“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I touched his arm briefly, only to jerk away when he turned. Gary Zander. The hint of surprise that skirted his face was quickly chased away by a smile that set my radar pinging off the ceiling.
“Tobi Tobias! What a nice surprise,” he shouted over the music. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me in for a hug, his fingers finding their way through my crocheted top at record speed. “What are you doing here? You with someone?”
I resisted the urge to jerk my knee upward and opted instead to extricate myself as delicately as possible. He was, after all, my lone source of decent income these days.
“I’m here with a few people.” I looked around wildly, hoping that Grandpa Stu had ignored Carter’s whispered comment and found his way over to Miss Yowza anyway. An old man in leather pants and a sweeter-than-life redhead wouldn’t exactly be seen as competition by a guy like Gary.
What I needed was a sidekick with a muscle-sculpted body and limited brain capacity. A problem, considering human cloning was illegal in this country and only one Gary Zander was available at the moment. And the original version was already standing there, hitting on me.
“Did you see the loser?” Gary asked, his breath warm and sticky against my ear.
I stood there, speechless, wondering how to answer such an obvious question without losing my one and only client. So I shrugged my confusion and waited for more information.
“Over there.” Gary’s right hand found a resting spot on the small of my back while his left hand pointed across the dance floor to a table inhabited by loud, obnoxious men who were drinking, smoking, and belching in true triathlon fashion.
I searched the men, tried to pick out a common face to the two of us, but came up empty.
“Who?” I finally asked.
“The ad idiot.” He pointed in the same direction again, only this time I knew exactly who to look for. And I found him in mere seconds.
John Beckler sat just behind and to the left of the table I’d originally searched. His eyes were trained back on us, a scowl etched across his face. I watched him for a moment or two, determined not to look away. When I finally did, I spotted Mike next to him.
“His partner is so disgusting. See that ashtray in front of him?” Gary’s hand slid up my back and stopped in the spot where the cami ended and the crocheted holes left access to bare skin. “He’s been spitting his damn chew into it for the past half hour. If you look closely, you can actually see a mound of the crap from here. It’s gross.”
I refrained from lashing out at Gary in defense of Mike. Yes, my former boss had a nasty habit. He knew it. His wife knew it. Everyone knew it. But people dealt with stress in different ways. Chewing and spitting happened to be his way. Mine was Cocoa Puffs. (Okay, so Cocoa Puffs played a multifaceted role in my life.)
I looked back at John, a scowl still gracing his leathery face. No wonder Mike was chewing so much. John was not a fun person to be with when he was in one of his moods. But, as always, Mike was the consummate team player and business partner. And if going out with John from time to time kept their working relationship more even-keeled, he did it. Point for him. Me, I’d taken John Beckler for as long as I could, until the relentless putdowns, the competitive jockeying, and the account-stealing—oh, yes, more times that I can count—finally pushed me over the edge and into the role of small-business owner.
Sure, Gary Zander was a playboy. A slimy playboy. But he was what he was, and he made little attempt to be anything else. John Beckler, on the other hand, was a chameleon. One minute he’d be charming and hardworking, the next he’d be backstabbing and lazy. If they were the only two men left on earth, I’d pick Gary in a heartbeat.
“He passed by me the other night when I was, ah, waiting for someone. Except instead of spitting into ashtrays, he was emptying his chew onto a stone walkway, into a birdbath, and—you get my point. All while talking on his cell phone.” Gary repositioned his hand on my back, his skin uncomfortably warm against mine. “Anyway, those two are lousy ad guys. Giving up on them and taking a chance on you was the best move Andy and I have made in a very long time.”
I pulled my gaze off John and Mike and turned to face Gary. As annoying as the man was, he had a way of making me feel good. And when your ego was the size of a nickel, it was refreshing to get a confidence boost from time to time, regardless of the source.
In fact, the whole bar-scene thus far had been an ego boost. It was one of those places where men weren’t the slightest bit shy about showing their appreciation for a pretty face. Their methods were varied like the ages and body types in the room, but they all had a few commonalities. Slow, lingering eye contact and opening lines so carefully crafted that one misspoken word resulted in an oh crap look from which only the truly strong (and psychotically persistent) ever recovered.
