2 Executive Retention

by Maria E. Schneider

  Derrick's partner, Adrian Williams, and his wife Sarah were already there. They brought a wonderful German chocolate cake. Derrick managed some sort of cranberry concoction. I tried in vain to substitute the Stove Top stuffing, but ended up lamely telling Brenda there wouldn't be enough regular stuffing. The only really tense moment was when Sarah commented on the "bread pudding."

  I quickly advised eating it for dessert. I hoped to be able to somehow get the soggy mess off the table by then.

  My mother decided to take more immediate action. She grabbed the serving spoon out of the bowl and rushed off as though it had suddenly sprouted dog hair. Sean, thinking it was an opening, came around the other side of the table, grabbed the whole bowl and yelled, "I'll get a serving spoon."

  I'm sure what happened next was an accident because my brother would never intentionally risk my mother's wrath. She must have been on her way back out of the kitchen when Sean turned inside the kitchen entryway.

  "Sean O'Hala, what--" my mom sputtered. Sean stepped back, but the damage was...extensive. Soggy stuffing dripped in large clumps down the front of Mom's shirt.

  There was one of those funny little family silences before Sean sputtered out an apology.

  Brenda made a fuss. "Give me that! Sean, you've wasted half the stuffing! It's a good thing Sedona made Stove Top." She bustled into the kitchen and grabbed the spoon mom had just rinsed and put in the drying rack. "My first Thanksgiving dinner, and you spilled half of it."

  Plop, onto the table went the remainder of the goo.

  We all milled about again, pretending to be busy while Brenda showed Mom into the bedroom to change clothes.

  During the confusion, Mark leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I take it I am to avoid the, uh, bread pudding?"

  I nodded emphatically and whispered back, "Very avoidable."

  We said a blessing and passed the food around. Naturally, someone asked how the pregnancy was evolving. Brenda launched into an account of her worries. "I'm so nervous about everything; the baby, my job, gaining weight!" She passed the mashed potatoes without taking any. "I know I'm going to balloon into an impossible size!"

  She looked coyly around the table, expecting the usual, "of course not, not you, you'll be great." Instead, Dad took the bowl of potatoes and gave himself an extra large helping before offering her the bowl back. "Go ahead, you know you're eating for two. You probably won't get too fat. Maybe medium fat."

  Brenda looked from the bowl to his face. She sniffed. "How do you know?"

  Mom's eyes widened. I gave Mark a tight smile. He looked rather interested in the conversation, but he didn't know my family very well.

  "Now, dear--" Mom, as always, tried.

  Dad, as always, was not about to be deterred. "You can always tell. I grew up on a ranch, you know. That's how I became so interested in agriculture."

  For a scant moment, I thought he might stop there, but he was only pausing to pour gravy over the turkey and potatoes. "Some cows get bigger than others. They carry the calf real sloppy, low the whole time and they look much, much fatter. They tend to be the ones with wide hips. Now you, you've got medium hips so you'll only get medium fat. And you're young yet. The older cows learn from the first pregnancy to push the other cows out of the way so they can eat heartier. Since this is your first, you won't gain as much weight, but you'll sneak in enough food that your feet will disappear. By and by all you'll see is tummy no matter how you look at it."

  I swallowed. I was sure Dad shouldn't be telling her this. I spoke louder than normal. "Uh, I'll take some potatoes."

  Dad, oblivious Dad, continued. "The whole ordeal is an absolute mess, of course. You're lucky you don't have to give birth right out there on God's earth. Not that you'll be looking much better than the cows do even though you'll be in a pristine hospital room."

  Brenda's chin turned red. "You're comparing me to a cow?" The color crept slowly up her cheeks.

  "It's not all that different, you know. During birth, the cow moos, the woman makes a God-awful amount of noise that sort of sounds like mooing now that I think of it. Don't you think so, Mom?"

  My mother, unlike Brenda, had gone white. She held her fork at a rather dangerous angle. "I do not recall mooing."

