Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  “They don’t come out?” Andy asked.

  “Yeah. I take the pictures we want, and I take some with Mrs. Hohlbrook. The ones with her won’t come out for some reason. Wrong setting or something like that.”

  A slow smile crept across Andy’s face and he looked at me with those sparkling clear eyes. “Where’d you find this guy? He’s good.”

  “Where’d she find me? Nuh-uh. I found her. Actually, my mom and I did. We’re the lucky ones. Tobi’s the best.”

  I could feel Andy’s eyes on me, but I didn’t meet them. Instead, I pulled Sam in for a hug and whispered in his ear. “Thanks, Sam.”

  I was still hugging him when the Hohlbrooks’ housekeeper breezed into the room carrying an oval serving tray filled with an assortment of miniature muffins. I heard Sam sniff the air, felt him step back.

  At least I knew where I stood. Important, yes. But still second fiddle to food.

  “Mrs. Hohlbrook will be down in just a moment. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Ever the growing boy, Sam swallowed a mouthful of muffin and said, “Sure. Milk would be great.”

  The housekeeper nodded and left.

  I peered at Andy over on the couch and then shifted foot to foot as I realized he was still watching me. “Muffin?” I asked, my voice a little shaky.

  “No thanks.” He patted the vacant spot next to him. “Let’s talk for a few minutes before the shoot gets started.”

  I chose a blueberry muffin and left Sam hovering over the tray in search of some flavor I’d never heard of before. I sat down beside Andy and willed myself to focus on something other than his eyes. It didn’t work. My willpower stinks.

  “I haven’t had much of an opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done for my brother and me. For our company. We’ve gotten more calls in the past four days than we’ve gotten in the past six months. And it’s because of your slogan and you. Thank you.”

  My senses were in overdrive as I sat there, my ears hanging on his every word, my neck conscious of his hand draped across the back of the couch just inches from my skin. And, of course, we can’t forget the voice chanting in my head—You don’t date men you work with. You don’t date anymore. Period—chants I couldn’t share with Andy Zander. I searched for something else to say.

  “I’m glad things are working out. For both of us. Your slogan has helped me too.”

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “The slogan on the radio has gotten so much attention that my secretary has been fielding calls from businesses all over the area. They want a slogan that’ll get them the kind of recognition you’ve gotten this week.”

  “I’m glad. I know I took a number of calls about you as well. Got one at home the other night from an old college buddy, Craig Miticker. He’s the brains behind New Town.”

  “New Town?”

  Andy smiled. “Yup. I take it you’ve heard of it?”

  My mouth dropped open and I nodded. “Absolutely. That place is amazing! I read recently that architects from other countries are virtually flocking to New Town to see the concept in person. Beckler and Stanley does their ads. That’s their biggest client—the one who keeps their boat afloat.”

  “Then I think they better start looking for a good bucket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To bail out the water.”

  I stared at him.

  “Their boat’s about to sink, Tobi.”

  I blinked.

  “What?” Andy grinned. “Craig called and asked me who was doing my campaign. Naturally I gave him your name.”

  I found my voice, or, rather, a raspy version of it. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Yeah, I can be. And I am.”

  “That’d be awesome, but—”

  “But what?” Andy looked at me closely as I scrambled to find words to explain my momentary hesitation over the possibility of landing a new client.

  “I heard what you said about John Beckler that first day. About his attitude. I understand that. I worked with him for a few years. He’s beyond pompous. Looks out for number one at all times. But Mike? He’s a good guy. I hate to see his livelihood hurt.”

  “If it is, maybe he can come work for you.” Andy’s hand left the back of the sofa long enough to give my shoulder a quick pat. A simple gesture that made me blush. Again. “You’ve got to take care of yourself and your company. It’s the way business works. Competition is the name of the game.”

  He was right and I knew it. Heck, Mike knew it too. I looked down, pulled a piece of plum-colored lint off my new black slacks.

  “You look great, by the way, Tobi.”

  I swallowed.

  “I meant to tell you that when I first saw you in the foyer, but you looked as if you were in a pretty deep conversation with Mrs. Hohlbrook.”

