by Lola Karns
A shadow moved in the downstairs window across the street. He remembered Claire’s warning that Miss Jones was the neighborhood watchdog. He could work her nosiness to his advantage. He’d introduce himself tomorrow evening after work and pump her for information. He could go over now, but since he’d ruined the rug, and his slippers and probably didn’t smell too good and everything else near the door looked either flammable or valuable, he decided to find the required by law rental fire extinguisher in case the prankster came back and then to take a shower.
The shadow moved again. Miss Jones had to be on the case already. He’d talk to her in the morning. By the following night, surely Claire would be over her disappointment, and he’d be back on track to make partner.
Chapter 12
Neither the pharmacy nor the hardware store was open when James drove to work at seven thirty a.m. After a second bag of flaming dog poop arrived on his doorstep at 10:30 PM, he needed another fire extinguisher, or ten, as soon as possible. The fire department dismissed the flames as a practical joke and didn’t seem too concerned about finding the culprit as they claimed it was an isolated incident and the sort of thing that occasionally happens in the run up to Halloween. He hadn’t slept well, so his special East Coast energy drinks would be his best friend today.
Work provided no refuge. A stack of while you were out slips waited on his desk before his admin arrived. The author was a mystery. None were signed. Walter, the sly fox, diverted all calls from reporters to James’ personal extension. So did Karen Woozler in Communications. Grace took a while to realize the problem, perhaps a little too long for someone as skilled as she supposedly was.
By 9:30, James had repeated his hastily scrawled press release at least a dozen times. He quit picking up the phone. Normally, the follow up calls on press releases, if there were any, went through the Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt’s central switchboard in New York City, clearly listed on the one pager. “Does anyone read?”
Whispers followed him through the hall to the break room. The coffee was as bad as yesterday. He opened the fridge to get his plan B drink – Moxie Energy.
“Gone!” Who the hell took his drink? All six cans. Gone. If his executive office had a mini-fridge like it should, then this would not have happened. His gut churned, almost as much as the thief’s would if he or she shot gunned the drinks at once. The rat-bastard deserved whatever misery they got.
James returned to his office, stopping outside the door. Grace dropped her nail file.
“I want you to make a poster for the break room reminding people not to steal other people’s food and drink.”
“Yes, sir. Should I include photos? Make it colorful or would that waste too much expensive printer ink?”
His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “Make it eye catching. Color is okay.”
“Will do. The NBC affiliate would like to set up an interview with you. Would you prefer before or after lunch?” She gave him a doe eyed look, one as fake as her nails.
“Send all inquiries to the New York office hotline, no exceptions.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closed his office door and took the last swig of liquid Mylanta in the bottle. Another reason to run out at lunch.
CLAIRE DRAFTED AND redrafted the visions of sugar plums that danced in her head until night turned into day. “This would be so much easier if I knew what the space was like.”
She developed multiple sketches, each one ripe with eraser marks. She’d approach the city council first and see if they would provide space at city hall. If that didn’t work, she’d dramatically rework her shop, storing all the season displays and most of the merchandise in the big house so she could convert every available inch into display space for the holiday trains. Either way, she’d have less space to work with, but there had to be a way to make it fit and be viewable without installing glass walkways or people sized hamster tubes.
Logically, she’d work more efficiently once she knew where she’d be. But she needed to work. Laying out the parts of her home Halloween display hadn’t helped. It kept her body moving, but her brain ping-ponged everywhere. Especially places she didn’t want it to go, like the front porch of a certain jerk with gorgeous brown eyes. She could string him up in a Halloween fright scene, but he didn’t deserve the time it would take her include him in the one-day scene. At least she’d doubled up on birth control.
Placing pencil to paper focused her thoughts and delivered them from thinking evil. That child who so generously gave her a well-loved toy needed a train display. Crumpled paper grew in a pile beside her desk until daylight outshone the work light and ringing phones and slamming car doors suggested she was no longer the only one awake in town. Thomas winked at her.
“Time for rest. Join me in the station.”
No matter how lost she got in her work, when inanimate objects told her to get some sleep, Claire listened. They got bossy if she didn’t, so she lumbered to the daybed.
