Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  “It certainly could be. But we’ve got to get Zander Closet Company in people’s heads before the Showcase. Otherwise they won’t be looking for our work. And that’s why we’re here.”

  I nodded, my thoughts still on the name Gary had uttered earlier. As much as I wanted—no, needed—this job, I had to know if John was involved.

  “You mentioned John Beckler before. Is he working on part of your campaign?”

  “That lazy sack of—”

  “Gary, enough,” his brother said.

  But for once, I wanted Mr. Roving Eyes to continue. Slimeball or not, Gary Zander obviously had a handle on the personality of my former boss. So good, in fact, that I had to wonder if I’d been a bit rash in my estimation of Andrew’s brother.

  “Hell, Andrew, he’s that and more. We’ve got ’til Monday afternoon to come up with a slogan that’s gonna make us stand out. That’s three days. He dragged us around by the ear only to come up with zip.”

  Sounded like the John Beckler I knew, all right. Sit back, do nothing (or do something incredibly stupid), and then leave the task of damage control to his business partner.

  “So you were working with John, but you’re not now?” I could feel my cheeks pushing upward, the adrenaline coursing through my body. This was sounding a lot like a chance to show John who was best once and for all.

  “We fired him,” Andrew said before his brother could speak again. “We should have known better when we met with him and he kept talking about all his other clients instead of focusing on us. And the partner? Mike Stanley? He basically sat there the whole time and didn’t say a word. Just kept chewing tobacco through the whole meeting—”

  The first few notes of the theme from Jaws interrupted the conversation. I wasn’t surprised to see it was Gary’s phone. How fitting. Women beware.

  “Gary here . . . Oh, yes, Mr. Hohlbrook . . . what?”

  I tried to busy myself with my pad of paper, the name Zander Closet Company already sprawled across it in block letters, but it was hard. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to note the tension in Gary’s voice or to see the worry in Andrew’s eyes as he listened to the one-sided conversation.

  “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Hohlbrook. He’ll be removed immediately.”

  Gary flipped the phone shut and made little effort to bite back the string of obscenities that poured from his mouth.

  “What’s the problem, Gary?” Andrew’s eyes moved from his brother to me and back again. “No, actually, wait.”

  I felt sorry for Andrew. The man seemed torn between finding out what happened and wanting to apologize for his brother’s foul mouth.

  I pushed back my chair and stood. “Why don’t I leave you two alone for a few moments so you can discuss whatever you need to talk about, then we’ll get started on what you’re looking for from me.”

  Gary’s voice brought an immediate end to the flicker of relief in Andrew’s face.

  “No. You don’t have to go.” Gary turned to his brother. “It’s Blake. He’s ogling Hohlbrook’s wife out at the site. He’s outta there.”

  Andrew shrugged an apology in my direction. “Blake’s our cousin, Tobi. He’s a Zander too, only he’s more the labor side of our business.”

  “Not anymore he’s not,” Gary snarled.

  “C’mon, Gary, don’t you think we owe him the chance to defend himself? That doesn’t sound like Blake and you know it.”

  “Hell if I know that. He’s outta there.”

  I saw Andrew shake his head in disgust. The pieces were coming together just as I’d suspected. Andrew was the professional. Kind. Hardworking. Fair. Gary was the hot-headed playboy who wanted things done his way and on his time. Sounded a lot like my old boss.

  I admired the way Andrew worked to keep his cool when he spoke to his brother. “Then who’s gonna install the rest of the system? The preview is next Thursday.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll do it, that’s who,” Gary growled through clenched teeth.

  Now, I must admit, that wasn’t a piece of the Zander family puzzle I would have expected. Gary didn’t seem the type to take on menial labor. In fact, I’d have to put him as the type who drew a paycheck for doing nothing but sporting the same last name as the company. Interesting. . .

  I could see Andrew visibly struggling with the desire to engage his brother in further battle. But, after a moment of tense silence, he simply shook his head and looked at me.

  “Look, I don’t want to waste either of our time by dragging out this meeting longer than necessary. We have a pre-Showcase radio spot to fill starting Tuesday, and we are completely unprepared. Our company is riding on this campaign. Do you think you can help us?”