Like Gary.
“You wanna dance? I’ve got rhythm in places you wouldn’t imagine.” His eyes traveled slowly down my body and back again, a sparkle igniting his eyes.
“I don’t have rhythm or want to dance, but I’m sure you can find someone who does.” I poked my head upward in periscope fashion and looked around for Carter and Grandpa Stu and finally located them over by a pinball machine in the back left corner with Miss Yowza looking on in awe. Nothing like back-up when you needed it.
I swung my head in the direction of the bar, desperate to find something, anything I could use to get me out of standing next to a gyrating Gary with my former boss looking on. I knew I could—should—say hi to Mike, but I really wasn’t in the mood for dealing with John Beckler.
And that’s when I spotted Deserey. Though, truth be told, if I hadn’t spent so much time talking to her on Monday, I’d never have recognized her. Her dark hair was no longer clasped behind her head in a tight bun. Instead, it cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves. Gone was the housekeeper uniform she starched as crisp as a board, in its place, a turquoise sheath that was sure to turn many a head. A sparkly turquoise bag was clutched in her hand. She was sitting at the corner of the L-shaped bar, her body turned toward the woman at her right, arms moving as she related something of great interest to her companion, a companion I was willing to bet big money was Larry and Linda Johnsons’ housekeeper, Glenda.
“I’ve got to go, Gary. I see one of my friends.” I took off through the crowd without so much as a glance over my shoulder, anxious to begin my detective work for the night (and to get out of dancing with Mr. Hands, formerly known as Mr. Roving Eyes).
I ran through a list of opening lines and decided a simple greeting was best. Deserey and I had clicked on Monday. There was no reason to think she’d forgotten that or the invitation she’d extended to meet her here.
“Deserey. Hi, how are you?” I pulled to a stop next to her bar stool and squeezed her shoulder gently. “It’s good to see you out having a little fun.”
Her face lit up in recognition and she slid off the stool. “Hi, Tobi! You look gorgeous. I love that top.”
“Thanks. You look great too.”
Deserey smiled, revealing ultrawhite teeth in the process. “Tobi, this is my friend, Glenda. She works for the Johnsons. I told you about her, remember?”
I didn’t miss the quizzical look that shot across the other woman’s face or the way her eyes narrowed when she met mine.
“Yes. Hi, Glenda. I’m Tobi Tobias. It’s nice to meet you. Deserey speaks very highly of you.”
The woman’s features softened and she scooted over a stool, patting the one she’d just left. “Sit.” I smiled my thanks and made myself comfortable as she continued on. “Tobias. Tobias. Why does that name sound so familiar?”
“Tobi is the woman who created the slogan for Zander Closet Company and the one who found Mr. Hohlbrook.” Deserey lifted her half-empty glass and raised it to her lips, her eyes closing momentarily as she sipped the amber-colored liquid.
“Oh, okay, I remember now. All this media talk about your slogan predicting Mr. Hohlb
rook’s death must be really hard on you,” Glenda said, her eyes pinning me.
I held my reply until I’d asked the bartender for some water and had helped myself to a pretzel from the bowl on the counter. “Yeah, it’s been hard. Real hard. But it’s nothing compared to the pain Deserey is carrying.” Glenda nodded her assent and I looked at Deserey. “How are you holding up?”
She shrugged. “They’re releasing his body tomorrow. We’ll hold his memorial service on Friday.” Her voice cracked as she pulled the red stir stick from her glass and tapped it absently on the bar. “And because of his company and all those employees, Mr. Hohlbrook’s attorney is coming to the house in the morning to do an emergency reading of his will. All these people will be traipsing around the house with their hand out, hoping for something. It’s going to be hard to get things ready for the post-service reception with so many people underfoot.”
I studied Deserey as her hand moved the stick in a series of figure eights, her voice, her words, barely audible over the beat of the music. The woman was in pain. No fancy dress or new hairstyle could erase that fact.
