Before I could form a rebuttal, the outer door opened, and I jumped up to greet what I hoped might be a new client.
As I closed Brad's door behind me, I saw a woman standing in the reception area. I'm not given to hasty judgments about people, but this time my brain registered instant dislike. Part of it stemmed from her small, pursed mouth, which glistened with high-priced lip gloss. She stared at me as if I were wearing last-decade's style and gave my office furniture an isn't-this-tacky scowl. I also felt plain, old-fashioned jealousy.
She was absurdly beautiful. Her pitch black hair fell straight at the sides with blunt cut bangs. She had creamy skin, artfully mascaraed eyes, and a Pilates-perfect figure encased in the kind of outfit I might be able to buy only if my rich aunt Ruth kept me in her will.
"I'm Mrs. Grant, Mr. Featherstone's secretary," I told her. "May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Featherstone as soon as possible. My secretary said he came to my office today. I'm Amanda Dillon."
CHAPTER FIVE
I backed toward the connecting door again, somewhat in shock, wondering how Ms. Dillon, with her spider-sized eyelashes, designer clothes and all, had come to be Harry's executive assistant at the age of, well, anyway, mega-years under the fifty-plus I'd been imagining.
I nearly crashed into Brad, who had already opened his door a crack and peered out. Having caught a glimpse of his visitor, he grinned like a child on Christmas morning. I could imagine his thoughts: the case now involved a beautiful woman. Like Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, he couldn't have enjoyed it more if a young Mary Astor had walked in.
He came through the door, and after I introduced them, he waved Ms. Dillon into the inner office and asked if she would like some coffee. Being the coffee-procurer, I made a silent wish she'd say "no," but she declared she'd like some, so I hauled the machine out of the cabinet behind my desk and prayed it would work right this time. Next, I had to leave the office to go across the hall to the ladies' room for water. When I returned, Brad had closed the door to his inner sanctum, and I found myself excluded from learning, at least temporarily, what Brad would find out. Even if I wanted to eavesdrop, I wouldn't have been able to, because the coffeemaker sounded like a washing machine with a severe overload.
The coffee ready at last, I knocked softly once, then carried in the tray with two matching mugs, packets of sugar, artificial sweetener, and some non-dairy creamer, and set it on Brad's desk. Ms. Dillon sat relaxed, well back in her chair, legs crossed, skirt hiked up to reveal a long stretch of dark gray nylon. Since Brad couldn't see it, her display of thigh was wasted, but he seemed to be enjoying what he could see. I closed the door again when I went out.
While I waited at my own desk, sharpening six pencils and making a three-foot chain out of paper clips, I returned to the theme of Amanda Dillon being named Harry's executive assistant. I still considered it secretary but with more syllables. Like the way a stewardess became a flight attendant, janitors became building custodians, and personnel became human resources. Although in the latter case, I felt the word human was a lot less human than personnel, which it used to be. The word resource also conjured up an eerie feeling that, should I work for such a firm and fail, I'd be fed into a giant grinding machine and end up in the company cafeteria as Burger of the Month.
I pushed that vision from my mind and instead debated whether Amanda could be our killer. My experience had always been that beautiful women didn't have to perform drastic deeds like murder to get what they wanted. Even in school, I noticed the prettiest girls not only became cheerleaders and made all the boys beg for dates but got elected to high offices in clubs and student government, regardless of any talent for same. We ordinary-looking folk had to be darn good to achieve anything like that. In this case, Amanda already had it all: a very prestigious position and the possibility, perhaps, of marrying the boss besides. Why kill him?
Finally, the door to the inner office opened, and Brad and Amanda emerged. I turned toward them and watched while they said their good-byes. I thought Brad held her hand—studded with perfect, obviously fake, red fingernails—long enough to grow mold.
She left. He went back into his office and returned carrying a recorder.
"I have to go out again."
"Why?" Obviously, I was playing older sister instead of part-time associate.
"To look for Hammond's briefcase. You'll find all the details in here." He handed me the recorder.
"So she's the administrative assistant. She looks awfully young for such a responsible job."
"Gorgeous too. That ought to make you happy, Olivia. Didn't you always tell me women can be both beautiful and smart."
Brad usually called me Livvie but sometimes used Olivia when he started college, not just since I began working with him. Besides, hadn't he just quoted one of the many gems of wisdom I'd provided him over the years?
"Yes." I used the punch line from an old shaggy dog story. "But not that beautiful. What else?"
He pointed to the recorder. "Here's one thing you'll hear on that: she's the young woman who cornered Novotny in the hallway of their office."
"You mean the one who argued with him?"
"The same."
"What did they quarrel about?"
"She wouldn't say, but I'll tell you what she did say. She hinted that either Rose or Debra Hammond might be guilty."
"Oh, come on, we've already gone over that."
"She says Debra was having an affair with a man her father disapproved of. If Daddy hated the guy and threatened to cut her out of his will or something, that's a motive for murder."
I shook my head. "I find it hard to imagine a daughter killing her father, even over money. If she married the man, she probably wouldn't need Daddy's money. And after the grandchildren arrived, he'd come around. That's the way it usually works."
"What makes you so sure?"