  I decided to try and keep the family alive. "Uh, well, yes, we're all so very happy about the baby. Dad is overcome with…emotion. He doesn't mean to compare you to a cow."

  "No emotion in the cows, although they bellow like they are going to die. ‘Course when those gangly long legs start pushing out, I'd guess a bellow is called for. Looks like it's mighty painful." Dad stopped to eat a bite. "Now at least pigs lie down when they give birth. More comfortable. Come to think of it, the little piglets are smaller too. Course pigs have to give birth to lots of piglets at one time. I'm sure you'll only have one," he nodded encouragingly towards Brenda.

  Brenda didn't look the least bit comforted. In fact, tears were imminent. Her lower lip trembled.

  "The turkey is really delicious," I mumbled. "I better try the stuffing. Brenda this meal looks fabulous." Now I found myself stuck with the bowl of slop in my hand. I thought about faking a spoonful, but Brenda's eyes were suddenly glued to the bowl.

  "We're very excited we're going to have grandchildren," my mother said, leaning over to wipe invisible crumbs from Dad's mouth. She dabbed much harder than necessary.

  Dad glared at her, but might have finally gotten the hint.

  Brenda took a deep breath. "I don't think I'll have piglets."

  I smiled tightly, put two spoonfuls on my plate and prepared to set the bowl down. Mark touched my leg under the table with his knee.

  I dared a glance at him. His eyes twinkled madly, as if gales of laughter were being held back by sheer force of will. His hand was out. I passed him the bowl.

  He put two very small spoonfuls on his plate and set the bowl down.

  Our efforts were enough. Brenda's face went from red to pink. She sniffed, but only once. Her eyes looked as though they might contain tears, but they didn't spill over.

  I took an extra roll and positioned it so that Brenda couldn't see the stuffing on my plate. Maybe I could hollow out the middle of the roll and hide the stuffing inside when she wasn't watching.

  When I passed the bread to Mark, he took an extra one as well. His leg brushed mine again.

  We all ate as though our lives depended upon it. I refused to watch Brenda's face when she tried her stuffing.

  I didn't even pretend to eat the goo, but Brenda must not have thought much of that first bite because she didn't ask anyone else for an opinion.

  I thought the rest of the meal went rather well. I was able to smash my extra roll on top of the stuffing. Mark left half a roll strategically placed as well. I made a point to take his plate when it was time to clear the table, but no one save Brenda would have held the hidden stuffing against him.

  Mark made his excuses right after dessert so I walked him to his car. I wasn't certain, but I thought the gun-metal gray Lexus SUV was one of the new hybrids. He glanced at the house and looked amused when I stayed carefully out of reach. "I owe your sister-in-law and brother," he said.

  "No, you don't. Brenda takes care of people for a living."

  "Good thing she's better at that than cooking."

  "Damn straight," I agreed.

  "Interesting family you got there." His hand was on the door, but I guess since I was a little too obvious about not being noticed or making a scene, he snaked his other arm out and snagged me. "Afraid?" he murmured, his lips hovering near mine. "Shouldn't have brought me home to meet the parents if you were embarrassed." He then proceeded to convince me that I didn't care what anyone else thought about it.

  From my response, I think he could safely dismiss any real concern. He smiled smugly and left me trying to catch my breath and find my knees.

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, Derrick showed up at my door dressed in his detective uniform. He had a decidedly grim
set to his mouth. Neither he nor his partner, Adrian, looked like the carefree friends they had been at the Thanksgiving table.

  I ushered them inside without bothering to ask if it was business or pleasure. Derrick's freckles stood out on his face possibly because of the cold, but more likely because he was upset. Adrian always looked calm. His dark hair contrasted sharply with Derrick's red. There was a small balding circle on the back of his head that would probably expand with age, but both of them were in their early thirties, so it wasn't very noticeable yet.

  "Larry Bartholomew showed up at headquarters this morning," Derrick announced, staring stoically at my forehead. "He refused to say how he had been bundled and delivered, but he is claiming that after following Mr. Huntington into your neighborhood, his partner shot Mr. Huntington. You wouldn't know anything about this matter would you?" He finally met my eyes, accusing me.