  A recommendation of implants might not necessarily qualify as deep conversation, but at least it hadn’t been overheard as I’d initially feared.

  “Thank you.”

  Andy pulled his hand from the back of the couch and cleared his throat. “So, how did Sam come about?” he asked quietly.

  The momentary awkwardness was suddenly gone as I looked at Mary Fran’s son. Sam’s head was tilted back as he chugged the glass of milk the Hohlbrooks’ housekeeper had apparently brought in while I was otherwise focused.

  “I’ve known Sam for about two years. He and his mom live in the two-family house next to mine. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  “He sure seems to feel the same way about you.”

  I turned slightly and met Andy’s gaze head-on. “If you’re worried about his ability considering his age—”

  Andy held his hand up, palm out. “I’m not worried. If you think he’s good enough to do this, that’s all the endorsement I need.”

  If I had a nickel for every time I’d blushed so far today, I’d be a rich woman.

  “Thanks, Andy. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

  “I know I—”

  When he didn’t continue, I turned to see what had widened his eyes to nearly twice their normal size.

  It was Mitzi.

  The golden streaked hair that had been in a chignon just twenty minutes ago, was now down, a few stray hairs slightly askew from the rest. Gone was the silver-sequined gown. In its place was a hot-pink, body-hugging satin cocktail dress that emphasized each and every curve on Preston Hohlbrook’s wife.

  I swallowed. It couldn’t hurt to write down that doctor’s name, could it?

  “How do I look? Is this color right for the camera?” Mitzi rose up on the balls of her feet and spun around slowly.

  “It’s awesome, but you-you didn’t have to change,” Sam said as he wiped muffin crumbs from the corner of his mouth and reached for the last swallow of milk in his glass. He used the upward motion of his hand to cover the wide-eyed look he shot in my direction. A look I knew all too well. It was the same expression he had every December when Ms. Rapple hired him to take Christmas card pictures of her and Gertrude. In matching holiday attire, of course.

  Mitzi giggled. “Oh, but I did. A few of my sequins rip—popped off.” She ran her polished nails across her chest. “I think I was just too much woman for those little threads.”

  Sam coughed.

  Andy was still speechless.

  Men. You’d think they hadn’t seen a woman before. I mean, really, what was I? Chopped liver? I looked down. Looked back up at Mitzi. Okay. So when did chopped liver get such a bum rap anyway?

  “It’s getting close to eight thirty, and I think we better get these pictures taken so we can be out of here before the Showcase kicks off.” I was surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth. I hadn’t realized my mind was still functioning in Mitzi’s wake.

  “That’s a great idea.” Andy cleared his throat and stood. “Ready to go, Sam?”

  “You bet.” Sam grabbed his camera bag from the floor, slung it over his shoulder, and then followed Mitzi into the fo
yer and toward the back of the house.

  I walked in the direction Mitzi and Sam had gone, my thoughts running a mile a minute as visions of Zander’s print ad danced in my head. As I crossed the foyer and turned down an outer hallway, I nearly smacked into Andy’s brother, Gary, coming out of the bathroom, fussing with his belt buckle. When he saw me, he grinned.

  “Hey there, darlin’. Don’t you look gorgeous this morning?”

  Andy skidded to a stop behind me, his hand gently brushing my back. “When did you get here, Gary?” he asked.

  Gary hesitated briefly then shrugged. “Just now. But I needed to take a leak first.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Gary, would you cool it?” To me, Andy said, “I’m sorry about my brother. He forgets his professional face—and mouth—sometimes.”

  Gary waved his brother’s words away. “Relax, Andy. The system is in, it looks fantastic, and Hohlbrook is getting tons of exposure. Nothin’ I do is gonna ruin that. Trust me. So, where are you two headed?”

  “Upstairs. To Mrs. Hohlbrook’s room. We need to photograph the closet system for the color brochure,” I said.

  “Gotcha. Follow me.”

