Buried Agendas

by Donnell Ann Bell

  “We’re the guts of the company.” Harold beamed, glancing about his paper-pushing kingdom. A wiry little man with a nasally voice, he wore a starched white shirt and red tie, the consummate business professional. “In the mornings, you’ll distribute mail. In the afternoons, you’ll run copier number five.” He handed her a layout of the administration. “This will help you learn the locations of the departments and their room numbers.”

  “Will I be going into the plant?” Distributing mail would be a perfect chance to look around and talk to people should she “inadvertently” get lost.

  “Not for now. Buddy does that. Speaking of Buddy, I guess we can’t hide him forever.”

  Her boss wanted to hide an employee? Diana frowned. That seemed a bit off, but as Harold disappeared into the maze of cubicles, she put the comment out of her head and studied her surroundings.

  Moments later, however, she lifted her head to stare. An employee straight out of a heavy metal band walked beside Harold. A cross between KISS and Metallica, he’d obviously been reprimanded about his appearance. He was slipping a long-sleeved shirt over a black T-shirt to cover his tattooed arms. Unfortunately, his clothing couldn’t mask the streaks of color that spiked his raven-black hair.

  If Diana had met him in Dallas, she’d think nothing of it. But this was the conservative mecca of Diamond. What was he, a musician, hoping to strike it big while working in a mailroom?

  “Candace, this is Buddy Jenkins. Buddy, Candace Armstrong.” Harold sent the tall, skinny employee a glare. “Buddy seems to have forgotten the company dress code.”

  “I didn’t forget. And I got rid of the piercings, boss. I just think the policy’s lame. It gets hot in here.” Buddy’s assessing gaze studied Diana from head to toe. “You into New Age, babe?”

  Diana glanced down at her own casual blouse and slacks. “I’m not sure.”

  “As we discussed when we posted the ad,” Harold said to Buddy, “you’re most familiar with the plant, so you’ll cover that area. Candace will take over the distribution of mail and any incoming packages inside the administration offices. Meanwhile, Buddy, I’ll expect you to cross-train Candace and go over your duties with her.”

  “Be happy to, boss,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as their supervisor walked away.

  The thirty minutes Diana spent with Buddy were thirty minutes too long. He turned innocent questions such as How long have you worked here? or Are the people friendly? into inappropriate innuendo or responded with a lewd remark. There was teasing, and then there was harassment, and Buddy had repeatedly stepped over that line—particularly on an employee’s first day.

  But if this weird individual was familiar with the plant, she’d tolerate his antics and then some. In her line of work, Diana had often encountered harassers who thought they were cute. Somehow, she’d always managed to put them in their place.

  Nevertheless, when Harold stopped by to remind her about lunch, he only had to tell her once. She grabbed her backpack and walked out the door.

  Although, she didn’t head straight toward the cafeteria. With the majority of employees at lunch, and forty minutes free time, Diana, with her map in hand, strolled the corridor to see if anything jumped out at her. She’d just started down an adjacent hallway when someone drawled, “Hey, Candy.”

  She pivoted to see Carmen Montoya, the receptionist she’d met on Friday, walking in her direction.

  “You’re going the wrong way.” She gestured over her shoulder. “The cafeteria’s over here.”

  “I know.” Diana held up Harold’s floor plan. “But since I’ll be delivering mail, I thought I might get my bearings.”

  “Well, that’s just dumb. You get lost, come see me. The lunch period goes fast around here, and you’ll learn quick it’s every man for himself.”

  “That bad?”

  “A zoo. That’s why I came looking for you. Thought you might want to have lunch with me.”

  Diana appreciated Carmen’s offer. Even so, she didn’t want to miss an opportunity to explore. Would a receptionist know what went on inside the plant? Then again, if Diana wanted to know any of the goings-on around the station, all she need do was ask the women at the front desk. She stuffed the guide into her bag. “Thanks, Carmen, I’d love to.”