  "Larry who?" I blinked rapidly and tried to remember any Larry I might know. Then again, if he was claiming he knew who shot Huntington, I wasn't sure I wanted to know him.

  "Fits your description of a certain guy that may or may not have been driving a Lincoln the day you were attacked at Acetel."

  "Oh! Mr. Buns. White whale of a guy with sausage-like appendages? His partner was the black guy that Bill sat on?"

  Derrick rolled his eyes towards Adrian. "We prefer to say that his partner is likely of black or mixed black heritage, five-eleven, and two hundred sixty pounds. Larry was delivered to the station in a parked, black Lincoln. He was duct-taped from head to toe. He had been shot in the shoulder and in the leg, clean wounds from a short range. Because of the duct tape, the victim did not bleed to death. His hands were taped to the steering wheel. The medical team had to shave his head, including his eyebrows, to get the duct tape off."

  My eyes bugged out. "Wow." I knew Mark's idea of first aid needed work.

  Derrick wasn't finished. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped it opened. "I checked the police report from the other night. The attending physician, Dr. Taylor, told me that Mr. Huntington had two bullet wounds. One in the shoulder and one in the leg."

  I shook my head in denial. "No, one was in the arm. The fleshy part." I demonstrated using my own, not sure how to get Derrick's attention off what appeared to be wounds that mimicked Huntington's injuries.

  Adrian almost smiled. "His question was more of a mobility one."

  "Oh." I looked down at the carpet. "I don't think Huntington really has the mobility to be duct-taping anyone."

  "Uh-huh." Derrick jotted down a note in his little book. "Wasn't it a black Lincoln that followed you the day that you stopped by my place?"

  This wasn't the first time I chastised myself for that little action. Sean had heard about it, and of course reported it to my parents. "What happened to Beefy?" It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know.

  Adrian did grin this time. "Other than the broken nose he sustained when you kicked him and the broken forearm from being sat on, he's fine. He has been safely sitting in jail. Won't say who it was that hired him or why he was at Acetel. Maybe you could give us a few names that we could throw at him. He might break down if we had the right info."

  Dare I say Jacques? Oooh, Huntington would kill me. If the detectives hauled Jacques into custody and risked the investigation, Huntington would be sending me somewhere, but probably not Hawaii. "I have no idea." I put my palms out in an innocent shrug. "I never knew why they followed me in the first place. Maybe now you can get them to tattle on each other?"

  "Maybe," Adrian agreed amiably. "Mr. Buns, er, Larry, seemed very eager to point out that it was his partner who shot Huntington. He claimed he was just the driver and doesn't know who hired Beefy."

  "That's Trevis Smith, not Beefy," Derrick corrected stiffly.

  I ignored him. "Buns was the guy driving that day at Acetel. I can't tell you if he was the one in the Lincoln who tried to follow me home because I never saw who was in the car. Do you have enough to lock him up?" I was a little worried about fingering the guy. He already had it in for me.

  Derrick pressed his lips together so tightly they disappeared entirely.

  Adrian knew his partner well and since Derrick wasn't going to answer my question, Adrian did it for him. "They both have some pretty interesting outstanding warrants. For one, The Lincoln was stolen, and there Larry was sitting in it like a duck. In general, Larry doesn't have a reputation for stalking women or even kidnapping, but they both have extortion charges pending against them and one burglary charge."

  "Oh." Nice, all-around American guys.

  "Based on your telling us that Beefy was trying to get you in the car, and you do have witnesses, we can probably get attempted kidnapping or attempted assault if we need to go that far."

  I still wasn't sure why Derrick and Adrian were really here. "What do you want me to do?"

  Derrick grunted. "Where were you last night?"

  "At Sean's house. With you guys!"

  "After that," he snapped.

  "I came home."

  "Were you alone?"