  Andy and I fell in step behind Gary as we headed toward the back staircase. The hallway or corridor or whatever you’d call this part of the Hohlbrook home was an experience all its own. Each room that branched off was reachable through a stone archway. The walls were wood panel with stone trim. A large picture window ran almost the entire length of the hall and overlooked a bird sanctuary complete with a marble bath and a variety of beautifully painted houses. Cardinals, finches, and hummingbirds could be observed from one of several oversized window seats with thick cushions and fluffy throw pillows. Wrought iron chains hung from the ceiling, each strand of links holding an old-fashioned lantern. The walls, the floor, the framed pictures, the quiet details, all lent a circa 1940’s Pacific Northwest feel to the setting—a showpiece that few visitors probably ever saw. I couldn’t help but marvel at the waste.

  Then I looked at Gary.

  Mr. Roving Eyes himself was a few steps in front of me, running a hand through his tousled hair. I bit back the urge to laugh as a fleck of something fell out, shimmered in the morning light as it skirted across one of the window seats, and then disappeared under the fringe of a throw pillow.

  I forced myself to focus, once again, on my surroundings by peering into as many rooms as I could as we made our way toward Mitzi’s new closet. Every piece of furniture I saw, every knick-knack I spotted, was perfectly positioned, almost museum-like. It was an interesting way to treasure what you had. Sure, I’d like money to be less of an issue. I’d like to know that I could sort through my mail without that feeling of dread when I spied my landlord’s handwriting. I’d like to walk into a store and buy an outfit that caught my eye without trying to figure out how many lunches I’d need to brown bag to stay within my budget. I’d like to be able to buy my parents something special for their anniversary—like a cruise. Instead, I made them a pillow with a sentimental slogan embroidered on the front. But, as I looked around at the Hohlbrook mansion, I couldn’t help but realize I was the luckier one. Fancy stuff and large rooms didn’t make a home. And a workaholic husband and a near-silent housekeeper didn’t make a loving family.

  “Hey, guys?” Andy called. “I forgot something in the car. I’ll meet you in the room in a few minutes.” A smile spread across his mouth as I turned and our eyes met. “You okay ’til I get back?”

  Gary’s arm slid around my shoulders. “She’ll be just fine, bro.”

  The spasm of anger that flashed across Andy’s face was fleeting, but I still noticed. If I took a guess, I’d say that Gary took great delight in pushing his brother’s buttons. How and when I’d become one of those buttons was the part that confused me.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I politely disengaged myself from Gary’s grasp and rounded the corner into Mitzi’s—whoa!

  I stopped in the doorway, rooted to the polished wood floor beneath my feet. My mouth dropped open and I, well, stared. Sure, I know it’s not polite. But my mom—who had taught me the golden no-staring rule—had never seen Preston and Mitzi Hohlbrook’s bedroom. If she had, she’d be doing a little rule breaking herself.

  Palatial was the only word that could describe it. The crown molding, doors, and trim work were all polished mahogany. An enormous royal-blue Oriental rug denoted the room’s sitting area—a section with several high-backed chairs grouped around a massive floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. Thick drapes graced the long windows that framed the hearth, one side pulled back with a tasseled gold cord. A corner cabinet made of mahogany and glass housed the largest collection of Hummels I’d ever seen (an extensive assortment that made my grandma’s lifelong collection look like a passing fancy). The wallpaper above the room’s chair rail was detailed in velvet, the golden sconces bathed in sunlight from the window wall on the far side of the room.

  The bed was canopied by white sheers that hung from the coffered ceiling above. The armoire beside it boasted a silver brush-and-mirror set that could pay my rent for years.

  And it was all part of a room that, as gorgeous as it was, simply didn’t fit its owner. Not Mitzi, anyway.

  I looked at Mrs. Hohlbrook in her hot-pink satin cocktail dress and strappy silver spikes, her hand flirtatiously resting on Gary’s upper arm. Come to think of it, nothing I’d seen in the house so far represented the woman in front of me now.

  It made no sense.

  Why would a man of Preston Hohlbrook’s standing be married to a woman like Mitzi? She had to be the laughing stock of the country club community, with her neon-colored eye shadow, caked-on lip gloss, and over-the-top taste in clothing.

