Death in Advertising

by Laura Bradford

  “You okay, Tobes?” Sam pressed the back of his hand to my forehead while my grandfather checked the pulse in my neck. “You look a little—”

  “Sick,” Grandpa Stu interjected. “You need a puke bucket?”

  Good Lord, a puke bucket? I hadn’t needed one of those in ten years, thanks to a disinterest in alcohol, a good immune system, and stellar eating habits. (Okay, so maybe stellar was a stretch, but how often do you hear of people getting food poisoning from Cocoa Puffs and chocolate bars?) It was a decade-long streak I wasn’t about to break now.

  “I’m okay. Really.” I struggled to my feet and accepted the bottle of water from Sam’s outstretched hand. The cold liquid felt good against my throat and slowly helped to wipe away any lingering fog. “I . . . I just . . .”

  My grandfather’s whitish-gray eyebrows dipped downward as he studied me from head to toe. I recognized the look as one I’d gotten many times over the past twenty-eight years. Usually when I’d been talking a mile a minute and he was trying to catch up.

  “What’s going on, Sugar Lump? What did I miss?”

  I reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s what I missed, Grandpa. Not you. It was right there all along, and I just didn’t see it. Now that I do, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Tell me about it.” He turned his hand inside mine and led me over to the sofa, Ms. Rapple no longer the focal point of his thoughts or actions. It was a comforting place to be and one I didn’t take for granted.

  I sunk onto the cushion beside my grandfather and rested my head on his shoulder the way I had so many times before. Yet this time was different. I’d run a race completely on my own, and I’d figured out so much about myself in the process.

  “I know who did it, Grandpa.”

  Those six little words felt incredible as they rolled off my tongue and out my mouth. It was what I’d been trying to figure out all week, what I’d focused virtually every waking thought on since realizing the answer was about more than just fitting the final piece in a tricky puzzle or finding a way to salvage the reputation of my company. It was about right and wrong. About finding justice in the wake of evil.

  I felt his shoulder pull back just before he guided my focus onto him via a finger beneath my chin. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I know who killed Preston Hohlbrook. Baboo’s been trying to tell us since that very first morning. Only no one listened.”

  Sam walked around the end table and dropped onto the armchair. “You mean the noise he taught Rudder?”

  I nodded. “Exactly. Think about it. He said one sentence over and over that first day. Do you remember what it was, Sam?”

  Sam scrunched his face in concentration. “All I remember is something about his daddy.”

  “His daddy?” my grandfather asked.

  “Yes. That’s what he called Preston. He would say ‘Baboo’s Daddy’ and then make that spitting sound. He did it two or three times before we ever went in the closet and found Mr. Hohlbrook’s body. Remember?”

  Finally Sam’s eyes showed the confirmation I’d been waiting for. “Now that you say it, yeah, I remember. But what does that have to do with the killer? And how does that tell you who did it?”

  I turned to my grandfather. “Do you remember what you and Carter said at the pet shop the other night? About Baboo being a witness to the crime? He was! That sound is his way of trying to tell us who did it. It’s a sound he must have heard during the crime and/or the hiding of Preston’s body.”

  “But who would spit like that during a crime?”

  “Someone who is addicted to chewing tobacco. Someone who chews and spits it morning, noon, and night.” I heard the rise in my voice, felt the quickened beat of my heart as I rushed to explain my thought process. “Someone who saw the writing on the wall for his company.”

  “Who?” Sam asked.

  “Mike Stanley.” There was something enormously validating, yet painfully sad, about saying his name aloud, voicing my suspicions for others to hear and digest. I recalled our lunch together and the way he’d reacted when I said Zander Closet Company was their agency’s loss and my gain.

  It was sure looking that way, wasn’t it? The loss potential there was enormous.

  I’d taken the comment as confirmation that he, too, saw Preston’s murder as a blotch on my career. A blotch that was so big, so messy, that I’d never be a threat to Beckler and Stanley—or any other advertising agency in town.

