Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  Again, he shook his head. “No. Apparently his phone rang and when he saw the number he rolled his eyes and said something about people not knowing when to give up. He answered it, agreed to meet with someone, then told her to go out and have fun. Told her they’d talk in the morning.”

  “He knew she was fooling around and told her to have fun?” I asked.

  “I know. Weird, huh?”

  Maybe. Unless he really didn’t care anymore. I looked out at the still water in the bird bath and tried to process everything I’d heard. “When did you drop her back home?”

  Gary’s cheeks turned crimson, and he looked at the steps beneath his feet. “Look, I know I need to tell Andy about this, and I will—but not this minute, okay?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Gary pushed off the steps, walked over to the birdbath, and peered at his reflection in the water. “I brought her back around six in the morning.”

  “Six in the morning? Sam and I were here at eight.”

  “I know. We wanted to make sure she had enough time to shower and dress. She used one of the guest bedrooms and planned to tell Preston she decided to sleep in there because she’d been too upset to get into his bed,” Gary explained.

  I looked away, focused instead on the bird feeder that hung from the ash tree to the right of the walkway. “And when Andy and I saw you coming out of the bathroom with your pants unbuckled?”

  Gary tipped his head upward and stared at the blue sky for several long minutes before making eye contact with me for the first time all morning. “I hung out in the kitchen while she got showered and dressed, figuring I could explain my presence away with the whole photo shoot thing. Anyway, after you arrived, I guess she went off to freshen her makeup and that’s when I saw her in the back hallway. One thing led to another and, well, I had a hard time keeping my hands to myself, and so we messed around a little.”

  “And you didn’t see Preston? Or anyone else that morning?” I knew the questions were stupid even before I uttered them aloud, but I inquired anyway.

  He shook his head. “No. Just Deserey. And she was livid.”

  “Can you blame her? You’d just returned from sleeping with her employer’s wife.” I knew my voice sounded snippy, but I really didn’t care.

  Gary crossed the distance between us in mere seconds, grabbed hold of my hands, and held them tightly. “I know I was a little forward with you a few times this week, but I was hurting. Mitzi hasn’t wanted to talk, and it hurts like hell. But she’ll come around. I know she will. It’s too good for her not to.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Tobi, we didn’t plan for this to happen. We really didn’t. Something just clicked between the two of us. I wish I could explain it, but I don’t know how.”

  I inhaled slowly, deeply, searched for the courage to say what needed to be said. “Ask Blake. He understands all about unplanned clicking.”

  22

  My head was pounding by the time I returned to my apartment at two thirty. The morning’s drama had taken my emotions on the ride of their life, hurtling me through hills and dips that included everything from empathy and anger, to fear and confusion, and finally a startling detour into elation.

  During the ride back to the Central West End, I’d briefly entertained the notion of stopping at the office to get a little work done. But when I thought about it, really thought about it, I knew I couldn’t. I mean, what was the point? There were simply too many untied bows (read: stuff that made no sense) to ignore. And until I pulled those last loops tight, I’d be useless to everyone around me.

  I turned the key and pushed the door open, anxious to be alone with my thoughts and a big bottle of Tylenol. Instead, a medley of BenGay, burned Pop Tarts, and heavy cologne greeted my olfactory sense with a sledgehammer to my aching head. Grandpa Stu.

  I’d known he was still there. I’d pointed him in the direction of breakfast and kissed him good-bye on my way out the door that morning. But somehow, amid all the confusion of the past few hours, I’d completely forgotten the fact that my apartment was not mine alone. Not for the next few days anyway.

  “Hiya, Sugar Lump. How’d it go?”

  Suddenly all desire to be alone with my thoughts disappeared, in its place a reality I’d known all my life. There was no one better to have by my side during troubled times than my grandfather. He took one look at me (not a pretty sight, I’m sure) held out his arms, and waited for me to cross the room and plant my head against his chest. We stood that way for several long moments before I finally stepped back and sighed the biggest sigh of my life.

