Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  I’ll admit, I was oddly relieved to see he’d opted to wait for me inside the restaurant. How much of that relief was due to the shake in my hand, and how much was due to the fact that I hated to hurt people I cared about, I didn’t know. Most likely, it was a mixture of both.

  But Andy was right. This was business. And competition was part of business.

  I pushed my driver-side door open and stepped onto the pavement, pulling my backpack with me.

  After locking the car, I cut across the line of cars in the drive-thru lane and spotted Mike’s stocky frame and salt-and-pepper hair through the glass door. He waved and held the door open. The aroma of hamburgers pulled me through the opening with an invisible leash and the promise of calories.

  “Hey, Tobi. I’m glad you called.”

  “I am too. It’s been too long.” I returned his hug and then followed him into the line at the cash register. I didn’t need to look at the menu. I’d been craving Big Macs since I was a year old (which is when, I believe, my penchant for slogans kicked in for the first time). I placed my order, paid, and nearly ripped the tray from the cashier’s hands. (Okay, so I was a little hungry—sue me.)

  I found a table near the sunniest window in the place and motioned Mike over with his tray.

  “Still eating Big Macs, huh?” He thumped his tray onto the table and dropped into a swivel-back chair.

  “Uh-huh.” I bit into the subject of one of the all-time catchiest slogans ever. “Can you still say it? Without missing any of the ingredients?”

  He grinned. “Of course. Which isn’t too bad for an old guy, if I must say so myself.”

  “Old?” I repeated. “Since when do you call yourself old?”

  “I’ve been feeling old lately. Washed up.”

  I stared at my first and only on-the-job mentor. And that’s when I noticed the shadows under his hazel eyes, the way his mouth seemed void of its usual trademark smile, and the absence of a familiar bulge inside his lower lip.

  “Something wrong? Is Ginny okay?”

  He nodded as he played with a French fry in front of him. “Ginny’s fine. Work’s just been a little stressful. John and I have been arguing a lot lately. Finances mostly. He has a way of forgetting my name’s on that door too.”

  “He always did.”

  “I think we need to smack it out of the ballpark every time. He used to agree with that basic theory, although we didn’t always see eye-to-eye on execution, as you well know. But now I don’t know what the hell he’s doing, I really don’t. He basically handed Zander Closet Company over to you by being unprepared and lazy.”

  “Yeah, I need to thank him for that. It definitely gave me a chance to show all the little guys out there what I can do for them.” I took another bite of my Big Mac.

  “Not just the little guys, Tobi.” Mike made a figure-eight on the table with the same French fry he’d yet to eat. “As for John, of course he gets it now. That’s why he suddenly wants new clients, no matter how big or small just to make sure you don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Make a living? Use my talent? Leave him in the dust?” I heard the change in my pitch, felt my teeth clench around my words. “He had a chance at a new client. But Zander wasn’t exciting enough for him. His loss, my gain.”

  “It was sure looking that way, wasn’t it? The loss potential there was enormous,” Mike said as he heaved his shoulders upward. “Don’t pay him any mind. Just do your thing.”

  I plucked a sesame seed off the top of my bun and popped it in my mouth. It stung to hear him refer to the loss potential in the past tense. “He’s having a field day with the media’s spin on Preston Hohlbrook’s murder, isn’t he?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  I grabbed my water and took a huge sip. My hand was still shaking. Only this time it was powered by anger and resolve rather than guilt. “I’m going after New Town, Mike.”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t react. He simply sat there and played with the same fry, its innards turning to mush the harder he pressed down on it. I’d never seen him quite like this before. Then again, whenever he’d been stressed in the past, he’d shoved a wad of chew inside his lip and spent the next thirty minutes spitting it into a cup. Or, if he was done with the cancer causer, he’d react to stress with what I’d always called his “air-spit.” He definitely didn’t cope with issues by playing with a French fry. But I guess when in Rome and out of chew in a crowded restaurant . . .