The old flip number clock clicked away, and she closed her eyes to the gentle sound. A growl loud enough to drown out the click brought consciousness. 2:45 pm. The growl vibrated through her stomach and echoed.
“Three and a half hours. I was tired.” Thomas the Train didn’t respond so she was safe. “Time for food.”
She entered the main house through the back door, put on a pot of coffee and pulled out a plastic container of sweet potatoes from last night. She’d have to tell Sandy they were even good cold. She’d leave out the part about eating with her fingers, but in all honesty, who could be expected to use a fork before having a cup of coffee. The bulky telephone charger blinked, indicating missed calls. She punched in the code for voice mail, then put the phone on speaker as she reached for a pre-stained coffee mug.
An electronic voice chirped. “You have thirty-seven new messages.” She dropped the mug, which responded with a fresh chip that skittered across the linoleum.
By the time she reached the end of the messages, she learned the people wanted their train display, so much so that an emergency meeting of the city council was set for tonight and her attendance was mandatory. One TV station wanted to interview her for the noon news, but the other networks were more open. Beverly offered to swap store fronts since hers was a few feet wider. The messages went on so long, she managed to finish a cup of coffee and remember how to use utensils and learned she shouldn’t listen to people’s kind words without a handkerchief handy.
Any lingering doubt the town’s commitment dissipated when she looked at her front yard. Half a dozen balloons waved from her mailbox and the mums from last night either multiplied or invited over some friends. Three newly erected posters proclaimed their support and a white news van was parked out front.
She hustled to the back of the house before the news crew saw her. She should at least comb her hair, or better yet shower before being seen in public. This whole situation was horrible and wonderful. Her grandfather’s legacy lived on. The mementoes and signs really belonged to him, but it was nice to pretend that she wasn’t alone in the world. That someone else out there understood and appreciated her passion.
JAMES DROVE TO THE hardware store over lunch to purchase a second fire extinguisher. After paying, he walked to his car. A weird gleam on the driver side door caught his eye. Abraham Lincoln’s shiny copper head judged him from the spot where his key should go. He touched it, but the penny refused to budge. A clear drop trickled from below. “Glue. On the rental.”
He spun on his heel and walked back in for rags and a bottle of something the clerk promised would remove sticky goo, and possibly the car paint too. He fussed with the stupid coin and rags for way too long, especially since he could have used the remote to open the door, but better to do the clean up before the glue fully set. The remover stunk up the car. His gag reflex kicked in and his forehead grew clammy. Not only did he not have time for lunch, but he’d lost his appetite anyway. Mostly. He managed to chop down a handful of Tums.
&
nbsp; In the office parking lot, a woman in a red suit shoved a microphone in his face as soon as he closed the car door.
“Jenny Patricio, Channel Ten. Why did you cancel the train display?”
“No comment.” Not the cleverest retort. He picked up speed as he spied another person walking toward him. The security tag worked to let him in the building, but in case some clever person tried to sneak in behind him, he pulled the door closed. At the click, his shoulders relaxed. In another day or two this would all blow over.
In his office, he spread files on his desk to prepare for next in-depth departmental review. But the phone kept ringing and Grace kept putting people through. She didn’t vet his calls well. He tried calling the home office PR staff, but the secretary informed him everyone else was at a training seminar. She promised to pass on the message. Clearly no-one in the home office understood the urgent level of chaos he faced. If he got through this smelling like a rose, he deserved to become partner, no matter what the numbers looked like. He flipped through the report, unable to focus. He had to go to the top, even though on this matter he supposedly was the top. Nope. He needed his father.
“James, what can I do for you? Did you find a buyer this soon?”
“No, Sir. Did you see the press release I sent out?”
“Let me pull it up.” A pause stretched out. James bounced his leg to the tapping in the background. “Looks like a good cost cutting move.”
“It is, but the locals are up in arms. A camera crew accosted me in the parking lot.”
“So you say ‘no comment’ and keep walking. I don’t understand the problem.”
“The blowback is— “
“Settle down. I’m disappointed in you. You sound like a whiny child and frankly, if you can’t handle a bunch of unhappy people in a hick fly-over town, you’ll never be able to run with the bulls.”
