And that bizarre comment about Jeanie….
“Hey.”
She turned at the sound of Libby’s voice. The woman’s blond hair was a mess, and her pink mouth drooped. “Hey, Libby. What’s going on?”
Libby dropped into the visitor’s chair. “I’m suffering withdrawal. Bloomingdale’s is having a white sale.”
Belinda bit back a smile. “Oh.”
“I can’t stand the thought of all those goodies over there twenty, thirty, even forty percent off. Think of all the money I could be saving.”
“But think of all the money you’ll save by not shopping at all.”
“I know, I know. But you know that thrill of buying something new?”
Belinda thought of her naughty red couch and flushed. “Of course. But needing that kind of high to the point of risking your financial security isn’t healthy.”
Libby pointed to her brain. “Here, I know that. But here”—she rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal “money” symbol—“I just keep thinking four hundred thread-count white Egyptian sheets on clearance.” She moaned. “I need to win the lottery. Life isn’t fair.”
“True enough.”
Carole appeared in the cubicle opening, her arms full of padded envelopes. “Are you all having a party without me?”
“Pity party for me,” Libby said.
“Bloomingdale’s sale?”
Libby nodded miserably. “I ate at my desk and cried over the sale circular. What are you doing up here looking so chipper?”
Carole grinned. “I rode up the elevator with Hunky Hank—we were stuck between the fourth and fifth floor for ten whole minutes.” She gave Belinda an accusing look. “You’re holding out on us. He said he carried up something for you yesterday.”
Belinda pointed to a gray crate sitting under her desk. “My collection of exciting reference books.”
“Still, I think he digs you.” Carole jerked her thumb toward Belinda’s slice of window. “Speaking of digging, I wanted to take a look at the, um, bushes.”
One side of Libby’s mouth slid back. “Yeah, right.”
They all headed over and looked down. Eight floors down, a half-dozen shirtless men were stacking stone around the bases of newly planted trees. Blonds, brunettes, tall, stocky—it was a veritable smorgasbord of bronzed man-meat. Belinda wondered how many women were standing at their office windows ogling the unsuspecting laborers—not that it kept her from getting an eyeful for herself.
Carole emitted a hungry noise. “Maybe one of those guys is my destiny. Ricky said he was right under my nose.”
“See the tall blond?” Libby asked. “Word is, that’s one of Margo’s boy-toys.”
Belinda looked again—stringy hair, dirty hat. “He looks a little…”
“Skanky? I’ll say. Must be a power thing.”
She shook herself. Here she stood gossiping about her boss’s supposed conquests when her body still sang from the application of Julian’s hands.
Carole turned her back to the window. “So, how was helicopter man?”
Belinda blinked. “Hm?”
“Didn’t you meet him at the gym?”
“Oh. Julian’s…fine. He asked me to go to Raleigh with him this weekend.”
Libby’s eyes narrowed. “So, are you dumping us?”
“No.” Belinda smiled, then moved back toward her cubicle. “I’m looking forward to being pampered at the spa for a few hours.”
“Good girl.” Libby snapped her fingers. “Hey, I need to look up something in that policy and procedures manual I loaned you.”
“Do you need it back?” Belinda asked, reaching for the thick three-ring binder. “I can take out the pages I’m using.”
“No, I want to double-check something in case I’m summoned for my evaluation with Margo this afternoon.”
“Summoned? You mean the interviews aren’t scheduled?”
“Heck, no—she likes to catch people off guard. Some people will get their comeuppance today, and the rest of us will have to sweat it out over the weekend.”
Belinda’s stomach clenched. She made a mental note to see if there was a section in the manual on employee hanky-panky. She hefted the bulky binder from the corner of her desk and stared down at the object that had been sufficiently hidden beneath—her electronic address book. One mystery solved.
Libby ran a finger down a page in the manual, read for a few seconds, then slammed the book closed. “Too many rules,” she muttered.