  Their company was riding on this campaign?

  I thought of the overdue bills on the desk in my office. I thought of all the hours spent cleaning cages at the pet store just so I could hang on to my lease here. I thought of my apartment and the eviction letter that was surely waiting for me from the landlord. I thought of my dream to be a successful business owner doing what I loved most—creating words that left an impression long after they were gone. And I thought of wiping that self-satisfied smirk off John Beckler’s face once and for all.

  Zander Closet Company and Tobias Ad Agency was a match made in heaven.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Zander. I’m sure I can help. In fact, by the time I’m done, Zander Closet Company will be a household name.”

  2

  I was just finishing a bowl of Cocoa Puffs when I heard my alarm clock. It took me a few seconds to figure out exactly what it was. The ring sounded much quieter, less obnoxious than usual. Probably because I was already dressed and in another room, rather than burrowed under the covers dreaming about cashing in a winning lottery ticket.

  I set my bowl on the counter and wiped my mouth with the dishtowel. I hadn’t slept a wink all night. In fact, I’d spent most of the moonlit hours sitting cross-legged and staring at the inside of my closet. I had studied the shoe organizer slung over the back of the door (though the empty-to-full ratio was a sad commentary on my current financial situation). Then I considered the sparse row of business attire hanging on the upper clothes bar and my casual everyday duds below. As I’d sat there in the shadows, I noted everything about a closet that could be noted. Bars, hangers, cubbies, wire racks—all boring stuff that I had to turn into a slogan capable of sticking in the consumer’s head.

  And I couldn’t be any happier. This was my thing. Maybe even more than chocolate, if that was possible.

  Growing up, I was the kid who, when asked to sing in the choir for my third-grade Christmas pageant, sang the commercialized version of each carol. You know—dashing through the snow to my Barbie dream ho-tel and My fro-sty mak-er, I can make one by myself, with a col-or pack and a set of cones . . .

  I ended up being the narrator that year instead.

  When my friends were making pitchers of lemonade for one of our summer money-grubbing stands, I was always the poster maker. And our signs didn’t just say Get Your Lemonade Here or Lemonade 10 cents like the other kids in the neighborhood. No siree. Ours were the talk of the town. Looking back, I can see why. How many ten-year-olds create a sign that reads Lemonade: A splash of summer that’ll wet your whistle?

  We made fifty bucks the day I hung up that sign, and I was hooked.

  While my classmates had picked and changed (and picked and changed) their career paths over the next nine years, I’d stayed focused on the one job I knew I wanted: Advertising.

  Shaking my thoughts back into the present, I rinsed my bowl and spoon and set them in the drainer. No sense running the dishwasher for just a few items. It’d help keep the water bill down. I headed into my bedroom for my purse and keys, and flipped off the alarm clock.

  Mary Fran wouldn’t be at the pet shop for another thirty minutes. But that was okay. The extra up-and-around time was exactly what I needed. The more time I had to stroll around outside, the more time I had to brainstorm.


  I thought about what Andrew Zander had said as he was leaving my office yesterday. He wanted a slogan that was fun, unique. Something that would appeal to the young homebuyers, as well as those in the older, downsizing group. A tall order for sure. But I had every faith I could pull it off.

  I grabbed a light jacket and stepped outside, the early autumn sun unable to squelch the morning chill.

  “Where are you off to this early in the morning?”

  Uh-oh.

  I twisted the key in the lock, allowed myself the inner groan that always accompanied the sound of my next-door neighbor’s voice, and then turned around.

  “Hello, Ms. Rapple. How are you?”

  The woman raised a bony hand to her cotton-top and tucked a wiry strand of hair back in place, the loose skin beneath her arm swaying with the movement.

  I shivered.

  “I’ve been better. My knees are acting up. Winter is on its way.” Ms. Rapple pulled her orange housecoat more tightly against her body and pointed to the second-floor window above my door. “Carter didn’t get home until nearly two o’clock this morning. That’s a little late, don’t you think?”

