Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  I know you’ve got big plans today. Plans that will be a lot tougher to implement while working around a bus schedule. So take my car for the day. I don’t need it until tonight. If you’re not back when I need to leave, I’ll walk. It’s good for me.

  Go get ’em, Tobi. But be careful!

  Carter

  P.S. Let me do your hair tomorrow night before we go to that nightclub. It’s been a while since you’ve let me.

  I blinked against the sudden mistiness that clouded my vision. How I got so lucky to have these people in my life was impossible to comprehend. But I knew one thing for sure: When this whole mess was cleaned up, I was going to throw a party—a big party—to thank them. And yeah, I’d even invite Ms. Rapple. As much of an irritant as she was, she’d still kind of grown on me. Like a bunion.

  The key was at the bottom of the envelope. The car was even easier to find. I walked down the sidewalk and crossed the street, the powder-blue paint job glistening in the early morning sun. It was really a pretty color—for a little boy’s nursery. Or a sweater. But a car?

  I unlocked the driver’s side door and tossed my purse across the seat. Powder blue or not, it was transportation that didn’t involve incessant stops and body odor. Yet it was big enough to hold a bird cage if need be (not that I expected to be rescuing anymore birds today). Most importantly, it would get me where I needed to go.

  Zander Closet Company was located on Brentwood Boulevard, just down from the Galleria Mall. How Andy and Gary could afford a lease in that neighborhood was a mystery all its own. How I was going to keep from pulling into the mall parking lot was an even bigger one.

  Willpower, Tobi. Willpower . . .

  I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb, the homes of my neighbors and friends disappearing into my rearview mirror. Carter’s car was old. Really old. Crank windows, manual door locks, no power steering, and no cassette deck or CD player. It did, however, have a fairly decent radio if you could get the knobs to move.

  When I was stopped at a traffic light on Brentwood Boulevard, about three blocks from the office building that housed Zander Closet Company, “Dancing in the Dark” came on. Bruce.

  I, of course, started singing. And dancing. As usual, I was completely oblivious to my surroundings, with the exception of the circular red light in front of me. If I missed its change to green, though, I was fairly certain the brick-foot behind me would let me know.

  While I waited, I grabbed a pen from the center console and sang into the tip with gusto, bopping my shoulders and my head to the beat. Yet all dancing and singing ceased the moment I looked to my left.

  Andy Zander (sitting in a very nice black Avalon) stared back at me from the turning lane, pure enjoyment covering every square inch of his face. I sat there, stunned. The idiot behind me honked.

  I would probably still be sitting there if it weren’t for Andy’s sweet smile and encouraging thumbs-up. The guy had class. He made me think, albeit briefly, that what I’d been doing was completely normal.

  A burst of rare flirtatious confidence made me wink across at Andy just before I engaged the gas pedal and continued on my way.

  I drove four blocks, turned left, and pulled into a parking spot in front of the three-story brick building just as the song came to an end. I was relieved to realize that wherever Andy was headed, work was not it. It was easy to be playful when you were separated by metal and glass, quite another to be facing each other on an elevator and having to explain what the heck you were doing while sitting at a traffic light in a borrowed 1975 powder-blue Ford Granada.

  The building itself was fairly nondescript. It was obviously home to a number of tenants as the wooden sign outside the door held at least a dozen names. Zander Closet Company was located on the third floor in Suite A. (Probably the only time they were listed first.)

  “Hey good looking, finally came to your senses, huh?”

  I spun around.

  Gary.

  I hoped my cringe wasn’t too obvious. After all, he’d be signing some of my paychecks. But could he be any more forward? And what was with the hairy chest and gold chain?

  “Hi, Gary.” I mustered a smile and held out my hand. He kissed it.

  “To what do we owe this honor? And I hope you realize how sexy you look right now with that jacket and your hair like that. Grrrr.”

  I was so glad I’d passed on the Cocoa Puffs. I was fairly certain they’d be on his shoes by now if I hadn’t. I shivered.

  “You cold?”