  I watched as Sam stood beside Mitzi, gawking once again (though, if I was honest, I’m not sure he had ever stopped). Gary Zander was also mesmerized by the scantily clad woman, his eyes noting every curve.

  As I looked at them looking at Mitzi, I answered my own question. Preston Hohlbrook liked attention. Liked to be envied. Any one of the dozen commercials currently running for his car dealerships was proof of that. He didn’t just stand in front of a camera and ask for your business. No siree. He brought in camels and dancing girls. He wore a king’s robe and a gold bejeweled crown (John’s contribution to the commercial, no doubt).

  Mitzi was his domestic camel. The wife that all the other husbands stared at. The wife that all the other husbands drooled over. Which made him the guy that all the other husbands wished they were. She was, in a nutshell, a show piece, not a treasure in the way a wife should be. And because of that, I pitied her.

  “Baboo. Baboo Dad-ee. PHhhhtttttt.”

  “For God’s sake, shut up, Baboo!” Suddenly void of its syrupy tone, Mitzi’s voice rose to an angry shriek as she shook her fist at the large cage in the back left corner of the room.

  As if drawn by a magnetic pull, Sam and I walked over to the bird’s cage at almost the same instant. I peered inside. Baboo was smaller than Rudder, his feathers a softer gray.

  “He’s stressed.” Sam bent his right index finger, tucked it between the bars of the cage, and beckoned to the bird with a soft whistle under his breath.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “See the feather on the bottom of the cage?”

  I looked below Baboo’s perch and spotted the soft gray feather Sam indicated. “So? Rudder loses feathers.”

  Sam took a slow sidestep to his left, his shoulder breezing against mine. “Rudder loses his feathers, Tobi. Baboo plucked his out.”

  I looked again at the feather on the bottom of the cage. Sam was right. The feather looked ripped.

  “And that means stress?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. African greys are notorious for being sensitive.”

  As crazy as Rudder Malone made me with his back talk, imitations, and impersonations, I had grown to appreciate the uniqueness of this particular breed of bird. They were incredibly smart and loyal.


  “Okay, everyone, we’ve got exactly forty-five minutes to get these pictures taken before the Showcase opens—” I spun around at the sound of Andy’s voice and met his eyes as he walked into the room and stopped, a small lavender gift bag clutched in his left hand. “Whoa. Is everything okay in here?”

  Mitzi sidled up between Andy and Gary and placed a hand on each man’s arm. “Everything is fine, handsome. Preston’s bird is just demanding attention. As always.”

  I looked back at Baboo one last time. Sam was right. Something was off. What that was, though, I had no guess.

  “Ready, Sam?” I asked softly.

  “Sure. But I want to take a picture of Baboo real fast. I want my mom to see him.”

  I took a step back as Sam pulled out his camera and raised it to his eye. The shutter fired once before I heard him mutter under his breath.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  “Nah, just out of memory on this card. I’ve got another.”

  He picked up his camera bag and headed for the double doors to the right of the bathroom, his left hand unzipping the case before he even reached his destination. I followed, my mind shifting from Baboo to the task at hand.

  “Since all of the Hohlbrooks’ clothing items are already in the closet, let’s shoot it that way first,” I said.

  “Too bad we don’t have a Halloween skeleton hanging from one of the bars,” Gary chuckled. “You know, to drive the slogan home.”

  I knew my grin was forced when I looked at Gary. But people who had to take everything so literally all the time drove me nuts.

  Andy reached for the doorknob and pulled, revealing rows of beaded gowns, satin dresses, and spandex pantsuits, all hanging from bars of varying heights. Preston Hohlbrook’s ties hung from tiny recessed hooks along a side wall. The back row held built-in platforms for hats and purses.

  I gasped when I saw Mitzi’s shoe collection. Never had I seen so many pairs of sandals, strappy shoes, spike heels, ankle boots, knee-high boots, and thigh-high boots in one place (department stores included).

  After fiddling with his light meter and talking through shots with Andy, Sam started snapping pictures. Some of those pictures were with Mitzi posing among the closet’s contents, and some, thankfully, weren’t.