  Yet that’s not what he’d meant at all. The success of my slogan was getting noticed by big clients. His and John’s big clients. The loss potential to their company was enormous. A loss he had to nip in the bud.

  My grandfather closed his eyes and said nothing for a full minute, his finger tapping his chin as he sat in silence. Sam’s mouth gaped open while he looked around the room in an obvious attempt to place a name he’d heard many times before.

  When Grandpa finally spoke, his words were slow and measured, as if he was unsure of how to proceed. “That’s the fella you used to work with at that ad agency, isn’t it? The one who took you under his wing and showed you the ropes? The one who encouraged you even when your other boss was being so lousy?”

  Sam chimed in as his memory, too, clicked into place. “I thought you liked him.”

  I blinked at the sudden burning in my eyes. “Yeah. That’s him. And I did like him. I respected him. Looked up to him. That’s why this hurts so much.

  “Look. I know how this sounds, I really do. But there are pretty substantial dots that led me to him. Baboo’s noise just connected them all together.” I looked from my grandfather, to Sam, and back again, and waited for any sign that they were following my train of thought.

  When there was none, I continued. “I think it hit me this morning. Or, rather, my subconscious. But Sam, when you pinpointed Baboo’s sound to a spit, my mind immediately went to Mike. And that’s when everything started to make sense.” I half-turned on my cushion so I could see both Sam and my grandfather at the same time. “The other night at the bar, Gary said he’d seen Mike while he was waiting for someone. That he was spitting his chew onto the stone walkway and into the birdbath.”

  “How does that make him the killer?” Sam asked as he slid off the arm chair and moved closer to the sofa.

  “Gary always parked by the service entrance to the Hohlbrook house. It’s the same place I parked this morning.” I stopped to take a breath, then hurried on when I saw the blank look on my grandfather’s face. “There’s a stone walkway and a birdbath on the way to the Hohlbrook’s back door.”

  I heard the conviction in my voice as I put my cards on the table and waited for my atta girl. But it didn’t come. At least not in the fast-and-easy manner I’d expected.

  “There are stone walkways and birdbaths in yards all over St. Louis,” Sam said quietly.

  “But don’t you see? Gary was waiting out in the driveway for Mitzi on Friday night.” I heard the exasperation in my words but couldn’t stop it. This was easy. The puzzle was fitting perfectly. Why couldn’t they see that?

  “Did Gary say that’s when he saw Mike?” My grandfather rubbed his hands over his eyes and mouth and then leaned his head against the back of the sofa. He looked tired, worn out.

  “Well, no. But it fits.” The words poured from my mouth as I tried to make them see what I was seeing, to realize I was right even though it was painful for me to admit. Mike Stanley killed Preston Hohlbrook. “Gary didn’t want to tell me who he’d been waiting for, and now I know why. He didn’t want to admit he had a thing with Mitzi. But sitting in his truck, waiting, he’d have had a clear view of the stone walkway and the birdbath.”

  “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Why would this Stanley fella have been at the Hohlbrooks’ house on a Friday night?” Grandpa Stu crossed his arms against his chest and waited for more details.

  “Because my slogan for Zander was getting fantastic media coverage and Preston had noticed. He hated the campaign Be
ckler and Stanley had created for Hohlbrook Motors and wanted to talk to me. Losing Hohlbrook Motors would have been devastating for their agency.

  “And, on top of that, Andy told me that he’d taken a call from Craig Miticker about me. They’re old college buddies. I wasn’t privy to the conversation between them, but whatever was said left Andy with the distinct impression that Craig Miticker was interested in working with me too.”

  “Who’s Craig Miticker?” Sam asked from his spot on the floor.

  “The brains behind New Town out in St. Charles.” I grasped Grandpa Stu’s knee and rushed to fill in the blank spots. “Losing Hohlbrook Motors would be pretty devastating to Beckler and Stanley all on its own. But losing New Town on top of that would have been absolutely crippling to their hold in the St. Louis area. A dozen little companies, heck two dozen little companies, can’t compare to the kind of revenue one of the big accounts can bring in.”