  As she walked with Carmen toward the cafeteria, heady aromas struck Diana. Additionally, her growling stomach let her know she’d been wise to accept. Pushing her tray through the counter line, she discovered another benefit to working at Jordan. The chemical plant was a three-shift operation, and provided a large variety of food for its employees. With no grocery stores in the area, she’d been worried about being recognized if she went into Diamond for food.

  Problem solved, she eyed some of her favorites behind the glass, choosing a turkey sandwich and an apple for lunch and a few nonperishable items for later.

  Carmen, who’d selected a salad a rabbit might turn down, studied Diana’s tray, her mouth gaping open. “You must have some metabolism, Candy.”

  Grateful she didn’t have to lie her way out of this one, Diana shrugged and said, “No groceries yet.”

  She followed Carmen through the lunchroom, conscious of the roar of conversation, tinkling silverware, and gawks in a room predominantly filled with men. Carmen negotiated the crowd like she owned the place. She spotted two workers picking up their trays, and grabbed their table before they were barely out of their chairs.

  Diana set down her tray, impressed. “Nothing stops you, does it?”

  “I told you,” Carmen said, grinning back. “It’s called survival of the hungriest. How’d orientation go?” she asked, once they were seated.

  Diana sighed. “I suspected Jordan was big. I just never knew how big.”

  “Get your cute little hard hat?”

  “And my safety glasses. What’s up with that? Why would someone in the mailroom need those?”

  “We must be prepared for any and all emergency situations,” Carmen recited primly.

  Diana laughed. “Yeah, I heard that a time or two this morning.”

  “Just wait ’til they take you on a tour of the plant. You’ll hear it so often you’ll want to jump off a turbine.” Carmen squeezed dressing onto her salad. “Who were your speakers?”

  “Let’s see.” Diana tilted her head. “Susan Lewis. Also, the safety director, that white-haired guy with the cigar dropped by, and, oh, the plant manager.”

  “Vic Hagen,” Carmen provided.

  “Yeah, Hagen, that’s right.”

  Carmen’s smile faded. “Did Neil Jordan show up?”

  No, thank goodness. All Diana needed was to come in contact with one more person who might recognize her—particularly the president of Jordan Industries. Brad obviously had motives for not calling the police. A man in Neil’s position wouldn’t think twice. “I don’t think Neil Jordan was there,” she said.

  “You’d know if he had been.” Carmen raised a forkful of lettuce to her mouth and Diana noticed her wedding band.

  “Neil and Vic usually drop by, if only to grace the peasants with their presence.”

  “You don’t sound like you think too much of them.”

  Carmen shrugged. “Where’re you from, Candy?”

  “Big Spring,” Diana said, sticking to a lie that felt oddly natural by now. But Jordan’s receptionist definitely disliked two of the company powerhouses, and Diana wanted to know why. “Who do you work for?”

  “Susan Lewis.”

  “You like working for her?” Diana bit into her sandwich.

  Carmen seemed to give it some thought. “I do. Susan’s only been here a year, but she’s been really supportive.”

  “But Vic Hagen and Neil Jordan? What are they like?”

  “Rich. Bosses.” Carmen smirked.

  Well, that trai
n had backfired. Diana ate silently for a moment, hoping to broach a new line of questioning.

  A new set of workers entered the cafeteria, mostly men in Jordan’s standard cotton shirts and jeans. They splintered in different directions, but two of the group headed toward Diana and Carmen’s table.

  Carmen, who’d been looking around up until that point, suddenly became absorbed in her meal.

  The first man passed by, but the second, a Hispanic guy attractive enough to make a woman look twice, paused at their table. “Hola,” he said to Carmen.

  “Michael.” She stabbed at a cucumber.

  “Estás bien? Qué se necesita nada?”

  Glad for two years of Spanish at UT, Diana translated to English. You okay. Do you need anything?

  Carmen lowered her fork to the table and met his gaze. “Ya has hecho suficiente, Michael.”

  He nodded and walked away, the owner of a dejected expression.