  “Tell me about it.” That’s all he had to say. It’s all he ever had to say to make the flood gates open and my troubles pour forth.

  “I thought I had it figured out. I thought I’d narrowed Preston Hohlbrook’s killer to one of two suspects, but I was wrong. I mean, I didn’t want to believe he could do it, and I’m relieved to realize he didn’t. But I just don’t know what to make of things now.”

  Grandpa Stu simply nodded for me to continue, his eyes trained on every nuance of my face as I spoke.

  “The whole idea that Andy’s cousin had been making moves on Preston’s wife didn’t ring true once I met Blake. He’s too decent. Too honest. Too in love with his wife. Yet Deserey had shown such anger when she spoke of the Zander employee and the way he’d been making moves on Mitzi that I guess I left open the possibility that my radar was off with Blake just as it so obviously was with Nick.” I willed myself to slow down, to annunciate my words clearly so my grandfather could follow along despite my propensity to ramble when I was stressed. “Then, last night, I saw Deserey and Gary arguing in the parking lot of the bar. And things started to click in my mind even though it didn’t truly hit me until I saw the sequin on the window seat cushion.”

  His eyebrow rose, but he remained silent.

  “I started to wonder if maybe I’d been too quick to assume Deserey’s anger was directed at Blake Zander. After all, there are two other Zander men. I knew it couldn’t be Andy; she’d already said it wasn’t and . . .”

  My grandfather picked up where I left off. “And you sense that he’s a truly good man.”

  I stared at Grandpa Stu. How he knew that, I hadn’t a clue. I’d only brought Andy’s name up once when we talked on the phone. Probably uttered it a second time (okay, maybe six or seven times) over the course of the past twenty-four hours since he showed up on my doorstep, suitcase in hand.

  I ignored the knowing sparkle in my grandfather’s eyes and continued. “So that left Gary. Especially when I factored in that Gary was the one who’d taken the call about Blake, made the command decision to remove him from the Hohlbrook job, and stepped in as the installer.”

  “There was no call, was there?” my grandfather asked, pleased with himself.

  I shook my head. “There was, only it was staged. By Gary and Mitzi.”

  Grandpa Stu leaned back against the sofa and brought his right foot up to rest on his left knee. I recognized the pose. It was his infamous sleuthing pose. Or the early stages of it, anyway. “Then how can you be so sure he didn’t do it? He seems a safe bet in my book.”

  “I asked him outright.”

  My grandfather’s foot dropped to the ground with a thump. “You asked him? Tobi, what would have happened if he had and he decided to get rid of you too?”

  I put my hand on his knee and squeezed, gently. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I leaned to my right and planted a kiss on his temple. “Besides, Gary Zander’s behavior may be questionable at times, but despite all his womanizing, I think he’s an okay guy. I guess my gut knew that even if my brain didn’t.”

  “Okay, so what about Mitzi? If this Preston fella was as wealthy as the papers say, maybe she killed him for the money.”

  I could see how his mind could make that leap. It was the same one mine made when I realized Gary wasn’t responsible for Preston’s murder. So I pointed out the same thing Gary had told me.

  “She couldn’t have.
She was with Gary all night long. Even Deserey attested to that when I asked her after the reading of the will.” I slid out of my jacket and tossed it onto the armchair. The apartment was stifling hot despite the crisp autumn temperatures.

  My grandfather shrugged his apologies. “Sorry, Tobi. I was cold, so I turned up the heat.”

  I smiled an okay at him and forced myself to ignore the utility meter (aka cash sucker) spinning in my head. Sam and I would begin work on Zander’s print brochure on Saturday, which meant another paycheck.

  “So how’d the will go? Mitzi keep her lifestyle?” My grandfather resumed his sleuthing pose and waited for my reply.

  “No! I mean, yeah, she got some money. Probably enough to keep her from ever having to work. But she didn’t get the two biggest assets.” I felt the same shock and disbelief at my retelling of the events as I did when Deserey shared the outcome around crying jags and stunned silence. “Hohlbrook Motors was essentially divided. Fifty percent of all profits will go to the Loving Hands and Helping Hearts charity his beloved first wife founded. The other half will be shared among the four employees who have been with Preston since the company’s birth—including his secretary, Charlotte West.”