Belinda and Carole exchanged a perplexed glance, then Clancy came around the corner, carrying a zippered cash bag. “Is this a hen party, or can I join?”
“Hens only,” Libby said. “So you’re fine.”
He stuck his tongue out at her. “I came to see Belinda.” He shook the money bag. “Time to pay for your delicious couch.”
“We’ll see you later,” Libby said and walked away with Carole.
Belinda pulled a key from her jacket pocket to unlock the drawer where she’d placed the envelope of cash. “I’m already having buyer’s remorse.”
“Honey, are you Catholic?”
“Baptist.”
“Worse. You know you’ll probably go to hell for buying a red leather couch.”
She handed over fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, don’t worry—Margo says it isn’t such a bad place.”
She shook her finger at him. “Stop it. Are all the couches sold?”
He nodded. “You, me, Rosemary, Monica Tanner—she settled for the black one—a lady in HR and a friend of Carole’s from the mail room bought the other two.” He held her wad of money under his nose and inhaled before tucking it into his cash bag. “I haven’t had this much money since managing the Who Will Margo Fire Next? pool.”
Rather than responding, Belinda thought it was safer to change the subject. “So when can I expect my yummy couch to be delivered?”
“Next Wednesday was the earliest I could arrange to get yours and Rosemary’s on a truck. I need your address, and I have to write on the order if the delivery guys will have to carry the sofa up any stairs.”
She reached for a notepad. “It’s a town house, and they won’t have to maneuver stairs. My living room is level with my yard.”
“That’ll make the boys happy. Do you need for them to haul away your old couch? They can drop it at Goodwill.”
“Thanks, but I don’t have a couch right now.”
“Ah. Did your ex-husband get all the furniture?”
She blinked. “Well…”
He brushed off her embarrassment. “Honey, there are no secrets around here.”
She so hoped that wasn’t true. “We, um, divided up everything. He got the couch, and I got the cat.”
He grinned. “You’re a cat lover?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Downey and I sort of tolerate each other, I guess. She misses my…ex.”
“Yeah, cats can sulk, just like people. Have you tried warming up her food?”
“No.”
“Trust me—a few seconds in the microwave, and she’ll be your friend for life.” He checked his watch. “Gotta run. I have a feeling that Margo’s going to call me for my evaluation so she can ruin my weekend. I’ve heard that raises this year are more scarce than a Gay Pride flag in Cobb County.”
There was that stomach twinge again. “Good luck.”
After he walked away, she massaged her temples. She and her friends were experiencing individual dramas that would rival anything on The Single Files—Libby with her finances, Carole with her marriage-for-hire, Rosemary with her body’s limitations, and she with her sudden…truth issues.
She smoothed her hand over the sleek surface of the address book. At least she’d be able to call her mother later with Suzanne’s address. It was one of the reasons her mother had postponed the cross-country trip for so long, because she had obsessed over every little loose end of the non-wedding. Her poor mother would
probably collapse when everything was finally over and done with.
Belinda stopped—when everything was over and done with? She and Vince were over and done with. Hadn’t she proved that by moving three states away? By not tearing open the envelope he’d sent her? By having an…encounter with another man?
Maybe she’d jot a quick note on the back of Vince’s envelope before sending it back: Having too much fun in the dry sauna with my new helicopter pilot lover.
She lifted her chin. And she had a good mind to let Lt. Alexander know that she could darn well take care of herself where Julian Hardeman was concerned. She put her hand on the phone and picked it up in defiance. She could at least call the man and let him know she’d found her address book. She looked up the phone number for the Atlanta PD, asked for him, and was transferred to the Midtown precinct.
“Alexander,” he barked.
Her tongue was suddenly glued to the roof of her mouth from the frivolity of her phone call. The man was probably dealing with a triage of serious crimes, and she was taking up his time with this trifling matter. “Lieutenant Alexander, this is Belinda Hennessey.”
“Hello.” His voice eased a tad.