  You’ve done enough? Diana set down her half-eaten sandwich. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.” Carmen shook her head. Then a furious expression crossed her face, and she glanced at her watch. “What is he doing here? He never eats lunch at this time.” She picked up her tray. “I’m sorry, Candy, I need some air.”

  Surprised, Diana dumped the snacks in her bag and lifted her own tray. One way or another, if Carmen was leaving, so was Diana. She’d get back to scouting the hallways if Carmen was through talking.

  “Want some company?” Diana asked boldly, following the distraught woman out of the cafeteria.

  Carmen tossed Diana an annoyed glance over her shoulder. “Why? Do you like soap operas?”

  “Not really. But I’m a good listener.”

  Carmen nodded toward the lobby’s front doors. “C’mon, then.”

  Seriously? Outside? Diana wanted to point out it was hard to breathe in that heat, much less get some air. Still, when Carmen started down the brick-bordered sidewalk away from the building, Diana walked by her side.

  “The man who stopped by our table is my husband, Michael Montoya,” Carmen said. “A few weeks ago, he came home, told me he wasn’t happy, and wanted out of our marriage.”

  Diana’s heart sank. “Is there someone else?”

  For the first time, Carmen laughed. “Not unless the ‘someone else’ is Vic Hagen.”

  Stunned, Diana stopped walking. Not that the two men couldn’t be gay. But, by the way the fit, mustachioed plant manager had zeroed in on her during orientation, he’d made her think otherwise. In fact, he’d seemed so focused on her she’d left the meeting wondering if Brad had told Jordan’s upper management what she was up to. “You . . . think . . .”

  Carmen smiled. “Oh, Candy, you should see your face. That’s not what I meant at all. My husband’s one of Jordan’s shift supervisors—one of dozens. It’s been driving me crazy because Vic thinks he can call Michael into work even when it’s not his shift. For months, I’ve been telling him his boss is a jerk, and begging Michael to stand up to him.” Carmen shook her head. “But does he listen? No. If Vic calls, Michael is out the door.”

  “Maybe your husband’s boss has a lot of confidence in your husband,” Diana suggested. “Does Michael think his boss is a jerk?”

  “Sometimes.” Carmen lifted a shoulder. “But the way Neil Jordan’s been handing out pink slips these days, you can bet Michael’s not about to make waves. He’s been with Jordan ten years, and around these parts, a supervisor position is a great job.”

  Diana looked longingly toward the air-conditioned building. Aware of the sweat collecting beneath the wig and her running mascara, she drained the last of her soda.

  She and Carmen arrived at a fence that said no admittance, and as far as Diana was concerned, they’d reached the end of their conversation. Spouses arguing about their partner’s long hours had to be endemic in America, and it obviously had nothing to do with the anonymous letter. Still, she couldn’t just brush Carmen off.

  As they turned back toward the administration, Diana said, “I saw the way Michael looked at you. Something’s still there. Maybe all you need to do is talk.”

  That pick-me-up obviously fell flat. Carmen’s entire being exuded misery. “But how can I make that happen when he’s the one who wants out? Honestly, ever since the blowup, I don’t know him anymore.”

  Diana gasped. “Blowup? As in an explosion?”

  “A problem,” Carmen amended. “I may not like Vic, but I hate Neil Jordan even more. Ever since he’s become president, things have been really bad. He slashed budgets six months ago and kept people walking on eggshells. A couple of weeks ago, he did it again, and this time he fired some longtime employees.”

  Around the same time I received the letter. Diana studied the ground. Had she come to Diamond because of a disgruntled employee?

  “Michael and I were still speaking up until that time,” Carmen continued. “He said one of the chemists went ballistic over a cut to his budget. He was so upset, he barged into a board meeting.”

  Suspecting the chemist had been fired on the spot, Diana stifled a groan. If he’d left Jordan, how could she find him?

  There was a difference in the kind of questions Candy would ask, as opposed to Diana Reid. In any event, she had to try. “Do you know what lab he worked in?”