Without thinking, I slid my hand across the bar and squeezed Deserey’s. “Would you like a little company while that stuff is going on? I could help you ready the house for the reception.”
Her face fell, her eyes watered. “Tobi, I’d love that. I can’t ask you to help clean the house—I’ve got that down to a science—but I think the company would be nice.”
“Consider it done.” I thanked the bartender for my water and stole another pretzel from the bowl. “What time should I come?”
Deserey thought for a moment. “Um, how about nine thirtyish? The lawyer is coming at ten.”
“Nine thirty it is.” I squeezed her hand one last time and then looked back at Glenda. “How are the Johnsons taking all of this? It must be hard to lose their neighbor in such a horrific way.”
Glenda snickered. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But my employers are, hmmm, how can I say this tactfully? Let’s just say Larry and Linda are a different breed. They want attention. They want praise. They want to be worshipped.”
I listened politely, aware of one huge difference between the two women. Never in all our time together had I ever heard Deserey address her employers by anything other than their surname—even when it was painfully apparent that she considered Mr. Hohlbrook and his first wife to be her family. Yet, here was Glenda, all too willing to sully her employers to a complete stranger.
It was the difference between top-notch and mediocre.
“Those last few days leading up to the Showcase,” she continued, “Linda had me recleaning sections of that house that I’d cleaned fifteen times in a row. All because she wanted it to be better than the Hohlbrooks’ home. I wasn’t surprised, of course. When it comes to anything related to the Hohlbrooks, Larry and Linda are determined to come out on top, no matter how they have to do it.”
I shivered at her choice of words.
“You should have seen her after that segment on the news about your slogan. The television crew framed each shot with the Hohlbrooks’ home in the background, and you couldn’t see so much as a tree in our yard. Linda was furious. She badgered Larry for hours, carrying on like an absolute banshee. But it wasn’t just her. He hated the way Mr. Hohlbrook was respected in this town. Drove him nuts. No matter how many charities he tried to get involved in to one-up Mr. Hohlbrook, no one ever seemed to notice.”
“Did he have a temper?” I figured I was safe asking since the china-throwing incident had come to my attention from two different sources. (Though, in all fairness, the two sources had heard it from the same mouth—Glenda’s.)
The woman guffawed. An honest-to-goodness guffaw. I wondered, briefly, if Rudder could imitate that noise.
“A temper? Think of a two-year-old who throws himself on the floor when he doesn’t get the lollipop he wants: What’s he do?”
When I realized she was waiting for an answer, I closed my eyes and tried to remember my last trip to the grocery store. A sheer nightmare if there ever was one.
“Kicks. Screams. Hits,” I prattled off.
Glenda snapped her fingers together. “Voilà. I give you Larry Johnson.”
I sat there quietly, trying to decide how much stock I put in Glenda’s words. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see the woman liked gossip. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see she didn’t like her employers. So how much of what she said was true? How much was exaggerated for the good of the story? And could someone who smashed a set of expensive china during a temper tantrum kill someone out of jealousy?
The first few notes of “Y.M.C.A.” carried across the room and I shivered unexpectedly. Call it intuition. Call it luck. Call it whatever you’d like. But when I heard that song, I knew immediately who’d be on the dance floor. I turned slowly on the stool and peered over the heads that separated me from a front-row seat.
Somehow, someway, Carter and Grandpa Stu had talked two unsuspecting (more likely, drunk) cohorts onto the lighted dance floor and were acting out the song that had both delighted and frightened generations of music lovers since its debut.
Although it was a tune that had seen its heyday long before I was born, “Y.M.C.A.” was one of my grandfather’s favorites. He liked to dance out the letters regardless of where we were when the song came on: restaurants, department stores, block parties, my sixteenth birthday party—oh yes, he did. While most kids’ grandparents yelled, “Turn off that crap” when the Village People came on, my grandfather would invariably yell, “Turn it up.” He said he liked the beat. I think it had more to do with some odd loyalty for the common, everyday slob, as evidenced by his evening’s choice of attire—a nod, no doubt, to Jeff Olson’s cowboy, Alex Briley’s army man, and Eric Anzalone’s biker dude.