She wet her lips. “I just called to let you know that I found my address book.” She wondered if she sounded as stupid as she felt.
“Oh. Good.”
Apparently so. “But I appreciate you taking the time to look for it.”
“Sure thing.”
“And for taking the time to stop by my building to return my, um, pillow.”
“No problem.”
She smiled into the phone. “Just doing your job, right?”
“I guess so, ma’am.”
So they were back to the ma’aming. “Okay, well, I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Ms. Hennessey?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to agree, Lieutenant, but I’m actually a good driver.”
“I mean be careful at your office. There was a terrible incident in your building a few months back.”
Apprehension settled on her shoulders, and she chose her words carefully. “You mean the woman who fell down the elevator shaft?”
“So you heard about it.”
“Yes, but…how does something like that happen these days?”
“The Stratford Plaza building is over twenty-five years old—its infrastructure isn’t the best, but regardless, the incident shouldn’t have occurred.”
“Sounds like a maintenance problem.”
He didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “Just watch your step.”
She frowned—two similar warnings in the same day? This was starting to get creepy. “Don’t worry about me, Lieutenant,” she said lightly. “I always take the stairs.”
“Well, in case anything unusual happens, I want you to have my cell phone number.”
She entered the number into her electronic organizer as he rattled it off. Warning bells sounded in her ears—was he truly concerned about her safety, or was he trying to…no, of course the man wasn’t interested. He was going through a divorce, for heaven’s sake. “Lieutenant, what do you mean by ‘unusual’?”
“Nothing specific,” he replied, his voice casual. “Just keep your eyes open.”
“I will.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” She wet her lips, overcome with the urge to say she’d heard about his divorce and just wanted to say that things would be fine. But she didn’t know him well enough, and she didn’t know that things would be fine—for her or him. “So…good-bye then.”
“Good-bye.”
She returned the receiver to its cradle and pursed her mouth. Cop-speak notwithstanding, she found it curious that he’d referred to Jeanie Lawford’s fall as an “incident” rather than an “accident.” She was probably reading too much into the conversation, she told herself, because of this affinity she was feeling toward the dead woman. It was eerie enough to know that she’d taken Jeanie’s place in the car pool, but had she also taken the woman’s place in Julian’s…lunch hour?
“Guess we all dodged a bullet today,” Libby said as they piled into the Honda.
“A reprieve from evaluations,” Carole said.
“At least we’re employed through the weekend,” Rosemary said.
Belinda fastened her seat belt. “Are you worried about your job, Rosemary?”
The woman shrugged. “My primary duty is to front for Juneau, keep him apprised of what’s going on in the office. Margo sees me as an obstacle.” She shook her head. “I’ve been with the company for thirty years, started when Tal was in preschool, but loyalty doesn’t mean anything these days.”
“Not to Margo,” Carole said.
“Surely Mr. Archer will protect your job,” Belinda said.
“He’s all but turned the company over to her,” Rosemary murmured.
Libby clicked her belt into place. “Margo won’t be happy until she’s CEO, president, and queen of the universe.”
Belinda turned over the engine, backed out, and began winding her way down from the eighth floor of the parking garage. Now she understood what had been causing the pucker in Rosemary’s brow. At Rosemary’s age, reemployment at such a high administrative level might be difficult to secure. Belinda tightened her grip on the steering wheel—they were going to be a somber bunch for the ride home.
And she dreaded the Friday rush hour traffic, which was triple the mess of any other day of the week. Then, after an interminable drive, she’d spend the evening watching a fuzzy television while Downey ignored her. Maybe she’d go through the remaining packing boxes and clear more space for the impending couch. Maybe she’d finish the book she’d been reading. Maybe Julian would call, and she’d have another chance to figure out how she felt about what they’d done.
She was forced to stop on the sixth floor of the parking garage behind a solid line of cars. “What’s going on?” Libby asked.