  “Interesting . . .”

  I stared at my grandfather. “It makes sense to you, doesn’t it? Please, Grandpa, you’ve got to see this.”

  He scooted forward on the sofa and pulled me in for a quick hug. “Oh I see it, Sugar Lump, I see it. But we still need confirmation. You can’t take this to the cops without a little more to go on.”

  “Confirmation of what?”

  “That it was really Mike that Gary saw, and that it was really Friday night that he saw him.” Sam pulled up on his knees and tossed me the phone.

  “You’re a smart young man, Sam,” my grandfather said as he raised his hand to the teenager. Sam grinned and high-fived him back.

  Normally, I’d have seized that statement as an opportunity to pout, to demand my well-deserved accolades. But today wasn’t normal. Nothing about this scenario was normal or right.

  “Call Gary.” My grandfather pointed at the phone.

  I jumped up, walked over to my backpack, and rifled through it until I came to Gary’s business card. Consulting the mobile number on the bottom left corner, I punched in the numbers and waited (not so patiently).

  “Gary, here.”

  “Gary, it’s Tobi.”

  “Hey.” His voice was lacking its usual playboy banter, its tone now wary. It’s funny, but I’d turned a corner in my thinking of Andy’s brother. Sure, I still disapproved of his playboy ways, how could I not? But as disappointing as that was, I’d seen something real, something genuine in his eyes when he spoke of Mitzi that morning. The apprehension in his voice over telling his brother what he’d done had also been real. And so was the reason: He didn’t want to disappoint Andy.

  “I need to ask you a very important question.” I wanted to tell him it was okay, to reassure him I wouldn’t tell Andy about his fling with Mitzi, but I had more pressing things to discuss with him. “Remember how you told me you waited outside for Mitzi on Friday night?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Did you see anyone while you were sitting out there? Anyone at all?” I held my breath as I waited for his reply, felt my grandfather’s cheek against mine as he moved in to hear.

  “Besides Mitzi?”

  I bit my tongue from screaming yes at the top of my lungs. Instead, I gave my assent in a more subdued manner. “Yes, besides Mitzi.”

  “No. Why?”

  I felt my stomach drop to my knees as my grandfather straightened up and moved away.

  “Wait! That’s not right.”

  I sucked in my breath at the change in Gary’s response. Grandpa Stu’s eyes widened, and he resumed his pose just in time to hear Gary continue.

  “I saw Mike. Mike Stanley. But he was on his cell phone and looked like he was pretty engrossed, so I’m not sure he saw me.”

  Grandpa’s fist rose into the air and I caught Sam’s smile in return. We had him. We had the killer right where I suspected.

  “Did you tell the cops that?” I asked quickly.

  “No. Mitzi didn’t want my name getting wrapped up in this. She was afraid our”—he stopped, sucked in a breath, and then let it out—“affair would bring the cops sniffing around at her door. And Lord knows I didn’t want Andy to find out either.”

  My grandfather slid his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Ask him what else he remembers.”

  I nodded. But as I was about to inquire, our conversation from that morning loomed large in my thoughts. When he saw the number he rolled his eyes and said something about people not knowing when to give up.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered aloud, as more pieces began to fall into place.

  “What?” Gary asked.

  “This morning, when you were telling me about Preston’s reaction to Mitzi going out Friday night, you said he got a call. That when he saw the number, he rolled his eyes and commented on people not knowing when to give up.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Mitzi said he was tense when he hung up the phone.”

  “How long was Mike on the phone when he passed you by?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

  “Not long. Maybe a minute or two. Certainly no more than that.”

  I looked at my grandfather as he pulled away from the phone for a moment, his eyes beaming with pride as he met my gaze straight on. His lips mouthed the words good work.

  But I wasn’t done. Not quite yet. “Gary, is Mitzi around by chance?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end, and I rushed to allay his fears in favor of the final confirmation I needed. “Look, Gary. What you do with your personal life is your business. I’m not asking about Mitzi to check up on you. I’m asking because I think I figured out who killed her husband. Is she there, Gary?”

