Chapter Four
The parking ticket dispenser stuttered abruptly then stopped, without the tongue-like flick proffering the needed ticket to park for the day. The machine simply burped to a halt. Gary leaned out his BMW and smacked the machine with his hand. It whirred and spat out several tickets at once. He grabbed one while the orange-striped arm at the entrance barricade lifted to allow his car into the garage.
Gary parked his car, hopped out and wriggled into the coat jacket he’d tossed onto the back seat. It was a fine day. Last night’s pitch to Huffy Tractor Lites had gone well. He’d been in good form, anticipating questions, offering suggestions in an “even-if-you-don’t-hire-us-as-your-agency” manner—ingratiating and fluid. He felt only a little nauseated in retrospect.
It used to help that Darla didn’t take his business seriously, even if he had to. Darla was a light touch in a feverish world. She used to tease him about the amount of “servicing” his clients required. Lately, however, it seemed her teasing was laced with less humor and more irony.
He marched off the elevator and nodded to the receptionist positioned like a marine in her guard box just inside the foyer of Selby and Parker’s Advertising. “Maggie in yet?” he called out as he thundered down the hall to his office.
“Yes, Gary,” the receptionist chirped. “She signed in an hour ago.”
He stopped at one of the offices, his briefcase dangling from one hand and pushed open the door.
“So, you’re back?”
Maggie turned in her chair and swiveled away from her computer screen. She was wearing a deep, emerald green suit that dramatically accentuated her coal-colored hair. He was surprised to see her looking so pretty. Usually, as fond of her as he was, he neglected to notice her in the physical sense. Today, she seemed to radiate allure. He found it unsettling.
She smiled at him. “Clearly.”
“You look good. What’s the deal?”
“What do you mean what’s the deal?”
“No kidding, you look good. Did something happen?”
“Will you stop being so offensive. Nothing happened. There is no deal.”
“You met somebody over there.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You’re incredible.”
“So, what did you do, meet some frog, boff him, have his child, win over a small village and then think you could just show up for work like I wouldn’t notice or something?” He moved into her office to get a better look at her. “Who is he?”
“He’s a Frenchman.”
“No shit. You went to France.”
“Do you want to hear about him?”
“Of course. Lunch? You can tell me everything. Just remember, nothing gross or anything that involves swapping body fluids while I’m eating, okay?” Gary smacked a rolled-up sheath of papers against his thigh. “Meanwhile, let’s do traffic. Would you get Deirdre to call the meeting over the PA? I haven’t had coffee yet.” He hurried down the corridor to his office.
Maggie’s cellphone sat on her desk seeming to mock her. She couldn’t help checking it every fifteen minutes to see if Laurent had called. He hadn’t. In spite of that, she was aware that she was at least trying to put him and their week together out of her mind—something that would’ve been unthinkable at any time yesterday. Today, she let open a small window of possibility she might never hear from him again.
“Traffic meeting in the conference room,” the public address system announced in wall-rattling tones. Their receptionist was new.
Maggie gathered up her work diary of the week’s schedule of jobs in-house and her laptop and proceeded to the conference room.
Selby & Parker, once Selby and Associates, was a friendly little ad shop of ten employees and 1.2 million dollars in billings. None of them were going to retire any time soon on the fees of their clients, but they were comfortable for the moment. Up until last year, Gary had been just another copywriter, like Maggie. But the death of their then president, a nefarious wheeler-dealer, had left a clear path for someone with guts and initiative to take over the helm. So, with the bulk of his life savings and the support of his wife, Gary had stepped in to fill the void.
Maggie took her place at Gary’s right hand at the small conference room table. Joining them was the agency art director, Bob Mason, the senior art director, Pokey Lane, the media buyer, Dr. Patricia Stump, and the traffic manager, Deirdre Potts.
Gary began the meeting by indicating that he wanted the meeting short, to the point, and everyone back at work racking up those billable hours as soon as possible.
“All right, Deirdre,” he said briskly. “What have we got?”
Before Deirdre could speak, the media director, Patti Stump, who was seated on the other side of Gary, tapped the table with her pen to get Gary’s attention.
“You said you’d make a decision on my office, Gary.” Her blonde hair was teased into a frizzier version of what Gary was sure was popular these days. Her makeup was a little toned down today, though, and she looked, if not pretty, at least not awful.
He took a long breath to bear what was to come, but he was fast tiring of all the petty squabbles and imbecilic demands from his employees—most of whom reminded him of so many bratty children. If this is the life of a CEO, you can have it.
“Is this something we should be discussing in a traffic meeting?”
“I can’t get you alone outside meetings and you’re not returning any of my emails or texts.”
“I’m not?” Gary looked at his cellphone, as if the problem must be with his equipment.
“You said I could have Pokey’s corner office as soon as he bumped up to Nigel’s old office.”
Gary sighed with exaggeration and looked at Pokey. “Are you out?”
“Yes, boss,” Pokey said with a slow drawl. “Ages ago.”
Gary looked back at Patti. “I really do not want to waste billable time talking about this crap.”
“The problem, Gary,” Patti said breathily, “is about the chair you said I could have. It’s expensive and Jenny, the new girl, won’t order it unless you—”
“No. No chair. Deirdre? May we continue?” Gary looked at the traffic manager, who in turn looked at Patti, who clearly was not done.
“But you said I could have it!” Patti said, raising her voice and tossing down her pen.
“I can’t imagine in what universe I would have said you can have an expensive chair, Patti,” Gary said, tossing down his own pen onto the table. “Move into Pokey’s office. In fact, Pokey, help her do that, please, right after this meeting.”
“I don’t need or want his help!”
He turned to her and put his hand out as if to prevent her from standing. “We’re done talking about the chair. Anything more you want to say, text me.”
“So you can just ignore me better?” Patti said, her face flushed with her frustration.
Gary turned away. “Let’s go, Deirdre,” he said firmly.
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 6