“I have a ten-year drought to overcome.” Thank God for Mingmei. Who else would put up with her klutzy attempts at girl stuff?
“Just a sec.” She opened Frank’s office door and hung the delivery on his chair.
“What can I do to make him want you?”
“Mingmei...” She closed Frank’s door, shaking her head.
“Come on, Giulia, you’ve got that look in your eyes.” She glanced around. “Small office. Which desk is yours?”
“By the window. The one behind you is Sidney’s.” She set her messenger bag next to the phone.
Mingmei rolled Giulia’s chair into the center of the room and sat in it. “The fashion genie is out of her bottle. I hereby grant you three wishes.”
Giulia took a deep breath. She could—no, she would do this. Scott was going to ask her out again, and she was not going to look like a repressed, makeupless frump.
“Genie, please bring out your makeup wand. Scott should want to kiss this face.” She pulled out a quilted makeup bag.
“Let’s see your ammunition.” Mingmei dumped its contents on the desk. “Base matches your skin tone, good blusher, two lipsticks; let’s see here.” She opened the first tube. “A little orange for you.” She opened the second. “Metallic crimson. I like it.”
“It’s not too forward?”
“Forward?” She giggled. “Giulia, sometimes you talk like my grandmother. What colors of eyeshadow do you have?”
“Three shades of blue that are supposed to blend together, but I never figured out how.”
Mingmei held the two-inch rectangle by Giulia’s face. “Maybe... I’d prefer a gray to blend with the darkest blue.”
“I have that.” She sorted through the pile of samples sent to her as promotional gimmicks.
“Yes.” Mingmei set them side by side on the desk. “These are the right ones. Okay. Eyeliner? Mascara?”
“Brown? Black? That’s all I have.”
“Not brown. Black. You want drama.” She lined up everything on the desk. “All right, Cinderella. Prepare for transformation.”
After Mingmei left, Giulia went into Frank’s office to study the clue collage. Out of habit, she started to rip the overnighted envelope open, but stopped. She wasn’t the admin anymore. Face it—she wasn’t really an employee anymore. Plus, she would not open anyone else’s mail. No exceptions. End of discussion.
Sipping the chai, she pulled out a pen and some blank printer paper and brainstormed at Frank’s desk.
“Camille. You can make it to Blake’s and Pamela’s mailboxes and still be on time for work. Are you the Bible type? Would you strangle birds?” Giulia sketched two rows of attached boxes and filled in the exes’ names. “Sandra. You’d dye birds pink and blue. You might kill them, if it didn’t ruin your nails. Margaret.” She stirred the last of her drink with the straw. “I still get no feeling either way. Why are you such a mystery? Is your real self too hidden? Or are you simply a nice person who happens to be rich enough to attract Blake?
“Isabel. I saw a classic guardian angel painting in your hallway. You could be the Bible-quoter. Your cheerful face could easily hide a hellfire Protestant upbringing.” The chai faded into slurps of spiced air and she tossed the cup into the trash. “Elaine, being snooty doesn’t preclude being psycho. You could kill birds. Would you dye them? That’s what maids are for, right? You’d have a helper.”
Giulia’s slouch vanished. “Good heavens. What if she’s not working alone? That changes the whole dynamic. They’re all the type to have personal assistants. And if she’s using an assistant for all this, how far does she trust her?”
She pushed back her chair and paced the stuffy room. “It’s too dangerous. This stalker is one step from the edge. Would an assistant risk being named as an accessory just to keep a lucrative job?”
Giulia wouldn’t, but the lure of money... And if this hypothetical assistant had also been dumped by a lover... She’d be exactly the kind of person the stalker could talk into playing this game. In another set of boxes, she scribbled reasons each of the exes might use a partner in her “Blake or Bust” program.
She checked the time and had to unstick her watch from her wrist.
“Oh, no—did I sweat off the makeup?” She ran to the bathroom mirror. “Whew. Still looks the same. Kind of Cosmo girl-ish.”