"My advanced age, wisdom, experience—all that good stuff."
"Maybe, but it wouldn't hurt to nose around a little, talk to Debra again. Ask her about Hammond's missing briefcase. You want to detect, start detecting. You'll get to use your advanced age, wisdom, and experience—all that good stuff."
He grinned and with an exaggerated wink went out.
I put his tape into the player and flipped the switch, anxious to learn more about this harpy who no doubt wore Prada. In another moment, I had accessed the word processor, opened the file, and began transcribing their conversation.
Brad: "Thanks for coming in. I appreciate you giving me this chance to ask you some questions about Harry Hammond."
Amanda: "I didn't come for that. I answered all the questions I intend to when I talked to the police."
Brad: "Then why did you come?"
Amanda: "I want you to find a briefcase."
Brad: After a pause. "Your briefcase?"
Amanda: "No. Hammond's."
Brad: "Is there something valuable in it?"
Amanda: "Only his folders and notes from his trip to Los Angeles, things I'll have to work on. His death will have a serious effect on the business, of course, but there's no need to let everything get chaotic."
What a cool customer. I wished I'd been a fly on the wall when she and Novotny had that argument. She seemed too much in control to become angry.
Brad: "When did you see the briefcase last?"
Amanda: "I know he took it with him when he went to Los Angeles on Wednesday. When he returned on Saturday, he went straight to the hotel from the airport. I assume he had it with him then."
Brad: "Could he have left it in his car?"
Amanda: "I checked that out already. He didn't leave it there."
Brad: "You're very efficient, aren't you?"
Amanda: "I get paid to be."
I felt my lips compress. I found more reasons to hate this woman by the minute.
Brad: "The police probably impounded everything in the room where the murder took place. Have you checked with them?"
Amanda: "They claim they found no briefcase."
Brad: "Where else might he have left it?"
I detected a touch of impatience in Amanda's tone when she replied.
Amanda: "I don't know. That's why I've come to you. Aren't detectives supposed to find things?"
Brad: "Yeah, but this is going to be like finding a raisin in a coal mine." Another pause. "What about Carl Novotny? He found the body. Could he have picked up the briefcase?"
Amanda: "That's possible, of course, but then why didn't he give it to me or at least return it to the office?"
Brad: "That's something we'll have to ask him, isn't it? By the way, what were you and Mr. Novotny quarreling about in the office building this morning?"
Amanda remained silent for a long time before answering. "Nothing important, a difference of opinion, that's all." Another pause. "Hammond might have left the briefcase in the reception area or even the dining room, but the hotel people claim they don't have it. Things don't just vanish into thin air. Someone took it."
Brad: "You think the murderer might have lifted it?"
Amanda: "Just find it for me."
Brad: "Right. What did it look like?"
Amanda: "It's a dark brown leather attaché case." Pause. "Like yours."
Brad usually left his on the floor next to the desk, and she probably pointed to it. His, too, was dark brown leather. I'd bought it at Dave's Luggage Shop in Bay Meadows Mall and given it to him as a present at Christmas the year before.
Amanda: "Like yours, it also has a combination lock instead of a key. So I can get into it when I need to add papers."
Brad: "Did anyone else know the combination?"
Amanda: "I don't think so, but I can't be positive. Perhaps Mrs. Hammond knows it."
I heard a sound like Brad tapping his pencil on the desk.
Brad: "Could Mrs. Hammond have taken the briefcase? Have you asked her about it?"
Amanda: "She says she didn't, but it's possible she's lying."
Brad: "If the briefcase contains important business papers, why would Mrs. Hammond keep them from you?"
Amanda: "Perhaps because she doesn't want to reveal how she came to have it."
Brad: "You mean because she went into the linen room that night?"
The tone of Amanda's voice seemed to change, from authoritative to doubtful.
Amanda: "Of course I can't be sure, but I think she might have, as well as their daughter Debra."
Brad: "Together?"
Amanda: "No, separately."
Brad: "You sound as if you think one of them killed him."
Amanda: "That's possible too. The Hammonds' marriage has been shaky for a long time. She might have decided she'd rather kill him than get a divorce."
Brad: "Why would their marriage have been shaky?" Pause. "Another woman? A beautiful colleague perhaps?"
My hands jumped off the keyboard as if it were a snake, expecting Amanda to assume he meant her and resent it. However, he had probably flashed her one of his devastating smiles, because she answered in a calm tone of voice.
Amanda: "If you're implying we were having an affair, forget it. He was old enough to be my father."
Brad: "That doesn't seem to stop some women in your position."
Amanda: "That's not my style. I prefer to get ahead in the business world on my talent, not by sleeping with the boss."
Brad: "Did anyone else occupy Mr. Hammond's bed?"
Amanda: "If so, I don't know about it, and believe me, I knew a lot about his personal life. If he had a mistress, I think I'd have known the details."
Brad: "And the daughter, Debra? What motive could she have?"
Amanda sounded brisk again. "You're going far afield for someone who's only looking for a briefcase, but I'll answer that anyway. I've heard rumors that Debra is having an affair with a man her father disapproves of. I suppose that could be a motive for murder."