  “He’s thirty-five-years-old, Ms. Rapple. I’m sure he’s fine.” I looked down at my watch and mentally ran through a variety of excuses I could give that would enable me to get away from the old biddy—I mean, Ms. Rapple. But before I could try one out, she started yakking again.

  “I don’t care if he’s fifty. He still needs to be considerate of his neighbors when he’s sneaking around at all hours of the night.”

  Let’s pause and take stock here for a moment, shall we? Carter doesn’t sneak. He prances. Literally. If he’s out late, it’s not because he’s barhopping or bringing home a new flavor-of-the-day. It’s usually because he’s working his on-again/off-again job as the makeup and hair guru for the community theater house down the block. Carter is a genius when it comes to color, and he is absolutely invaluable when you’re going on a date.

  I looked at Ms. Rapple and counted to ten in my head. Sometimes I needed to remind myself that she was an old lady.

  Reminder aside, I still felt compelled to defend my faithful friend. “It’s funny, but I was awake at that same time, and I didn’t hear Carter at all.” I shifted foot to foot in an effort to dodge the evil eye that was suddenly trained on me.

  “Well, he sneezed on the sidewalk. And it woke up Gertrude.”

  Ah yes, Gertrude. Where was the little rat?

  I looked around the blooming mums to the right of my front stoop. The orange flowers jiggled in the windless morning, an indicator that everyone’s favorite kick-me dog was near. I looked at Ms. Rapple in her orange coat, then back at my orange mums. Sure enough, Gertrude ran from behind the flowers in her orange sweater, carefully crocheted from the same material as Ms. Rapple’s housecoat. They matched. How cute.

  Wait a minute.

  Did she actually pinpoint Carter’s late-night rudeness to a sneeze?

  A quick mental replay of the woman’s words served as confirmation.

  “I’m sure if you let him know, Carter will try not to sneeze outside when Gertrude is sleeping.”

  I tossed my keys into my backpack and walked down the six steps to the sidewalk. “Anyway, have a good—”

  “Wait right there, young lady. You never answered my question,” Ms. Rapple said, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Where are you going this early in the morning?”

  It was a good thing I was raised to respect my elders . . .

  “To the pet shop.”

  “Oh?” Ms. Rapple pointed to the second floor of her own building. “Mary Fran hasn’t come out yet.”

  I wondered what would happen if I counted to twenty this time. I tried. It didn’t work. I was still approaching edgy.

  “I know she hasn’t. It’s still early. But I’ve got a few things to do before we open the shop.” I started to wave and then stopped. A focus group was a focus group, right? “Ms. Rapple, what comes to mind when I say closet?”

  “In or out?”

  I stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to explain the odd question. But, for once, Ms. Rapple was silent. And surprisingly, there was no sign of the arctic blast I’d always expected to accompany such a feat.

  “In the closet, out of the closet, it doesn’t really matter. I’m just curious what you think of when you hear the word closet.”

  The woman swung her head upward in the direction of the apartment above mine. “Carter.”

  I laughed. Snort and all. I couldn’t help it. Ms. Rapple was the antithesis of forward thinking through and through.

  “Thanks, Ms. Rapple.”

  I slung my backpack over my left shoulder and headed down the block. My time to wander had been cut short thanks to my nosey next door neighbor. But hey, I got some slogan material, right?

  I turned the corner at McPherson and Euclid and headed south, the early morning sun bringing warmth to my face and a spring to my step. Autumn was my favorite time of year in the Central West End neighborhood located on the outskirts of St. Louis. Something always spoke to me—the crisp air, the changing leaves, and on and on. Today, it was the bright patches of yellow, orange, white, and red that lined many a walkway leading to the two-family homes common in this area of town.

  “Hi there, Tobi.”

  I looked up and smiled. Passing Mr. Houghtin at this same spot each morning was as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth and combing my hair. I bent down and gave his faithful companion, Sandy, a quick scratch behind her ear while I engaged in the usual conversation with her owner.

  “Looks like Sandy had a visit to the dog salon yesterday.”

