixed up with his mail, the monthly billing reports and the storyboards for a few planned commercials, I stacked my pile on the chair in front of his desk, and as I did, my eye caught sight of something that startled me. It was the envelope sitting on top of the day’s mail in his “in” box, addressed to Ralph in a familiar hand. Why was George sending Ralph mail?

  With a furtive glance out the door of the office, I could see Gloria busy talking on the phone. Kendall was in the production booth across the way. I could see her editing her piece through the interior window. Everyone else seemed to have left the building. Moving quickly, I took out my camera phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the envelope, including the return address. It was just an ordinary # 10 business envelope, with a logo in the upper left-hand corner. The graphic was of an open eye and a closed eye. The name of the company was Wink-Wink Productions, with a Manhattan address. It was postmarked from New York two days ago.

  “Everything okay?” Gloria stepped in with another pile of papers for Ralph, wearing a smile.

  “I was just leaving this stack for Ralph, and I wanted to put them somewhere they wouldn’t get swallowed up by the crowd.”

  “Well, the chair looks like a fine place. I’ll make sure he gets them first thing in the morning. He said he’d be back tonight, after the shoot, if anything is critical.”

  “No,” I replied, heading out of Ralph’s office, his assistant on my heels. “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  “Where are you staying, Dori? Can I give you a ride?” Gloria picked up her hobo bag from her desk and pulled out her car keys.

  “Thanks, no. Bosco promised to pick me up. I’m staying with him.”

  “Well, see you tomorrow.”

  “You, too.” Gloria stepped outside and crossed the parking lot to her Subaru wagon. I watched her through the window as I waited for Bosco. Alone in the office, I thought about what I discovered. George had sent Ralph something in the mail after he had ripped me off. Would Ralph tell me about it in the morning?

  I caught sight of a movement out of the corner of my eye and realized Bosco had parked his Ford Taurus in the spot Gloria had vacated. Closing the door of Dynamic Productions behind me, I double-checked the knob to make sure it was locked before crossing the parking lot and sliding into the passenger seat next to Bosco.

  “Where to?” he wanted to know.

  “I need some clothes,” I told him. “How about Kohl’s? They’re probably having a sale.”

  “Do I get to help pick out your new wardrobe or am I delegated to purse-holding?”

  “Depends,” I grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

  An hour later, I had rummaged through the Ralph Lauren sales rack, selecting a few summer jersey dresses, slacks, and blouses, personally approved by Bosco. We moved on to the lingerie department, where I found some panties and bras, a cotton nightie, and a night shirt.

  “You should get some shorts and tee shirts,” Bosco said. “Can’t beat the price. And sneakers.”

  “It seems so strange to have lost all my clothes,” I sighed. “I’m going to miss my shoe collection. It took me a long time to build it up.”

  “Let’s hope the insurance company comes through, and you’ll have a chance to replace things.”

  “That would be nice,” I answered, “but I’m not holding my breath.”

  Bosco paid for everything. He took out his wallet, picked a card, and slid it through the scanner.
I felt an odd sensation as he signed for my clothes. How long it had been since we were a real couple, and how far apart we had grown before we finally divorced. The last time he had paid for something, it had been a new tire when mine had gone flat with a puncture. Bosco had driven me to the garage to pick up my car. Kevin was still alive, in the back seat, wanting to know if we could stop for ice cream on the way to his game. After Kevin died, it was like we were two people living different lives in the same house. That was so long ago. Bosco looked at me now and I saw the familiar face, but there was a question in his eyes. I wasn’t sure what he was asking from me. In some ways, Bosco seemed very different than the man I had been married to for nearly two decades. He smiled as he put his wallet away.

  “Ready?” I nodded. We picked up all the bags and left the store.

  “What do you want for dinner?” he asked, after all the new purchases were ensconced in the trunk. “We can stop on the way home.

  “What are you in the mood for tonight?” I thought for a moment. “Does that grill of yours work?”

  “It sure does,” he grinned. “Steak, baked potato, and salad?”

  “Just like the old days,” I sighed. “Remember when we spent our summers under the evening sky when we were first married?”

  “It was heaven,” Bosco admitted. “How about something for dessert?”

  We went through the Caulkin Corners Stop and Shop with a wagon. Our first destination was the produce department for russet potatoes, baby field greens, an English cucumber, and grape tomatoes. It was funny to see Bosco selecting groceries to put into the cart. He read all the labels. This was the man who rarely had any interest in what I bought during our marriage, other than to know what I paid for the food.

  “Anything else?” He was picking out peaches. “What about juice? Tea?”