  “I think he was in research. I remember because Michael called him a real tree hugger.”

  They neared the front doors of the building. “You mean he’s one of those . . . environmentalists?”

  Carmen nodded.

  The next question was so risky, Diana did her best not to wince as she asked it. “Did Michael mention his name?”

  Carmen stopped walking. “Candy, why are you asking so many questions?”

  “Am I?” She shook her head. “Forget I mentioned it. I just hate that he got fired, and that it caused so many problems. Sorry. People say I’m way too curious.”

  “You are,” Carmen said, smiling. “But if it makes you feel any better, he didn’t get fired, he got demoted.” She glanced at her watch. “See what I mean about forty minutes? It goes real fast. I gotta get back.” She opened the glass door to the lobby, rewarding Diana with a blast of cold air. Then, snapping her fingers, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Leo. Michael called the guy Leo.”

  Diana blinked. Leo?

  “I’ll think about what you said, Candy.”

  “Said?”

  “About Michael and me. Maybe you’re right. Maybe all we need to do is talk. I’ll call him tonight.”

  As the pretty receptionist dashed inside, Diana stood on the steps, staring after her newfound friend. She did think Carmen and her husband should talk. All Diana could hope for was that none of their conversation veered toward a nosy new hire asking a whole lot of questions.

  Chapter Nine

  JUST AS BRAD considered city hall his domain, when Neil became company president, Jordan Industries belonged to him. For that reason, neither brother particularly liked entering the other’s turf. Brad especially wasn’t crazy about meeting his older brother at the plant to talk about Liz’s allegations. But his idea of bringing up the topic over the weekend had been a bust. Neil had chartered a plane and flown his wife and kids to Galveston Island.

  Brad had also tried to keep tabs on Diana. But each day he’d swung by the Drifter’s Inn, her rental car had been nowhere in sight.

  As he drove through the plant gates, his stress level had risen to the degree of the scorcher outside. Liz Garcia didn’t care that Neil needed to spend time with his family. She wanted proof that her patient hadn’t succumbed to toxic chemicals at the hands of Jordan Industries.

  The question running through Brad’s head now was, how could he prove it one way or the other? He could show Liz years of reports—audits, fact sheets pertaining to proper ch
emical storage and disposal, cite Jordan’s impeccable safety records.

  None of that mattered. Not when one miserable accusation could destroy a company’s reputation and steer customers toward its competitors. Make that two miserable claims. Brad pounded the steering wheel. He still had to figure out who had sent Diana that letter.

  Diana. Not a word from her in years, and now she was like a gnat buzzing around his brain. On Friday, he’d been too damned mad to put a coherent thought together. He’d also left without setting a critical ground rule. That had been a mistake. If she was still around, how was he supposed to contact her? Breeze into the mailroom and ask for a moment of her time? Sure. Like no one would raise an eyebrow at that.

  Closing in on the company parking lot, he slowed the Navigator to the posted ten mile an hour speed limit and slid into his reserved space. After he met with Neil, he’d stop by Susan’s office to further make up for his disappearing act on Friday. That brought a smile to his face. This time, if she asked him to come in, he’d stay as long as she wanted.

  Shifting the SUV into park, he looked toward the administration building, and his smile faded. Diana stood on the company steps talking to Jordan’s receptionist. Apparently, she’d agreed to his second condition—if she went undercover at Jordan, she’d never report a word.

  He leaned back and watched her. Nearly unrecognizable in that red wig and glasses, Diana moved fast, he’d give her that much.

  Brad cut the engine just as she and Carmen entered the lobby. He leapt from the Navigator. Inside, Carmen returned to the receptionist counter. Brad followed Diana as she made a quick right into a hallway and disappeared into the women’s restroom.

  No one would question a Jordan being in the building. Even so, he felt odd loitering outside the ladies’ room. He focused on the company bulletin board, pretending to study the posted jobs and safety announcements. When he finally heard the bathroom door open, he pivoted, startling Diana who let out a squeak.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, looking both ways.