  The slight background sounds evident during the call were muffled momentarily and then replaced by a now familiar voice.

  “I’m here, Tobi.”

  “Mitzi, when you left the house Friday night, who did you pass?” The question was rather rhetorical since I knew the answer. But it was really just the initial step to get me where I wanted to be.

  “Mike Stanley.”

  “Were you expecting him?” I asked quickly.

  “I wasn’t. But I think Preston was,” Mitzi said, her voice quivering.

  “Why do you say that? Did he tell you he was waiting for Mike?”

  “No. But when I was walking out, he told me to leave the door open. That he needed to have a word with someone who was on their way in.” It sounded as if Mitzi blew her nose before continuing. “Mike was the only person I saw.”

  I’m not sure if I thanked Mitzi for her time, or even if I said good-bye. The only thing I was aware of was the look on my grandfather’s face when I pulled the phone from my ear.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, my voice suddenly missing in action. It was a hollow victory in a lot of ways. Sure, Preston Hohlbrook’s killer would be brought to justice, and my agency could get out from under the media’s high-powered spotlight. But in discovering the whodunit, I’d lost someone I’d looked up to, respected. And that’s the kind of loss that was hard to set aside.

  Grandpa Stu slid his arm around my shoulders and met the side of my head with his own. As always, he got it. Got me.

  We stood that way for what seemed like an eternity. Until I broke the silence with a question I wanted to ask, yet knew was unanswerable. “What is it about men and my inability to find decent ones? I mean, I really believed Nick was the one I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I thought he was my soul mate—the person I was going to have and to hold from this day forward, forsaking all others, you know? But he wasn’t. He was bedding another woman the whole time. And with Mike, I thought I’d found a mentor—someone who could show me the ropes of the advertising world with honor and integrity. Yet he had neither.” I closed my eyes against the tears I refused to shed. Crying didn’t fix things. Understanding did. “When am I going to get with the program and start seeing? Or, better yet, when am I going to finally cut my losses and stop trying?”

  “Hopefully never.” Grandpa Stu turned a
nd faced me, his wrinkled, yet powerful hands holding my forearms. “Sugar Lump, they weren’t men. Not that Nick fella who broke your heart, or this Mike Stanley person who broke your trust. Real men don’t do that.”

  I looked up at my grandfather and peered into the eyes that had guided me through life with love and faith. Then I looked at Sam, at the gentle, loving young man who had more wisdom and sensitivity than guys three times his age.

  Once again, Grandpa was right. All I needed to do was find a man of their caliber, somewhere between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five.

  24

  The ride out to Brentwood was quiet. Some of that, I suppose, was the simple fact it was seven forty-five on a Saturday morning. Some, because my passenger’s face was buried in the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reading the print version of the past day and a half of my nutso life.

  “Hey, it says in here that Mike Stanley confessed,” Sam said.

  Looking out my (okay, Mary Fran’s) side mirror, I slid into the far left lane of Highway 40. We were making good time, but I didn’t want to run the risk that a few pokey lights on Brentwood Boulevard would make us late for the closet shoot. “He did. Apparently, when the cops pulled him in for questioning, he caved. Said he never meant to kill Preston, but that their argument got out of hand. And then fear took over.”

  Sam reached into the bag between our seats, extracted a glazed Krispy Kreme donut, and shoved it in his mouth. “Annnd ou ere ight?”

  “Come again?” I asked with mock seriousness as I stole a sideways glance at my friend’s son, his mouth stuffed with glazed-covered carbs.

  He shot his left index finger in the air for a moment, and I looked back at the road in time to see the half-mile warning for the exit I needed. With a quick glance into the rearview mirror, I maneuvered Mary Fran’s Beamer across the two right lanes.

  “What I asked was if you were right? You know, about the reason he killed Mr. Hohlbrook.”

  “Ohhhhh, is that what you said? Because I distinctly heard ‘ou ere ight’.”