  “No. I’m okay. I just do that sometimes. Bad habit or something.” I tugged my backpack higher on my shoulder and shifted foot to foot. “I was hoping to check out your office. Get a better feel for what the clients see.” Point for me. I was getting really good at fibbing.

  Gary shrugged and reached around me for the door, his arm brushing against my back. “Sounds good to me. Come on in. We’re on the third floor.” His eyes moved slowly down my body as I crossed in front of him. “It’s a really nice, quiet elevator ride. Very private.”

  My palms moistened, and I wiped them on my jeans. He was harmless, right? Just a playboy with a really huge ego. And it’s not like I had the kind of body guys like Gary went after. So there was nothing to worry about.

  I pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “I’ll meet you up there. I didn’t have a chance to exercise this morning, so I’ll take the steps.” I didn’t wait for a reply. I simply walked—okay, so it was closer to a run—to the stairwell and took them two at a time. I knew I was sufficiently unnerved when I found myself wanting to go back to the embarrassment I’d felt when I spied Andy watching me at the traffic light. Gary made me want to scream for help.

  When I reached the top level, I stopped. From what I’d seen and heard that first day, there was some serious bad blood between Gary and his cousin. If I played my cards right, I could use that rift to my advantage. I took a deep, cleansing breath and pulled the stairwell door open. Gary was waiting on the other side. I gulped out a smile. He winked. I shivered again.

  “C’mon darlin’.” He draped an arm across my shoulders and led me down the hall. I, of course, wanted to elbow him in the gut, but was afraid I’d ruin my chances of getting the dirt I needed if I did, so I restrained myself.

  When we reached Suite A, he pulled a key from his pants pocket and inserted it into the lock. “Andy’s got an appointment with a buyer, so we’ve got the place all to ourselves.” He stood in the doorway and motioned me inside, his body pressing against mine briefly as I moved past him. “Wanna see my office? It’s real quiet.”

  I stepped to the right and dropped into a chair in the tiny reception area. “That’s okay. I don’t want to infringe on your space.”

  “You can infringe on my space anytime you want, Tobi.”

  I set my purse on the ground and steadied the shake in my hands. “Um, so when does your secretary come in?”

  Gary ran a hand through his hair and moistened his lips with his tongue. “Next week. She’s on a cruise with her husband and kids.”

  I dug my palm into my right thigh in an effort to stop the shake that had traveled from my hand to my leg. It was guys like this that needed to be corralled in a pen like pigs and slaughtered once a year...

  Focus, Tobi.

  “Look, I just need a few minutes of your time. It’s about Blake.”

  Gary’s eyes widened in surprise then narrowed to near-slits as he locked his gaze on mine. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. “So you’ve got the hots for Blake?”

  I feigned a laugh. “Of course not. I’ve never even met him. I’m just trying to learn as much about your company and your employees as I can so I can better serve you in this campaign.”

  He seemed to accept my answer, if the wink he shot me was any indication. “That’s better. I can think of lots of ways you can serve me quite nicely.”

  It’s tough to keep one’s eyes from rolling when they are hell-bent on doi
ng so, but I tried anyway. It didn’t work. Gary Zander was a piece o’ work. I chose to ignore his latest innuendo.

  “When you were in my office that first day, you got a call from Preston Hohlbrook. He wanted Blake off the project because of what he perceived to be inappropriate ogling of his wife, Mitzi.” I leaned forward in my seat, intrigued by the way Gary’s eyes clouded over. “You took the labor on yourself in order to get the job done and accommodate Mr. Hohlbrook’s wishes, isn’t that right?”

  He pushed off the wall and started sifting through a pile of papers on the secretary’s desk. His search seemed aimless, but what did I know? “You bet I did. Blake certainly wasn’t up to the task.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek and considered his words. “So what happened to Blake? Did you guys fire him?”

  Gary laughed. Not a happy-go-lucky laugh but, rather, a sarcastic, edgy one. “Oh, I wanted to. I’ve hated that guy since we were teenagers and he stole my . . .” His words trailed off momentarily, his gaze focused someplace far away. After a few silent, tense-filled moments, he shook his head and continued. “Bringing him into this company was a mistake. But it wasn’t my idea. That moment of genius belongs to my brother. He’s a sucker for family loyalty and all that happy feel-good crap. A real wimp.”