Below her sketched charts, she wrote a note for Frank: What if she has an accomplice? Unlikely, but we should consider it. See boxes above.
She put the pages on his chair beneath the overnighted envelope and locked up.
“Something wrong?”
She jerked upright and spun around. “Frank.” Amazing how fast her heart rate could ramp up.
He was frowning, but that was his habitual expression when he looked at her now. “Why are you here?”
“I was brainstorming and needed the spreadsheet collage.”
“Shouldn’t you be out looking for your next job?”
“Shouldn’t you be pleased that I’m devoting extra time to finishing this case?”
“I managed without you for quite a while, Ms. Falcone. No one is indispensable.”
All her frustrated desire to kiss him burned to a crisp. “What’s your real problem, Mr. Driscoll? Worried I’ll bring undesirable companions into the office?” She pried open the circular clip on her key ring with one hand. Damn the man. If he was so pig-headed that he couldn’t let go of one wrong idea—
“What brilliant insights came to you in there?”
“Nothing brilliant. Just an idea we hadn’t thought of before.” Stupid key. Now of all times it decides to jam.
“Excuse me. You might not have thought of it. Give me credit for seeing a few more possibilities than you would. I am a professional.” He crossed his arms and smirked at her struggles with the key ring. “By the way, I see you’re painting your outside to match your new, improved inside.”
Her fingernail ripped. Bite me, Frank. No, don’t say that. But don’t be a doormat for him to smear his assumptions on, either. “What are you doing here on a Saturday afternoon, Frank? Sherlock Holmes needed only a bit of cigarette ash and half a footprint to catch criminals. You should be sitting in your easy chair, eyes closed, with Yvonne massaging your feet to relieve stress and increase blood flow to the brain.” There. The key came free.
“Not everyone requires foreplay to do their job.”
“Damn you, Frank Driscoll.” She seized his hand and thrust the key into it.
He closed his hand around hers. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“I agree. So is just about everything you’ve said to me since our friend learned to play with photo-manipulation software.”
He opened his hand and hers fell away. “You’re not going to beat that dead horse again, are you?”
“Here’s a bulletin for you: you know those tabloids that show photos of space aliens landing World War Two biplanes on the moon? Build on those fakes, and we may be able to have a civil discussion again.”
He pocketed the key. “Sidney e-mailed me. She’s uncomfortable when you’re in the office. What do you think should be done about that?”
Just like that, it all became too much. All Giulia wanted was never again to see this building or this office or this man she once admired. “You win, Frank. I quit. Tell Sidney she can do what she likes with the stuff in my desk.”
Giulia pushed past him, but he put out a hand to stop her. “What? What else do you need to say that you haven’t said with nauseating precision already?”
“You took me too literally. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. You didn’t have the guts to fire me, so you tried to push me into quitting.” She wrenched her shoulder away. “Why am I still talking to you?”
She reached the stairs, and her sandals slapped and echoed in the stairwell. She had to get out before she said something worse. Why wouldn’t the blasted street door open?
“Giulia, this has gotten out of hand.” Frank�
��s voice, right behind her.
She turned and faced him. “It got out of hand four days ago.”
“Perhaps we should revisit the problem. I told you how I think—thought of you. I want—”
“The problem, Mr. Driscoll, is you. Not my perceived behavior, not Sidney’s first harsh experience in dealing with co-workers, not your tomcatting client or his unhinged ex. Remind me to send a sympathy card to your future wife. Unless she’s Mother Teresa, she’s going to need a degree in psychology to make the marriage work.”
He flinched like she’d slapped him again. “I’ll mail you your last paycheck. Don’t feel you have to make polite conversation in the orchestra pit tonight, Ms. Falcone.”
“Already figured that, thanks.” She held out her hand, ingrained politeness overriding her anger. “Goodbye.”
He shook it. Firm. Businesslike. Distant. “Goodbye.”
“Stupid bus schedule. Stupid cheap shirt. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. Ow!” Giulia sucked the blood from her fingertip and jammed the needle into the shoulder of her new long-sleeved black shirt. “Serves me right for buying clothes at the dollar store.”