  “You understand, don’t you? This is what you taught me, Mike. To have a plan. To go for it. I’m just trying to do that. To figure out what I want and let nothing stand in my way.”

  When he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm with the same even (albeit monotone) cadence I’d listened to for years. “Can you still say it backwards?”

  “Say it?” I echoed. “Say what?” And then I figured it out. “Sure, I can still say it. Bun-seed-sesame-a-on-onion-pickles-cheese-lettuce-sauce-special-patties-beef-all-two.”

  He smiled. “That’s my girl. May the best man, or woman, win.”

  16

  Charlotte West was your classic office secretary. She held court behind her desk with an air of quiet authority, the go-to person that corporate America seemed to take for granted these days. Her navy suit was carefully pressed, her blouse crisp and white. A pair of eyeglasses straddled her nose temporarily, while the gold chain tasked with keeping them close hung around her neck, waiting.

  I stood in the doorway for a few minutes and watched as she moved between duties with the kind of efficiency that was born from discipline, motivation, and pride. She answered questions on the telephone with a calm voice and scrolled through her emails at lightning speed. Yet every motion she made, every word she uttered, carried an aura that went far beyond thoroughness and expertise to settle somewhere in a realm much closer to autopilot.

  The phone rang just as I was about to make my presence known.

  “Good afternoon, Hohlbrook Motors.”

  I took a step back, out of her line of sight, and tried to busy myself with the countless plaques and recognitions Preston Hohlbrook had earned from the St. Louis business community over the past ten years. Many of the awards were accompanied by a photograph that depicted the moment the honor was received. The mayor’s face changed a few times along the way, but the recipient’s never did. There were no stand-ins sent to the event, no poor middle-management guy stuck with the task of humoring the press.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Stanley, what can I do for you?” The initial cheeriness of Charlotte West’s voice slipped away, replaced almost instantly by a tired, guarded tone.

  Mr. Stanley? Mike Stanley? Holy mackerel, he was taking this competition stuff seriously.

  Naturally, my ears perked up and I sidestepped closer to the open doorway.

  “No, Mr. Stanley, nothing has been done. No changes have been implemented. I’m sure you can understand we have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”

  I wondered if the secretary could hear my heart pounding, sense someone lurking outside her door listening.

  “I don’t know who will make the decision. But I’m sure, when we do, that someone will contact you.”

  So much for being the proverbial fly on the wall. What I really needed was access to a phone and a common extension. Not that I’d actually pick it up and listen. Sheesh.

  “Look, I’m fairly certain we won’t be making any major changes right now. It’s not the time—excuse me? I’m not sure why you think that, but Mr. Riker isn’t in position to decide that at this time. But if you feel better having some alternate plans in place, I’m sure the board will listen. Yes, yes, I will make a note and be sure to give it to—”

  I think I leaned forward a little too far because I ended up face first on the carpet (Berber, I think) in Charlotte West’s office. And unlike the movies, it was anything but slow and graceful.

  “Mr. Stanley, I have to go.” The secretary slammed the phone down and jumped to
her feet, a look of surprise etched in every facet of her face. “Are you all right, miss?”

  I tried to smile, but found it rather difficult with my right cheek pressed against the floor. I pushed off the ground with my hands and rose to my feet, my face toasty warm. “I’m so very sorry. I think I tripped on my own two feet as I was approaching your door just now. It’s why my mom is always calling me a klutz.”

  She seemed to buy it—or at the very least, agreed with my mom. Either way, she flashed a smile and then motioned me to a chair. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? A soda?”

  Truth be told, I wasn’t terribly thirsty. I’d just left Mike less than thirty minutes ago, and I’d refilled my cup three times while I was there.

  I nodded, my mind already calculating the time it would take for the secretary to walk down the hall and retrieve a drink. A minute? Maybe two? Surely enough time to scan any notes that happened to be lying around after the phone call she’d just taken. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Water? Pepsi? Coffee?”