  I was surprised at the flash of irritation I felt at Gary’s use of the word wimp in reference to his brother. Andy Zander was more of a man than Gary could ever hope to be. But instead of lashing out in defense of a man I shouldn’t be thinking of, I focused on the task at hand: Blake.

  “So where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Blake. I’m assuming, based on what you said, that Blake is still employed here? Am I right?”

  “Unfortunately. Andy is too damn soft. And more than a little gullible, if you ask me.”

  Since Gary didn’t seem to want a response, I took a moment to absorb my surroundings. To the left of the sitting area was a hallway with a series of doors. From where I sat, I could tell that at least one of the doors didn’t lead to an office as one might expect. Instead, it led to a closet decked out in a Zander system. Smart move on Andy’s part. Any time you could provide customers with an up-close-and-personal look at your work was invaluable. I made a mental note to bring Sam in for some pictures.

  “Does he have an office here?” I asked as I trained my focus back on Gary.

  “Blake?” He answered my nod with a shake of his own head. “Nah. He works from home. We dispatch him as needed.”

  “Where’s home?”

  Gary pulled open the secretary’s top drawer and helped himself to a stick of gum. “I’m in Ladue. Blake is out in St. Charles County. The Weldon Spring area.” He unwrapped the foil and crammed the stick into his mouth. “And to think, back when my aunt owned the place, I actually liked going out to Duggan Road.”

  “Duggan Road?”

  “Where Blake lives now.”

  13

  Duggan Road was—hmm, how shall I say this?—interesting. The houses were old and rundown, yards littered with automobiles that hadn’t seen pavement in decades. Any individuality in exterior decorating rested solely on the color of the appliances that had trickled onto the front porch (eggplant purple being my favorite).

  I, of course, spent so much time gawking at “country living” I drove right past Blake Zander’s home. Truth be told, I simply hadn’t seen it. Which, in and of itself, wasn’t a big deal until I saw the driveway I needed to use for my turn-around.

  Perhaps it was the faded sign that hung from the barbed wire fence—the one that threatened to shoot trespassers. Or maybe it was the matched set of Doberman pinschers with spiked collars that ran toward me (and my powder-blue car) with teeth the size of cinderblocks.

  My heart pounded as I shifted the car into reverse and then headed back in the direction from which I’d just come. This time, I was careful to note each and every mailbox I passed until I found one marked Zander.

  Blake’s home was, in a word, charming. Canopied by golden-leaved ash trees, it was the epitome of the white-picket-fence dream every little girl harbored inside. The cornflower-blue shutters and window boxes were freshly painted, their contrast against the white clapboard siding both calming and alluring. A high-backed swing hung from the rafters of the front porch with an Adirondack chair nearby. Star-gazing nights and lemonade-sipping days hung in the air with an undeniable presence.

  And there wasn’t a sign threatening bodily harm anywhere.

  I pulled into the driveway, parked, and reached for my backpack on the passenger seat. It always struck me as odd when a person or place didn’t match the image I’d created in my mind. Like the world had slipped off its axis somehow.

  The midmorning sun blinded me momentarily as I stepped out of the car and prevented me from seeing the identity of the person whistling an Eagles tune to my left. I raised my hand to block the light and quickly looked around.

  A tall man, clad in jeans and a white T-shirt, set his tools down on a sawhorse-propped board and waved at me. I waved back.

  “What can I do for you this fine morning?” He walked toward my spot on the driveway, a wide grin revealing an expanse of perfectly straight, white teeth. “I’m Blake Zander.”

  The world hadn’t just slipped off its axis. It had tumbled.

  “I’m Tobi Tobias.”

  “Hey I know you! You’re the gal who came up with that dynamite slogan for our company.” He shook my hand, a hint of admiration rippling across his face. “Man, I wish I could be that clever with words. I try. I really do. But they never come out the way they should.”