She knotted the thread and bit off the excess. Even though she only had seven minutes to make the bus, she retouched her lipstick, wiped away a few flakes of mascara from under her eyes, and dabbed on a bit more concealer. “There. Almost as glamorous as this afternoon.”
6:29. She snatched her flute case and sheet music, and of course the key slipped out of the lock and of course she fumbled it on the second try. What’s wrong with this lock? It turned sticky, then smooth, then sticky again. Must be the humidity.
6:31. The building’s front door slammed into her heel, she ran half a block, and plopped onto a sideways bus seat.
Now what was she going to do? She could’ve dealt with Frank’s attitude at least for another week, but no, she had to let her mouth run like a sewer. It didn’t matter that Frank was a pig-headed, gutter-mouthed jerk. She wanted him to look at her the way he used to. She certainly didn’t think of herself as sacrosanct, but if Frank did, that would explain his occasional fits of shyness. His odd moments of gentleness, too, in the middle of banter or accounting or spreadsheet creation.
Scott didn’t know about her past, so he’d never look at her that way. That could be an advantage. A blank page to draw herself on however she wished. Giulia Falcone, twenty-first century woman ready to embrace life. Sounded like a talk-show hostess speech. Bring on the makeover consultant, the shrink, and the volunteer male escorts.
Focus on the checking account balance. If nothing else, she could temp. She hated temping: always a new set of people to get used to. Sometimes people just looked right through her, because temps weren’t officially co-workers.
She weighed invisibility against the past week of working with Frank. No contest.
In the distant past—last month—invisibility had been one of her goals. She’d lost sight of it in the temporary happiness of Frank promoting her to partner, learning how to piece together clues, falling for Frank, teaching Sidney.
She was going to miss Sidney. No more Penn State fight song at 8:30 in the morning. No more lectures on the benefits of tofu and green tea. Her throat closed and her eyes blurred. How had her life disintegrated so completely in a mere four days?
“Wanna bite, lady?”
Giulia blotted her eyes on her sleeve. The mechanic from the garage on the corner sat opposite her, winking in an exaggerated manner and holding out a brownie. The diamond studs in his ears glinted beneath his long blond hair. He smiled, and a matching diamond on his left incisor glistened with saliva. “You look like you could use a hit of happy. No charge or nothing. You always say hi and stuff when I see you. Makes me feel human.”
“Thanks, no. Have to work tonight.”
“Cool. Nobody wants to have weed-breath talkin’ to the boss.” He bit off half the brownie, chewed slowly, and swallowed. A lazy smile spread over his face. “Anytime you need to feel good, you come by. After the place closes, you know.”
“Thanks. You be careful. Stay out of trouble.”
He slid the rest of the brownie into his mouth. “I got no troubles.”
The bus pulled up at the theater, and Giulia hustled through the stage door.
“Giulia! There you are.” Scott took her music and walked beside her to the orchestra pit. “Guess what? Urnu PM’d me tonight!” They weaved among the music stands, Scott jabbering about Urnu and Hrunting and Raging Death.
“Breathe, Scott. I’m glad you’re so happy about this.” She positioned her music and unlatched her flute case.
Scott took her hands off the lid. “Set up later. Listen. Urnu says he wants to expand Raging Death in a new way: a Siren-Wizard pair. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Absolutely. Urnu’s initiation is tough, but the rewards are worth it.”
“Scott, I don’t know the first thing about RPGs. And I don’t own a computer, remember?”
“Not a problem. I know this guy who rooms with the Wizard of Raging Death. He’s good-looking and almost a gentleman, and he’d just love to show you all about quests and battles.” Scott turned on a thirty-klieg-light grin. “What do you say?”
She didn’t care. She needed a job. She needed... She needed a vacation from her current life. Why not a fantasy alter ego? “You make it sound like fun.”
“It is. It will be. You and me, sharing a chair in front of my PC late into the night, a bottle of wine, developing character skills.” Scott nudged her chin up. “Hey, you look awesome tonight. Is that beautiful face for me?”
