Dierdre handed Maggie a condolence card, showing a seagull soaring over an ocean wave.
“We all signed it,” she said, still not looking at Maggie.
Maggie felt sorry for Dierdre. It’s hard, she thought, if you’ve never had anybody close to you die, you really don’t have a clue as to how to act.
“Thanks, Dierdre, thanks all. That was kind.”
“Right,” Gerry said, clearing his own throat. “And now on to business.” He gestured to Dierdre to begin reading the traffic sheet.
Relieved to be on safer ground, Dierdre’s voice became perky and confident.
“The EMI brochure needs copy by the end of the week.” She looked up at Maggie, as did Gerry. Maggie nodded her head.
“I’m already started on it,” she said.
“And the layout...Gerry, I’ve got the layout as due at the same time because of the tight deadline on this. We can’t really wait for the copy to get done before we start on it.”
“Pokey?” Gerry directed his attention to his art director. “Will that be a problem?”
Pokey tossed the schedule down in front of him.
“Not if I have any interest in enjoying my weekend or having a life outside this office, I guess it won’t,” he said stiffly.
“Good.” Gerry nodded back at Dierdre to continue.
Pokey scowled into his hands, not eager to push his complaints but not content with what he’d said either.
“I have a problem.” The voice, reedy yet masculine, was Patti Stump’s. She sat to Gerry’s right, her outfit an outlandish ensemble of blaring reds and oranges, looking as if it had been deliberately designed to offend.
“Yes, Patti?” His voice was tight. He seemed to be concentrating on correcting some typo on the schedule in front of him.
“My problem is the new budget on the Calloway Toys commercial—“
“I haven’t gotten to that yet,” Dierdre started.
“Well, I’ve gotten to it right now,” Patti hissed at her. “Gerry, the new budget cuts the frequency nearly in half. Without the back-to-backs I’d set up—“
“Who’s the a.e. on this?” Gerry looked around the table.
“Uh, that’s Linda,” Dierdre said. “She’s with a client,”
“All right, we’ll discuss it when she’s back in the office. Next, Dierdre?”
“That’s bullshit, Gerry!” Patti slammed her fountain pen down onto the table. “My new budget is due in Linda’s in-box at two o’clock today. I’ve got television stations I’m having to renege on...I gave people my word! I’m having to lose discounts that I’d already figured into the budget...discounts that the client was counting on—“
“Patti, I’m afraid you’ll just have to redo your schedule with the new moneys.” Gerry turned and stared at her, his face reddening, showing that he wasn’t as comfortable as he wanted to appear. “And bullshit though it may be, it is also the nature of the business.” He looked at Dierdre who looked at Patti. Patti gathered up her schedule and pens and stormed out of the meeting.
“Shall we continue?” Gerry spoke wearily.
2
“She’s in love with you?” Maggie had to sit down for this one.
“That’s what she said.”
“She told you this?”
“Yes, Maggie, she did. Loudly and without any mistake, please, don’t sit on my desk, thank you.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” Maggie removed herself to the armchair that faced Gerry’s desk.
“Do about it? Oh, you mean about returning her affections?”
“Don’t be an ass, Gerry. Obviously you can’t pretend she didn’t say it. Or...or is that exactly what you intend to do?”
“Why can’t I pretend she didn’t say it?”
“Gerry, you’re her boss!”
“Will you just say what you mean? Am I supposed to fire her? Put her in therapy? Set her up with one of my friends? Sleep with her? Exactly how am I supposed to respond to this crap?” He stood up, running his fingers through his hair. “Darla was amused.”
“Well, with anyone else it might be funny, but Stump? Let’s face it, Gerry, it’s like having a bad-tempered Minnie Pearl with the hots for you.”
“Nice image, thanks, Maggie. What, precisely, do you recommend I do?”
“I recommend you have a talk with her.” She saw his look of distaste. “Gosh, Gerry, no one ever said owning your own agency was going to be all skittles and beer, you know?”