  Mr. Houghtin raised his fist to his lips and cleared his throat, a byproduct of his two-pack-a-day smoking habit, no doubt. “She sure looks mighty pretty, doesn’t she? Mary Fran says Sandy must have been a debutante in another life. Swears she seems upset when her nails don’t get painted after being clipped.”

  “I wish you’d bring Sandy in on the weekend sometime. The dogs I end up grooming aren’t quite so docile.” I looked down at my hand and mentally inventoried last week’s fading scratches—a souvenir of my hellish encounter with a Husky.

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have my weekends free . . .

  I wiped Sandy’s doggy drool onto my jeans and looked up at Mr. Houghtin, his shadow shielding my eyes from the sun. “Can I pick your brain for a moment?”

  “Sure, Tobi.”

  “Give me the first thing that comes to mind when I say this word.”

  “Okay, hit me.”

  “Closet.”

  “Disaster.”

  The word was no sooner in my ear when Valerie Mollner from across the street emerged from her door with her mutt, Ragu. Sandy tugged her leash so hard I landed on my backside.

  Mr. Houghtin feigned concern, but I knew better. Sandy wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Ragu. He was beneath her. But Mr. Houghtin was a different story. He had the hots for Ragu’s owner. And Sandy, well she liked the treats Mr. Houghtin passed her for running in Ragu’s direction.

  I yelled my gratitude at Mr. Houghtin’s back and picked myself up off the ground. I had exactly fifteen minutes left to conduct my informal market research.

  At the corner of Euclid and Maryland, I crossed. Fletcher’s Newsstand was a staple in this neighborhood, much like its owner. Jack Fletcher had worked beside his father from the time he was four, counting back change and stacking papers. The pictures that hung from a clothesline beneath the awning told their story to people like me, who hadn’t grown up in this part of town.

  Even so, it hadn’t taken long to realize, all on my own, that Jack was an admired member of this community. He was, in a lot of ways, like the barber my Grandpa Stu used to go to twice a month when I was a little girl. Only Jack’s stories weren’t collected over the buzz of a razor or the snip of a scissors. His were accumulated over the ping of silver into the same tin bucket his dad had used so many year
s before.

  “Hi, Jack.”

  “Hiya, Tobi. You’re sure looking pretty today.”

  I looked down at my baby-blue sweater and stonewashed jeans. Nothing special. But that’s one of the things that made Jack Fletcher everyone’s friend. He was simply a nice, upbeat kind of guy.

  “Thanks. How’s business this morning?” I reached for a copy of the Central West End News and dug around in my pocket for thirty-five cents.

  “It’s good. Perfect day to be outside, I say.”

  “That it is.”

  “Working at the pet shop again this weekend?”

  I nodded. “But, if I play my cards right, I won’t be working there much longer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I just got a new client yesterday. With any luck, things will start looking up very soon.”

  Jack pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and smiled. “I hope so, Tobi. You deserve it.”

  Why did the good guys always have to be gay, married, or older than dirt?

  “Thanks.” I tucked the paper under my arm and looked around. There was a temporary lull in Jack’s customers so I seized the opportunity. “If I say a word, will you tell me the first thing that pops into your mind?”

  Jack flashed his infamous cock-eyed smile, the one that illuminated his face like the brightest Christmas tree on Christmas morning. “Shoot.”

  “Closet.”

  “Full.”

  “Full?”

  “To capacity.”

  Oh.

  I smiled and waved a thanks in Jack’s direction as a customer stepped up to the stand. It was just as well. I had less than five minutes for my three-block walk to the pet shop. Which meant I was less than five minutes away from spending yet another beautiful Saturday inside.

  As I walked, I thought back over the words I’d gathered so far.

  Full.

  Disaster.

  Carter.

  Ah yes, a winning assortment of slogan possibilities if I’d ever heard one.

  * * *

  Mary Fran was just opening the front window of the shop when I came around the corner. The quiet morning was shattered by barking, meowing, croaking, and creaking. The creaking was Rudder Malone’s contribution to the fray, a spot-on imitation of the sound the window makes when you slide it open each morning.