  “And the house?”

  “Deserey got it.” The words still seemed so strange, so unbelievable. But I was thrilled for the woman who had loved Preston and Alana Hohlbrook with every ounce of her being.

  I recognized the look that flashed across my grandfather’s face. It was the same expression I’d seen in Gary’s when Deserey shared the news of her new home.

  “No,” I said in a preemptive strike. “Deserey had nothing to do with Preston Hohlbrook’s murder. I’m positive of that. She didn’t have so much as an inkling she would get that house. No one could fake that kind of surprise, not even an Oscar-winning actress.”

  Grandpa Stu stood and walked over to the front window, parting the curtain just enough to peek outside. What he was looking at or for, I had no clue. “How’d Mitzi take news of the house going to the maid?”

  I half turned on the sofa so I could have a better view of my grandfather. “She wasn’t thrilled. But I think she was able to overlook it somewhat thanks to the money she got. I overheard her whispering to Gary afterward that she’d been afraid she’d be cut out completely.”

  He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat, all the while looking at whatever it was he was watching. “How do you think Deserey will handle a house like that?”

  I pushed off the sofa and wandered over to the window, curious to see what had captured my grandfather’s attention. All I could see was Ms. Rapple and Gertrude.

  “I think she’ll be fine. She has taken such pride in that home, in keeping it the way Mr. Hohlbrook liked. If anything, I think her biggest problem will be coming to accept it as her home rather than her employer’s.” I leaned against the wall and rolled my eyes at Gertrude’s restroom selection. Not a big surprise considering I’d already replaced two mums in as many weeks.

  “So who killed Preston Hohlbrook?”

  I pulled my gaze off Ms. Rapple’s ornery little pooch and fixed it on my grandfather. “I haven’t a clue. Which means the media continues their degradation of my slogan and me.”

  “Then don’t give up until you figure it out.”

  My grandfather had a way of cutting to the chase. His listening was second to none, his shoulder perfect for crying jags. But when push came to shove, he’d leave you with a comment or suggestion that would plague your thoughts until a solution was found. Like now.

  I was just about to tell him I was trying, to run him through the paths I’d followed over the past five days, but my effort was cut short by a knock. I pushed off the wall and headed toward the door, my thoughts once again on the list of suspects that had dwindled to none.

  I tugged the door open and grinned when I saw who it was.

  “Hi Sam. Come in.” I stepped back and let Mary Fran’s son pass by, a large black backpack straddling his shoulders. “Think you’ve got enough homework in there?”

  The tow-headed teenager snickered. “My teachers apparently don’t. They keep giving us more and more and more.”

  My grandfather walked over, shook Sam’s hand. “Hello, son. When are you going to quit growing? You must be eating your mom out of house and home.”

  Sam’s face broke into a wide grin as he returned the firm shake and then used his extended arm to pull my grandfather in for a quick hug. “Grandpa Stu, when’d you get into town?”

  “Yesterday, ’bout five or six.”

  “It’s good to see you, sir.” Sam lowered the backpack down his arms, set it on the floor behind the sofa and planted a quick kiss on my cheek in the process. “Mom said you stopped by the shop last night to feed Rudder. What’d you think of Baboo?”

  I felt my body deflate at the thought of Preston’s bird—at his obvious sadness, at the way he’d stopped speaking, at the fact that I had failed in finding the person responsible for his beloved owner’s death.

  I walked into the tiny kitchen area, grabbed a handful of cookies from the jar, and carried them out to Sam. He took one without hesitation. “He looked better than the day I brought him to your mom, but he still wouldn’t talk. In fact, when he heard us mention Preston’s name, he turned his back to us. It was really quite heartbreaking.”

  Sam quietly chewed. When he was done, his eyes strayed to the two remaining cookies in my hand. “It’s true he’s not talking to us. But we’re pretty sure he’s communicating with Rudder.”