Belinda heard the telltale chopper blades on the radio and turned up the volume. “Folks, this is a red alert—due to a gas main break, the Georgia D.O.T. just closed down I-85 at the Druid Hills exit. If you haven’t left downtown, your options are limited.”
The girls all moaned and flopped back in their seats. Belinda winced, glad that Downey didn’t have to be walked.
“Peachtree northbound is already a parkin’ lot,” Julian continued, his speech stretched around exaggerated vowels. “Roswell Road is jammed, ditto Buford Highway. If you’re just now leavin’ your office in Midtown, my advice is to pull that little Honda over at the next waterin’ hole and wait this one out!”
“Belinda, he was talking to you!” Carole said, bouncing in her seat.
Belinda’s face suffused with heat. Their encounter must have meant something to him if he singled her out of three million people.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Libby said, “but I could go for a martini.”
“The man had a point,” Rosemary said. “We might as well go someplace cool and wait until the traffic thins.”
“Gypsy Joe’s is just a couple of blocks over,” Carole said. “I haven’t been there in ages. Not since—” She pressed her lips together.
“Jeanie liked it there,” Libby said with a sad smile. “Let’s go raise one for her.”
Belinda hesitated—Jeanie again.
Rosemary pointed. “Pull into that parking space. We’ll never get out on Peachtree in this mess, and it’s faster to walk anyway.”
Outnumbered, Belinda did as she was told. Anything was better than sitting in traffic. And the mood in the car had improved considerably.
“Can I lock my laptop in your trunk?” Libby asked.
Belinda sighed. “Sorry, the latch is still broken. Can you slide it under the seat?”
“Speaking of under the seat,” Carole said, “did you ever get a weapon?”
“Not yet,” Belinda said with a
wry smile.
“I’m bringing my legal pad,” Libby declared. “We can work on our book.”
“Getting a book published would solve your money problems,” Carole offered.
Rosemary scoffed. “We’ll probably have to pay to have it published.”
Feeling as if she were still standing on the periphery of the women’s friendships, Belinda listened to their banter as they walked to the elevator bay.
“I think I’ll take the stairs,” she announced.
Libby frowned. “The elevator’s here. Ride with us.”
Fit in with us. Belinda wavered, but the repulsion of the elevator was stronger, as if Jeanie’s spirit lingered there. “No, thanks. I need the exercise.”
Libby shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Before the doors closed, the three women were engrossed in conversation.
Belinda turned toward the door to the stairs, wondering if she was wired to always choose the solitary way.
Chapter 12
Belinda met up with the women at the entrance to the parking garage, and Carole pointed down the sidewalk in front of the Stratford Building. “This way.”
“Looks like we made the right choice,” Rosemary murmured, surveying the gridlock of cars.
Belinda agreed. Peachtree Street and side streets were jammed with cars, SUVs, delivery trucks, and minivans. The only movement came from bicycles and scooters weaving through traffic, and pedestrians on the sidewalks.
Her ears buzzed from the lively noise of horns honking, music blasting out of lowered windows, and the hum of engines. Hazy heat rose from the sea of metal, blurring the mid-rises and high-rises on the horizon. Belinda’s feet slowed as a change came over her—excitement buoyed in her chest, and she somehow knew that she wanted to be part of this dynamic city.
In front of her, Libby tossed over her shoulder, “All this ruckus is crazy, isn’t it?”
Inspired, Belinda stopped and lifted her arms, as if she could embrace the atmosphere. “I love the energy.” She lifted her face to the sun, but her smile faded at the sight of a large dark object hurtling toward the ground—and her. A body? She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice was paralyzed. Thank goodness her feet had a mind of their own, carrying her backward just as the object plowed into the sidewalk. The crowd around her shrank with a collective gasp and stopped to stare at the splattered mess. Her heart stuttered back into rhythm when she realized the matter on her shoes wasn’t blood but dirt. A pulverized plant lay at her feet in a heap of broken pottery.
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