I slid off my stool and grimaced. With any luck, neither Deserey nor Glenda (nor the entire bar, for that matter) would associate me with the crazy old man and the Annie-look-alike shaking their booty for the world to see.
“It was nice to meet you, Glenda.” I shook her hand and then turned to Deserey. “I’ll see you at nine thirty tomorrow, okay?”
Deserey nodded, her eyes on the dance floor behind me. I would have been mortified even further if not for the slow smile that crept across the woman’s face. Her unbridled glee made me think of an expression my grandmother used to say. It was one she always used on me when I’d beg her to make Grandpa stop his nutty antics when my friends were around: One woman’s embarrassment is another one’s joy, Tobi. And the joy is much more fun.
As I made my way back through the crowd, I stole a sideways glance at the floor. Grandpa Stu had just made his Y, followed by Carter’s M, and then the poor, unsuspecting drunks next to them made the C and the A. The applause was thunderous, the laughter contagious, as they continued the song to the bitter end. I stood near the door and waited, a smile tugging at my lips. As much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t know them, I also knew I couldn’t imagine my life without them.
It was a full fifteen minutes before Carter and Grandpa Stu made their way over to me. They were waylaid every five feet by their adoring fans, including Miss Yowza at my ten o’clock. As I stood and waited for them, I found myself having to step aside every so often to allow people in and out of the door. But that was okay. My vantage point gave me an opportunity to say good-bye again to Deserey and Glenda when they headed out to their cars, as well as a hiding place (behind the 300-pound bouncer) when Gary headed out to the parking lot a short time later.
“Hey there, Sunshine. How’d we look?”
I smiled at Carter and gave my grandfather a quick hug. “You guys were a hit. I’m surprised the manager didn’t ask you back.”
Grandpa Stu cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. “He did.”
I fell in step between my two favorite guys in the world as we made our way out to the parking lot and Carter’s Granada.
“So, what’d we miss? Did you get any g
ood dirt?”
I looked over at my grandfather and grinned. “Well, if the housekeeper isn’t being dramatic, the next-door neighbor hated Mr. Hohlbrook. Oh, and guess what? There’s going to be an emergency reading of Preston’s will in the morning and I’m going to be there.”
We got into the car and settled back against the seats.
“Who was that young man who had his hands all over you? He someone I’m going to meet before I leave?” my grandfather asked from the backseat.
“Young man?”
“Aka Mr. Muscle Man,” Carter said as he turned the key and backed out of the parking spot.
My stomach flip flopped. “You mean, Gary? Uh, no. He is not, nor will he ever be, my young man. He’s simply a client who’s a little—”
“Forward?” Carter asked.
“Handsy?” my grandfather interjected.
“Let’s go with . . . interesting.”
My grandfather snorted.
“Aha! So that’s where you get it from,” Carter said, smacking his left hand against the steering wheel as he shifted into drive with his right.
I ignored him. Much the way I ignore Rudder. But amid all the jokes, I realized something I’d neglected to find out. I’d wanted to ask Deserey about Blake, see if I could pinpoint a reason for the huge difference in our impressions of the Zander cousin.
Making a mental note to broach the topic in the morning, I reached behind my right shoulder and pulled the seat belt across my body. When it was clicked into place, I looked out the front windshield.
And that’s when I saw them—Gary and Deserey. Together. And arguing.
I turned around in my seat as Carter drove by, my eyes glued to the pair.
Deserey’s back was to me, but it didn’t matter. Her anger was as red hot as Gary’s. As he raked a hand through his hair in frustration, my eyes closed in on one thing . . .
Her purse. Her sparkly glittery purse.
21
I flipped on my right blinker and slowed as I approached the Hohlbrooks’ street the next morning, my thoughts bouncing between the argument I’d witnessed between Gary and Deserey in the parking lot of the bar and what, if anything, it all meant. The next few hours were destined to be interesting, and I needed to collect my thoughts and my game face.
Death in Advertising Page 18