  “Water would be great.” I smiled an extra thanks at her as she patted my arm and turned toward the doorway. My gaze flew to the desk in front of me, briefly rested on the pad of pink paper beside the telephone, and widened at the sight of the notations written in red ink. My heart rate accelerated as I looked back at Charlotte and stopped dead.

  In all my snooping, falling, and calculating, I’d completely missed the small refrigerator and coffee station recessed into the back wall. Nancy Drew I wasn’t.

  “Here you go.”

  I accepted the bottle of water from her outstretched hand, my mind rapidly searching for a plan B.

  “Thanks.” I twisted open the cap, took a few slow sips, and used the momentary silence to think of words that sounded semi-intelligent. When I was fairly certain I had some, I set the bottle at my feet, stood, and extended my arm toward Charlotte. “I’m sorry. I just realized my grand entrance didn’t include an introduction. I’m Tobi Tobias of Tobias A—”

  That’s all I managed to get out before her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates—okay, so maybe not that big but it was close—and her skin drained of all color.

  “Tobi Tobias?”

  I wasn’t sure how to take her reaction. I wasn’t sure if I was seeing simple recognition, anger, or, worse yet, fear. So I just nodded. And waited.

  The woman ignored my hand and covered her mouth with her own, her struggle for appropriate words evident in the pained creases near her eyes and the downward tilt to her lips (what I could see of them behind her hand). When she finally spoke again, her tone was that of a woman who’d lost her autopilot façade to the shock that had been lurking below the surface all along. “Isn’t it just awful?”

  Now I might not always be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I do pretty well. I’m the anti-blond bimbo (except for when it comes to noticing details like small refrigerators) and have always taken great pride in that fact. But at that moment, I was utterly clueless. Not a place I like to be.

  Fortunately, I didn’t need to say anything because the woman continued speaking, though her voice was still hard to hear without straining (which, of course, I did). “We’re all in shock. I’ve never seen this building so quiet. So void of energy.”

  Ah yes, Preston Hohlbrook, of course. She’d heard my name and, rather than think of the message she’d left me, she thought of my slogan’s tie-in to the death of her boss.

  “I’m so sorry about Mr. Hohlbrook. I can’t even begin to imagine how you’re feeling in all this.”

  The woman nodded, reached for a tissue from the box on her desk, and blew her nose—a long, slow sound that more closely resembled a foghorn than the cliché trumpet.

  “It’s been awful. We all found out on the news which made it even harder. I understand you were there? That you’re the one who found him?”

  I nodded.

  She reached out and grasped my hand, held onto it for a long moment. For some reason I didn’t mind. It gave me as much comfort as I suspect it gave her.

  “Was he—was he still breathing? Did he say anything?”

  The question took me aback at first, until I realized that she’d have no way of knowing the answer. The news didn’t report stuff like that. And regardless of our sorrow, human beings had an almost predictable need for facts no matter how bizarre or hurtful they might be.

  “No. He was dead when I found him.” I squeezed her hand gently then released it so she could grab another tissue. I hoped that the information would eliminate any concern she might have regarding her boss’s suffering. How much of the actual strangulation he felt, I couldn’t tell. But at least he hadn’t suffered in agony for hours and hours before his death.

  “Thank you.” Charlotte dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, her voice raspy and unsure. “The police were here this morning—asking questions and looking through Mr. Hohlbrook’s office. I asked them whether he suffered. They just said they weren’t at liberty to discuss specifics about the victim. The victim! They didn’t even call him by his name.” The woman walked around the desk and dropped into her chair. “I saw him Friday night, not more than twelve hours before you found him.”

  “How was he?” I knew, from what the police had said to one another at the crime scene that morning, that Preston Hohlbrook hadn’t been dead long when he fell at my feet. Maybe five or six hours at the most. Something about body temperature and the absence of rigor mortis. So I knew it would be doable for someone to have seen him the night before. But still, I found the information worthy of goose bumps.