The conversation I was listening to had been getting really interesting, and I pounded the keyboard as fast as I could go, barely pausing for the tape. However, after that rebuke, a long silence followed. Then Brad announced he couldn't take her as a client inasmuch as he'd been hired by Rose Hammond. "If I happen to come across the briefcase, however, I'll see that it's returned to you." He apparently rose from the chair, and the tape ended.
"Darn," I said out loud, using one of the many expletives at my command. I wanted to hear more. For the first time, working for Brad didn't inspire attacks of narcolepsy.
By the time I'd finished transcribing the conversation, I had lots to think about. In spite of Rose's strong feelings about Amanda, it seemed possible nothing went on between her and Harry after all. Of course, naturally Amanda would say that, wouldn't she? She had thrown suspicion on Debra too, and I could see why Brad wanted me to talk to the daughter again. Yes, indeed, that investigation looked like almost as much fun as teaching beginning bridge players that the term "grand slam" came from bridge, not baseball.
* * *
At five o'clock Brad returned and looked surprised to see me sitting at the desk. "I thought you were going to talk to Debra Hammond again."
"I called over there, but either no one's home, or they're not answering the phone."
"Well, it's quitting time. Don't you have a date or something?"
"No, and if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Did you find the briefcase?" To tell the truth, I felt a little foolish for asking. I didn't see him bring one in.
He ignored my question. "You should date more, Olivia. You're still a sexy-looking woman and could easily marry again."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Not a bit. Just thinking of your happiness."
He went on into his office where he sank into his chair, swiveled it around, and put his feet on his desk. Naturally, I followed him.
"Let's not talk about my love life. I want to know what you learned today."
"Okay. I checked out the hotel again: the linen room, the reception area, the dining room, asked questions at the front desk. Also got the names of the employees on duty that night and spoke to most of them."
"And?"
"I couldn't find the briefcase anywhere. One waiter thinks he saw Hammond holding something like it that night, but he's not sure."
"That sounds pretty conclusive to me. Hammond carried it in, and someone else carried it out."
"Everyone else seems to deny having it."
"You haven't talked to everyone yet." I sat down. "I'll ask Debra and Rose, but there's still that vice president, John Ziegler, and his wife."
Brad leaned back in his chair and chewed absentmindedly on his thumbnail, a habit of his I'd first noticed after I returned from England a few months ago.
"And maybe Amanda is lying. She could be the murderer." Earlier I had dismissed that idea, but it pleased me because I thought Brad had taken too much of a liking to her too soon, arousing my protective instincts. She'd given me the impression of being a cold, calculating woman, not my idea of the perfect sister-in-law. Besides, extra mother that I was, I wouldn't feel I'd completed my job until both Brad and Samantha were married, owned a home with a sizeable mortgage, and had several children I could spoil rotten.
He glanced up. "Why do you think Amanda is lying? By the way, I talked to the young man who carried the statues for her. He says he left the room immediately."
I smirked. "See? Plenty of time for her to have killed Harry."
"We still need a motive."
"Maybe there's something incriminating in the briefcase, and she wants you to find it before the police do."
"The police don't seem to care about it."
"How do you know? Did Tom Ortega say so?"
He ignored my questions. "So far, I count her out. I think her interest in the briefcase is exactly what she said it is—business papers she has to handle."
I sighed. Brad was probably right, and I was just being overly suspicious. He left the office, but I remained for another few minutes, thinking
of nasty ways of disposing of Amanda, all, unfortunately, barred by the Geneva Convention.
CHAPTER SIX
When I entered Brad's office on Tuesday morning, I found a man pacing the floor. In his early forties, I assumed, tall and slender. His light brown hair was beginning to recede in a Tom Hanks way. Attractive, too.
"Good morning. I'm here to see Mr. Featherstone."
"He's not in?" I hustled over to the connecting door, opened it, and looked in Brad's office. No Brad. "How did you—"
"The door wasn't locked." He fingered his tie and collar and looked a little uncomfortable, as if he'd been caught using the executive washroom.
So the cleaning crew had failed to lock the outer door again the night before. I only hoped I wouldn't walk in some morning and find a serial killer waiting for me.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but we spoke yesterday, and he gave me his card."
"Have you been here long?"
"About five minutes." He sat down and folded his arms across his chest, as if getting prepared to wait even longer.
"May I get you some coffee while you're waiting, Mr.—" He didn't fill in his name because I no sooner got the words out when the outer door opened, and Brad breezed in.
"Mr. Novotny, come on in. I see you've met Mrs. Grant."
So this was Carl Novotny, the man who'd found Harry's body. Also, I remembered from Brad's tape, the man who'd had a heated argument with Amanda in the hallway of their building. After acknowledging our introduction by shaking my hand, he followed Brad into his office.
I sat behind the desk in the receptionist office and turned on the computer. This time Brad hadn't closed his door, and I heard bits of their conversation.
I debated getting up and closing the connecting door myself—after all, I'd learn everything when I transcribed the tape Brad always made—but excessive curiosity was a deep-seated sin of mine.
I heard Novotny say, "Yesterday, when you came to my office, you asked me a question about problems within our company."
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 4