  I handed Sam the last of the cookies. “Why do you say that?”

  Shoving the pair into his mouth, Sam mumbled a thank you. “Because Rudder’s learned a new sound over the past few days, and he didn’t get it from mom or me. Or anyone else for that matter. Which leaves Baboo.”

  My grandfather left his post at the front window and grabbed his black-leather loafers from the unofficial shoe-drop spot beside the door. “Got any polish, Tobi?”

  Polish? What would I polish? I shook my head and continued my conversation with Sam.

  “At least that’s some comfort, I guess. It’s been tearing me up thinking this bird is suffering so horribly, and I haven’t been able to do anything to help—” I lost my train of thought at the sight of my grandfather and a wad of paper towels. He was a man on a mission.

  “Baboo will be okay, Tobi. Mom’s fairly optimistic that he’ll pull through this. And she thinks Rudder is the best medicine of all.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “Interesting, considering Rudder gives me agita . . .”

  “Martha sure looks pretty today,” my grandfather said quietly.

  “Martha?”

  “Yes. Your next door neighbor, Martha Rapple. She was outside just now and she looked—”

  “Since when are you on a first-name basis with Ms. Rapple?” I inquired, my stomach feeling the slightest bit queasy as I waited for his response.

  “Since we had thirty minutes alone in the car yesterday.” My grandfather held his fingers side by side and shoved his left hand into his shoe.

  “Excuse me?” I stole a glance in Sam’s direction to see if I was missing something, but he looked as perplexed as I felt. “You spent thirty minutes alone in a car with Ms. Rapple? Yesterday? How? When? And, even more importantly, why?”

  Grandpa Stu turned his shoe-topped hand from side to side and carefully inspected his loafer. “When I called Carter to ask him to come get me at the train station, he was running out the door to that theater place he hangs out at all the time. I told him I wanted to surprise you, so he suggested I call Martha. She was more than happy to oblige.”

  I bet she was. In the two years I’d known her, Ms. Rapple was only pleasant when my grandfather was visiting. Even Mary Fran and Carter had picked up on it, giggling at the idea of fixing them up and sending them on a date. I’d said something about hell freezing over and discarded the notion right then and there. As a result, I’d never let my mind dwell on
the remote possibility that the interest might one day be mutual.

  I pulled my bottom lip inward with my top teeth and tried to think of something to say, something to do to stop the wreck before it happened. Unfortunately, the only ideas I came up with had me throwing myself across the door and grounding my grandfather for the rest of his life. Neither of which I imagined would go over very well.

  “Pphhtt.”

  I snapped my head up and stared at my grandfather as he hocked a giant, wet loogie onto his shoe. When he was pleased with its circumference, he began slowly working it into the leather with a paper towel. When it wouldn’t spread any further, he did it again.

  “Pphhtt.”

  Sam clapped his hands and laughed. “That’s it! That’s it! He’s spitting!”

  I looked at Mary Fran’s son. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what Rudder’s doing! He’s spitting! That’s the sound that Baboo taught him!”

  I heard the garbled sound escape my lips, felt the cool linoleum against my knees. But I couldn’t stop the room from spinning. Sam’s words, sweet and innocent, had knocked the air from my lungs, their terrifying reality hitting me with a sucker punch to the gut I would never forget.

  23

  Have you ever looked at a picture from a slightly different angle only to spot something in the background you’d never noticed before? Or listened to a song you’d heard a million times and finally realized what the fifth word in the third line was—and that it totally changed what you’d thought the song was about?

  That’s what my world felt like at that exact moment. The picture’s seemingly inconsequential background was now the focal point. The strange rambling lyrics were now poetic. And I was a certifiable idiot for not putting two and two together until now.

  I took several slow, deep breaths and opened my eyes, anxious to see if the walls had stopped spinning. But I couldn’t see them, didn’t know if they were spinning or moving or sticking their tongue out at me. All I could see were two worried faces pressed close to mine, each wearing the same clueless expression I’d been sporting since finding Preston Hohlbrook’s body.