  I glared at him. It was none of his business. And I knew he'd tell Sean the answer. "You are so rude. You were at dinner with us, Derrick. I left at what, eight or nine last night--long after Mark left."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I have no earthly idea."

  "Where were you this morning?" he continued.

  My eyes narrowed. "Was Mr. Buns left in his car last night or this morning?"

  "We're just constructing a time frame."

  "Wait just a hairy little minute here! He can't have been sitting out there very long without some police officer noticing, even if you guys went out for donuts before going to the office." Not to mention that duct-taped or not, his wounds wouldn't have been in very good shape if he was left there long. "Why did you ask about last night if you found him this morning?"

  Derrick shrugged defensively. "If Mark came over here then he couldn't have been out tracking down Larry Bartholomew last night."

  Derrick was fast becoming a worse problem than my brother. I tapped my foot. "I don't have an alibi. I was here, I slept and I woke up. Now it is," I looked at my watch, "eleven o'clock. I can't provide an alibi for Mark or for Steve." I thought about it. "Although, as I mentioned, I don't think Huntington, that is Steve, was in any shape to go roaming about. When I went to his condo, he still had a sling on his arm."

  Derrick almost snapped his pencil in half. He looked up at me full of disapproval. "And when were you last in the condo?"

  I could almost hear the, "and does your brother know about this," on the tip of his tongue.

  Adrian waved a white flag by putting a hand in front of my glare and saying, "Okay, you two, enough." Then to me, "Did you talk to either of them last night or have any reason to believe they might have been out prowling around after this guy?"

  Huntington was going to have to pay me overtime for this. It was embarrassing to have a policeman digging into my non-life. Worse, that policeman thought it his personal duty to report my every possible infringement, legal or not, to my brother. "I have no idea if either of them were after Beefy and Buns. Mark left from Sean's house, and I didn't ask where he was going."

  Derrick wasn't finished. "And Mark lives where, exactly?" The pencil was ever at the ready.

  "I think he's staying with Huntington. Steve," I clarified before he could point out that they both had the same last name.

  Derrick must have figured out where Huntington lived because neither of them asked me for the address. Calling Sean to act as my lawyer to get out of their interrogation would only make matters worse because Sean would be asking even more personal questions.

  Adrian must have decided the interview hadn't gone particularly well because on the way out, he let Derrick go first and held back. He stuck his head back around the door and said quietly, "Next time someone chases you, do me a favor. Stop by my house or go to headquarters."

  Yeesh. No kidding.

 
Chapter 27

  What with Friday morning being rudely interrupted by the police, chores and generally goofing off, I didn't sit down to go over the documents that Radar had given me until late on Saturday. The papers warranted more than the cursory inspection I had given them. There could easily be clues that tied the missing employees to one or another manager, and I was determined to find said clues if they existed.

  Radar had the information sorted into two main categories: customer reports and layoff information. I ignored the customer reports and attacked the list containing every employee that had a post office box.

  The start dates were in a column next to each employee record. Radar was right; there didn't seem to be a pattern except that in many cases several employees with post office box addresses were added at one time. I scribbled the dates down until I had the hire dates broken into neat segments. The only obvious pattern was that whoever did the hiring did it almost every quarter over the five-year period.

  At first the hiring appeared arbitrary, but as I looked at the last two years of post office boxes, the hiring consistently occurred about a month after the end of the quarter. It appeared as though someone was using earnings to determine how many people could be hired. That wouldn't be all that unusual, but in this case, the hiring dates were exactly four weeks after earnings. It would be difficult to hire real people that consistently.

  Ben could have told me the actual earnings results for each quarter, but I didn't entirely trust him. Luckily, Acetel was publicly traded, so the information was available online.

  A quick search revealed my theory had holes. "Rats." There was no direct correlation between free cash flow and the number of people "hired."

  But why else would the additions fall right after quarterly earnings were released?

  Perhaps the number of fakes was related to the amount of money the embezzler needed. But whoever had been doing it had been very careful. There was never a huge influx of people all at once, just a few employees added each quarter.