Giulia attempted a coy smile. “Maybe.”
“Well, then.” He treated her to a lingering version of last night’s kisses.
When they parted, Giulia took a deep breath and said, “I’ll give your idea serious consideration, apprentice, um...”
“Wizard. Maybe I should print you out a character chart.”
“Sure, but you’ve distracted me long enough. It’s seven o’clock, and I’m not set up yet.” She leaned to her right to see the violin section. “And neither are you, Second Violin. Git.”
“Bully. Talk to you at intermission.”
Giulia smiled and lifted the lid of her flute case. He was a kid at heart, kind of like Sidney. A month or two of Scott might be just what she needed right now.
A plain-white piece of paper folded into sixths lay on top of her flute’s head joint. Her smile stretched even wider. Scott stuck a note in when she wasn’t looking. What a sweetheart.
Your day has come, the time for you to be punished. Now then, listen, you wanton creature. All your friends have betrayed you; they have become your enemies. There is no one to help you. Disaster will come upon you, and you will not know how to conjure it away. Your enemies will look at you and laugh at your destruction.
I have to tell Frank. She turned it over and saw a line of minuscule type across the bottom: Fallen are you, never to rise again.
Oh, shit.
She never swore. She needed to regain control. The stalker wasn’t threatening her, she was taunting her with the past. The photos and the job—how would the stalker know about the job? She had to be assuming. Maybe she’d been in the restaurant on Wednesday. Sure, she’d be following Blake to see everyone’s reactions to her photos. But Pamela broke off the engagement. That should’ve made the stalker happy, so why this new note?
Giulia refolded the paper and slid it in her pants pocket. With mechanical precision, she opened her music, put her flute together, and warmed up.
What if Pamela got a note, too? No, not like this. Pamela wasn’t being painted as a seductress. The stalker seemed to be jealous of her, Giulia, the one Blake slept with.
But she hadn’t slept with Blake. If the stalker was the photographer, she’d know this.
Good heavens. The stalker did have an accomplice.
Giulia balanced her flute on the closed case and headed toward Frank, who’d finished tuning and
was talking to the drummer. She waited behind him a moment, then touched his arm. “Excuse me.”
Frank turned his head, frowned, and turned back to the drummer.
Giulia touched his arm again. “It’ll only take a moment.”
Frank’s mouth smiled at her, but the rest of his face radiated irritation. “I’m afraid I don’t have a moment.”
She stared at his back for a beat, then returned to her stand and ran up and down scales on her flute. C, E, A-flat, D, B-flat, one after the other, fast and loud.
Insufferable jerk. Arrogant, know-it-all, pig-headed moron. He wasn’t her boss anymore. She had zero obligation to share her insight with him, let alone this latest note. She wouldn’t put it past him to repeat the worst bits out loud with that sneer on his face. And what would anyone in earshot think?
Fine. He had the experience. Let his superior skills reach the same conclusion. Now that Giulia wasn’t working for Driscoll Investigations, Blake’s stalker wasn’t her problem anymore.
_____
Scott pounced on Giulia as soon as she exited the ladies’ room during intermission. “So what do you say to tomorrow after the matinee? We can grab a pizza. I’ll move my laptop to the coffee table, and we’ll snuggle on the couch as we learn.”
Giulia fingered the note in her pocket. What if Scott was the accomplice? No one else came near her flute case. No. No, not possible. Scott was too straightforward, too little-boy-ish.
Frank had to be told. She could deal with him being rude if it gave them the telling clue. No one had approached Pamela’s house between four and six that morning, but the ex in her messenger disguise could’ve delivered something later.
“Kyle’s working two shifts tomorrow to make up for Friday, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
If she’d received “death by Prophets,” Blake had most likely received something, too. He might have given it to Frank by now. In a perfect world, the camera trap had finally caught her face when she sneaked into Blake’s yard.
“Are you still working at four in the morning? I get out at six. That’d give us at least two hours on weeknights before you had to get home.”
Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation Page 16