“I think it would be embarrassing to be thrown out of someone’s office wearing a skirt as short as you’re wearing so I’d watch the general level of condescension, okay? Besides, I think it may be a moot point.”
“How so?”
“I think I may not be the owner of this agency much longer.”
“Oh? Thinking about firing yourself, are you?”
“I’m serious, Maggie. I think I want to leave.”
“Leave? Leave for where? Another shop? Are you kidding? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want this getting out to anyone, okay? I’m talking to Darla about leaving everything. I mean everything. The agency, the city, the state, the country. Just dropping out. I’m about fed up with everything...everything.”
“Ger—“ Maggie stared at him.
“I mean it. What with murders and maniacs roaming the streets, I’m worried half to death about Haley and Darla and I don’t seem to have much of a handle on what’s going on here and—“
“Gerry, listen.” Maggie stood up and moved back over to his side of the desk. She leaned against it and touched his shoulder. “Don’t you think things are just building up? I mean, when they catch this guy...look, you’re just overwhelmed right now, it’ll all sort itself out.” This was not the time to spring Paris on him, Maggie thought.
“I don’t think so, Maggie. I really don’t. I think I have to do something to get it sorted out. I’m just not happy.”
“So you’re going to leave the country?”
Gerry scooped up some errant paper clips and tossed them into one of his desk drawers. He smoothed down a legal pad pushing out from a stack of folders.
“Where?” she asked.
Gerry shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about New Zealand. It’s got clean air and no drugs and, like, one murder per decade, and no guns...I think it would be good for Haley.”
“New Zealand?”
“It’s still in the just-talking stage, at this point,” he said, not looking at her.
“Have you ever been to New Zealand?”
“Look, don’t patronize me, okay? You know very well I’ve never been there.”
“Well, I’m just saying—“
“I know what you’re saying, Maggie, and I appreciate it, okay? But I don’t want to talk this one out with you, understand? I just don’t.”
Maggie sighed and moved back to the other side of the desk.
“And the Stump Lady?”
Gerry covered his eyes and moaned.
“Can’t I just let it ride? What possible harm can it do? She’ll lose interest after awhile and I just flat do not want to deal with it.”
He looked up at her and she nodded.
“Okay.” She shrugged. “She’s so daft, she’ll probably be hooked on Pokey by next week. I wouldn’t worry about it, Ger. In fact,” she pushed herself out of the chair and walked to the door of his office. “I wouldn’t worry about anything if you can help it.” She smiled at him and then exited, closing the door behind her.
As she walked to her office, she heard her name being paged over the public address system. Hurrying back to her desk, she snatched up the phone.
“This is Maggie,” she said.
“Don’t tell me, you were going to call as soon the wedding invitations were printed.”
Brownie. Maggie felt a lead ball settle neatly in the pit of her stomach.
“Hey, Brownie,” she said softly. “How’s it going?”
“Going okay, how
‘bout you?”
“Oh, you know...” God, she’d dreaded this phone call. “I’m working through the thing with Elise. You coming to the service? It’s tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I talked with your mom.”
Oh dear.
“She told me about your boyfriend.”
“Brownie, I....”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He sounded so sweet and normal. “I wished you’d have told me, though. I mean, hearing it from your mom and all...”
“I know, Brownie, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to handle it, I guess. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings...”
“Hey, forget it, Maggie. Okay? Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you were all right and to tell you I’ll see you at the service tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Brownie,” she said.
“Take care of yourself, Newberry.”
“Yeah, you too,” she said, hanging up.
Maggie sat back in her chair and stared at the wall. Between her conversation with Gerry and the one she’d just finished with Brownie, she could begin to feel like crap very quickly if she allowed it.
She took in a breath and let it out. She wouldn’t allow it.
She checked the time to make sure she could get her copy assignment finished and on Dierdre’s desk before the end of day, then picked up the phone and punched in the number for the Fulton County Police Department.