  “He was fine. A little on edge, but that was to be expected. He was dealing with a lot. Personally and professionally.” The woman raised her head in response to the ring of her phone. She straightened in her chair and reached for the handset, her efficiency reset to autopilot once again. “Good afternoon. Hohlbrook Motors.”

  I tried not to listen (really, I did) as Charlotte handled a few questions, opting instead to look at the assorted frames on the woman’s desk. There were the usual family photographs of the man I assumed to be her husband and their young son, a US Marine. My gaze traveled up the shelved cubby that ran along the short side of her L-shaped desk, and I scanned the assortment of pictures that graced that section. When I came to a close-up shot of Preston Hohlbrook, I stopped and stared.

  The man I had seen in each of the hallway pictures, and in mementos throughout his home, looked virtually the same—except for the smile. Always an enthusiastic subject, Preston Hohlbrook boasted a different level of happiness in this picture. The sparkle in his eyes and the pure joy in his smile were different than any other I’d seen thus far. At his side was a diminutive woman with auburn hair styled in a neat bob. Her hazel eyes had tiny flecks of gold that shimmered in the late afternoon sun. They were wrapped in each other’s arms, privy to an inside joke or wonderful memory that the photographer and casual observer could only guess at. My skin tingled.

  “They were an amazing couple. The kind of love story that most of us only dream of.”

  I’d been so busy absorbing the picture in front of me that I hadn’t noticed Charlotte West conclude her phone call. I simply nodded and continued to stare.

  “That was Alana. Preston’s wife.”

  “You mean his first wife, right?”

  A sound that resembled a snicker escaped from the secretary’s lips, and I turned my gaze just in time to see the disgust zip across her face.

  “Technically, yes. His first wife. But Mitzi Moore was nothing more than a diversion. Someone to take the edge off Mr. Hohlbrook’s loneliness.”

  “Did it work?” I followed Charlotte West’s gaze to the photograph and then looked back at her once again, her reply coming after a long pause.

  Her voice was quiet, distracted. “Did what work?”

  “Did marrying Mitzi take the edge off the loneliness?”

  The woman shrugged, her eyes still trained on the photograph. “I don’t know. Maybe. Bri
efly. Mitzi Moore and Alana Hohlbrook were as different as night and day. Alana was demure, classy, generous, loving, and so much more. Sure, she came in to see him—they met for lunch at least three times a week—but she never insinuated herself into the company. She was Mr. Hohlbrook’s support system—his personal cheerleader, if you will. But the company was his to run, and she trusted him to do so. She preferred, instead, to focus her days on the foundation.”

  “Foundation?”

  “Yes, the Loving Hands and Helping Hearts Foundation. Alana started it up about three years before her death.”

  The name sounded familiar and, after a moment, I was able to fill in my mental blanks with details I’d read in a feature story at some point. Loving Hands and Helping Hearts was an organization that provided accommodations to families of terminally ill children. It allowed them to stay closer to their hospitalized children without worrying about the cost of rent. The group also provided care for siblings when parents craved time alone with their sick child.

  “I’ve read about that group. Alana Hohlbrook really started it?” The more I heard about the first Mrs. Hohlbrook, first from Deserey and now Charlotte West, the more I could understand the tremendous void Preston Hohlbrook had been so desperate to fill.

  “She most certainly did. She was an amazing woman. Everyone loved her.” Charlotte West grabbed a tissue from the box and dusted the frame, her tone tensing as the focus of the story changed. “Mitzi, however, was a different story. A very different story.”

  I shifted foot to foot and tried not to dwell on the fact that my mouth had gone dry and I desperately wanted to sit down and retrieve my water bottle. I was afraid that if I moved, the conversation would stop. And I couldn’t let that happen.

  “From the day they got back from their honeymoon, she was in this place. Every day. All the time. Reprimanding employees for lingering in the hall, taking part in board meetings, sticking her two cents in regarding the ad campaign, and overseeing the selection of any new secretaries.”