  Blake pointed up to the house. “Thankfully, God blessed me with a wife who appreciates the thought behind my notes. Good thing or she’d have left me long ago.”

  I suppose I should have assumed there was a wife when I saw the house, but I hadn’t. Maybe that’s because Blake looked like the kind of guy who’d take pride in his home and his work, with or without a wife.

  I shifted my stance and repositioned my hand on my forehead. The glare was still bad, but from this angle I could see a little of what Blake had been working on when I drove up.

  Dollhouses. Breathtakingly detailed dollhouses.

  “You built those?” By the time I heard the surprise in my voice, it was too late to call it back. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Yes, ma’am. This new design is a tough one. C’mon, take a peek.”

  My boots crunched along the gravel driveway as I followed him toward the tiny workshop (also white with cornflower-blue trim). When we reached his workbench, I instinctively bent over and peered into the miniature home he’d been tinkering with.

  “See that side of the house?” He pointed at the half he’d yet to finish. “It’s gonna have those half-rounded rooms. You know, like they have in those country inns sometimes.”

  “Turrets,” I whispered, my eyes riveted on the exquisite detail of the portion he had completed.

  “See? You know words. Me? I just know how to build ’em.” He gestured toward the wood piece atop the sawhorse. “Getting that rounded quality is tricky. But I’m not gonna give up.”

  I looked to my left and my right, my attention coming to rest on a dollhouse with a cock-eyed front porch and uneven windows. I considered asking if he was making a replica of the Doberman pinschers’ house, but thought better of it. “What happened to that one?” I asked, leaning in for a closer look.

  He laughed. “I’m still trying to figure that out, myself.”

  “Well, everyone has to start somewhere, right?” I moved on to the dollhouse on its right, the two-story Victorian with gingerbread trim and tall windows nothing short of breathtaking. “I wanted a dollhouse just like that when I was a little girl.”

  Blake nodded his interest. “You didn’t get one?”

  “No. My sister wanted our dolls to live in a tent—to be one with the earth and buck normalcy.”

  “Let me guess, a hippie?”

  I smiled. “Y
eah. So, anyway, my parents made us compromise.”

  Blake’s eyes sparkled as they met mine, his amusement poorly disguised behind twitching lips. “Let me guess—a plain Jane one-story ranch?”

  “Nope. We got a camper. That way my dolls could feel like they had a house, and my sister’s dolls could commune with nature.”

  His laugh was deep, hearty, and extremely contagious.

  When we finally stopped, I thanked him.

  “What are you thanking me for?”

  “For making me laugh at a memory I’ve always hated.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against a workshop wall. “I don’t know a lot of fancy words, and I certainly can’t come up with clever slogans and stuff like you can, but yeah, I guess I can make people laugh. And I build stuff.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got it pretty good.” I heard the awe in my voice as I straightened up and looked—really looked—at Blake Zander.

  Now I’m not the best visual judge when it comes to a person’s weight or even, sometimes, their height. But Blake was easy. Leaving a two-year margin of error on either side, I guesstimated him to be about twenty-eight, like me. He was tall and lean like Andy, his eyes a softer green. The skin around his mouth creased when he smiled, something I suspected he did often.

  It was a good thing I’d not met him when he was single. I’d have pegged him as a nice, honest, sweet guy. And I’d have been wrong—just like I was with Nick. What an idiot I was.

  He seemed to sense the shift in my mood. “So what brings you out here?”

  “I’m getting ready to put together a commercial for Zander Closet Company and thought it might be helpful to talk to the man who installs the systems. You know, get a better feel for what you do, how you fit into the company, that kind of thing.” If God did occasional liar-surveillance, as my mother always claimed, I was in big trouble.

  “Not sure how much help I can be. I’ve been temporarily removed from closet installations, thanks to my cousin and his overactive imagination.”

  Hmmm. I wondered how he justified the same overactive imagination in both Preston Hohlbrook and the man’s housekeeper? Were they all wrong in his eyes too? Typical.