While she waited to be put through to Jack Burton, she picked up the office condolence card and glanced at the signatures inside. Pokey’s was practically unreadable. Funny, you’d think an art director would be too visual to end up with a turkey-scrawl for a signature, she thought. Patti’s was very precise, almost begrudging, or did Maggie project that?
“Jack Burton.” The voice on the line was strained.
“Yes, Detective Burton? This is Maggie Newberry,” she said. “You’re investigating the death of my sister, Elise Newberry?”
“Yes, Miss Newberry.”
“I...well, I’m calling to see if there’s any more information on her, you know, her death. If you have anything else you can tell me.”
“Not really, Miss Newberry, we always—“
“Is it possible I might have a copy of your report?”
There was heavy sigh on the line.
“Look, it’s really a lot easier for everyone involved if you just let the police handle this, okay? We’re doing a thorough investigation—“
“I know you are and I appreciate it too, but I was still hoping—”
“We have no suspects at this time. I’m sorry, Miss Newberry. Really. I’d suggest you contact a support group or therapist to help work through this. Relatives of victims of violent crime have a tougher time than those people touched by other kinds of deaths. I can connect you back with the switchboard to be transferred to a department which can give you those numbers, if you’d like.”
“Okay, good. Thanks.” Maggie pulled a brochure with copy points on her current copy assignment out of her desk drawer and set it next to her computer.
“I wish you luck, Miss Newberry. And remember, we’re doing our very best for you.”
“Thanks again, Detective,” she said, flipping on her computer. “I appreciate it.”
“Hold while I switch you.” The line went soft as he rang the front switchboard. When she got a new operator, she asked to speak to David Kazmaroff in Homicide.
3
Maggie sat in one of the wicker chairs that lined the little office courtyard. It was too hot to sit out there for long, but she was putting off the moment when she had to re-enter the artificially-climated building. She was sure the air conditioning was drying out her skin and helping her ingest chemicals and tobacco smoke from the offices upstairs. She smiled wryly at the thought. She ingested plenty of tobacco smoke right in her own home.
Laurent had packed a small lunch for her: stuffed courgettes and roasted peppers. She carefully peeled the peppers—in glistening red and green strips—off the wax paper in which he’d wrapped them, swirls of golden-green oil dribbled off the paper in testimony to how bad they were for maintaining her size eight trousers. The peppers were exquisite, melting in her mouth with just the essence of their flavor and without the pepper’s usual bite. How does he do that, she wondered?
She’d already called him twice today. Twice to hear his voice and remind herself that he was there, in their apartment, waiting for her. She’d resist calling this afternoon, even though she wanted to discuss with him her conversation with Kazmaroff. It would have to wait until this evening. Laurent would be with her father. At his club. She shook her head. Curiouser and curiouser.
Living with Laurent was a surprise, she decided. It was not as if she’d ever lived with a man before and so possessed some kind of control sample of cohabitation, but she’d had expectations. Concerns. Probably bred from answering too many Does-He-Love-You quizzes in magazines at the hairdressers. Natural foreboding, even. And Laurent had defied them all. He was there for her. He was accommodating, sweet, loving and strong. Did he have any problems of his own? Maggie wasn’t aware of any. Did he disapprove or dislike anything about the way she lived? Not seriously, anyway. Not in a way that wasn’t teasing or playful or flattering to her. The fact was, she decided, as frenetic and compulsive as she was normally—even without a murder investigation topping her “To Do” list—Maggie found herself needing the balm of Laurent’s soothing, caretaking ways. She hadn’t expected to find such a thing, and now couldn’t imagine living without it.
She popped the last pepper in her mouth and savored it. He’d also packed a quarter baguette of French bread in her little brown sack. She nibbled off a corner.
So, she thought, the police think some drug-dealing homeless person came in off the street, came into Maggie’s apartment, came down her hallway and into her apartment. They think Elise’s drug history is connected with this guy—whoever he is—and that it was a drug deal that went wrong. Real wrong for Elise. So there you have it, Maggie thought, wiping the smears of grease from her fingers as she packed up the remnants of her lunch.
“What about Gerard?” she had asked the detective, not wanting to believe the story about a wandering drug dealer.
“Well, we talked to him,” Kazmaroff had said in a drawling, sleepy voice. “Had a pretty good alibi, though. Really good, in fact. Seems he was having a party in his hotel room with half the call girls in the metro area. Lotta people gonna confirm he was with them. So to speak.”
“He was having a party at four in the afternoon? Because you know, Elise was killed at—“
“Miss Newberry, he has an alibi for the time of the murder.” Kazmaroff had been patient with her.
“Of course,” she’d mumbled, embarrassed, but not willing to let go of the idea. “You think these witnesses are pretty reliable, do you, Mr. Kazmaroff?” she had asked pointedly.
“I think their testimony will stand up in court, yes, Miss Newberry. I’m sorry.”
The heat was becoming unbearable. Maggie removed the scarf from around her throat and smiled wanly at a couple of female layout artists from her office as they approached with their own brown bags and settled into chairs a few feet away from her. She watched them extricate their tuna fish salad sandwiches and little Charles Chips bags from their lunch sacks, and then she stood up and brushed the crumbs off the front of her skirt and went inside.
In her office, on her computer screen, under the headline “Why Opto-Mark Software Will Get Your Company Flying High,” she wrote “Gerard” and “Alfie.” Under “Gerard” she wrote: “motive, no opportunity”. Under “Alfie” she wrote “no motive, plenty of opportunity.” She tapped a pencil eraser against her chin and stared at the screen.
Slowly, she turned and picked up the telephone and dialed three numbers.
“Hey, Ger? It’s me. Listen, I need to take the rest of the afternoon off, okay? Yeah, it’s done, I gave it to Dierdre before lunch. And tomorrow’s the memorial service for Elise, okay? Thank
s. Yeah, you too.” She switched off her computer and left the office.
4
Forgive me, Laurent, she thought, as she pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nikko off Peachtree Road, but it’s got to be now. Kazmaroff had told her where Gerard Dubois was staying in Atlanta.
“And that’s okay?” she’d asked, “He can just leave during a murder investigation?”
“He’s not a suspect, Miss Newberry,” Kazmaroff had repeated.
Unbelievable! And if he were ever going to be a suspect, she’d better come up with the evidence very soon. She hurried into the lobby, noting how close the hotel was to the Lenox Square parking lot where he’d taken her money and given her Elise. Probably just waltzed back over here afterward and had a six-course snack at her father’s expense, she thought angrily.
She marched up to the front desk, asked for Mr. Dubois’ room number and was told that Mr. Dubois had checked out earlier that morning.
Disappointed, she turned away and stood in the middle of the Hotel Nikko lobby. Now what? Could she catch him at the airport? She tried to calculate how many flights there were daily to Paris out of Atlanta. That is, if he was heading to Paris. Maybe he was going to Nice, instead? Would the carriers even give her a passenger list? She felt overwhelmed by the task. A proper sleuth would probably go to all the trouble, she admonished herself, as she got back into her Mitsubishi and strapped herself in. She gave up and decided to query Delta by phone when she got back to her apartment. What else could she do?
With considerably more exhaustion than she started out with, Maggie drove down tree-lined Peachtree Road, past the old Sears parking lot, noting that everyone she knew still referred to the intersection that way even though there was a towering, glittering office building in place of the Sears parking lot and had been for some years now. She continued past the Good ‘Ol Days outdoor café whose feebly flapping awning looked wilted and bleak in the punishing heat, past the Parthenon, to St. Juniper’s Street. She pulled into the street and drove to the first phone booth she saw. It was—not surprisingly for this neighborhood—filthy, with the glass panels broken out of its door in jagged gaps.
Little Death by the Sea Page 14