James swallowed hard. He may as well be ten years old again, failing to make the winners circle in golf, or tennis. “I was hoping for advice on the best tactics for keeping Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt out of the negative press. People seem to take this cancellation as a personal insult. I don’t wish to drag the corporate name through the mud for an ethical and reasonable business decision.”
That might be a stretch of the situation since the attacks seemed focused on him.
“Reasonable. If they are playing dirty, which, after pulling up a few articles, it seems like they are doing, then you should too. Paint the mayor as a stuck-in-the-past relic. As someone who would rather keep the trains and lose all the jobs at Adena. That might sway some opinions and would allow us to take charge of and return the focus to the economic story.” His father word came wrapped in anger.
“And paint that train person...here’s his name...Claire? A woman even better. And that hair, clearly unprofessional. Paint her as vindictive, running to the media to complain and inventing a problem as a cash and publicity grab. We should be able to dredge something up on her, porn past, anti-American protests, drugs, arrests, there has to be something. She looks like that type. Did we break a contract?”
“We bought out the contract.” James’ gut squeaked out a disconcerting noise. Was Claire out for revenge? Was she behind the flaming dog poop, the penny, and soapy windshield? She didn’t seem psychotic when they spent time together, but then again, she didn’t seem like she played with toy trains either.
“Even better for us. She got the money and is trying to get more from the attention. Really, James, I shouldn’t have to come up with these things for you.”
“But you strategize with the other leaders to find a solution.”
“That’s different. Those are complicated transactions. We gave you and Danny low value projects to test your abilities to problem solve and lead independently. I must say, this call does not bode well for you. You will need to work twice as hard and come in with solid financials and a buyer to have a chance at making partner. I will do my best to keep this from the others, but remember, second place is first loser. Do not disappoint me.”
“I’ll do my best.” The other end of the line clicked into silence. James grabbed his trash can and heaved, but the knot in his stomach refused to budge. He found the back-up Pepto in his drawer and chugged the remainder. Something had to work on his gut. He’d tried pretty much everything.
He stared out the window. A camera crew lurked in the parking lot, like snakes waiting for prey. He knew better than to shove a camera person or swear or yell, but the employees of Adena weren’t used to the media. James drummed his fingers on the table and closed his eyes.
A mental image of Walter’s office swirled into view. Weren’t there a few framed newspaper articles? But print was different than TV. Visuals risked going viral. He couldn’t take that chance. Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt took pride in their efficiency and low public profile.
He cracked open the seal on a fresh bottle of Mylanta and took a swig. As the soothing liquid coated his throat, he typed out a memo to send both as an email and post by all exits. “Any employee responding to media questions is expected to follow the official Adena statement of ‘No Comment.’ If pressed for further details on ANY matter, send them to the corporate website.”
With a few more strokes on his keyboard, he completed the website change requisition form to redirect the Adena media page to the Fordham, Fordham, and Schmidt page.
Satisfied with the clarity, he strode to the intercom.
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“I have a memo that needs printed and distributed in all possible places employees can exit the building, and anywhere else they might congregate, ASAP. It also needs to be email blasted to all employees. I sent you the file.”
“Found it. I’ll start on this right away.”
“Good. Also, could you please arrange a four-person security escort for me at the end of the day?”
“Certainly.”
She popped her head into his office a few minutes later. Her lips were a flat line under rapidly blinking eyes.
“Sorry, sir.”
“What do you mean? Did we run out of paper?”
“The memo went out by email and the mail room supervisor is posting the document by the doors, but as for the other, there’s not enough staff available for a four-person escort.”
“Fine. Two people?”
“No can do. Apparently, security all came down with food poising over lunch. The only man available is Hank and he can’t leave the front desk unmanned during business hours.”
He sighed. “Thanks for trying, Grace. That will be all.”
The computer pinged an alert to a fresh email from IT. Great. He’d expected at least an hour before a response. He clicked on it.
Due to increased workloads on decreased staff, estimated time to complete this task is 46 hours.
He sat at his desk and rubbed his temples. Sometime after last week’s staff reduction, IT found enough time to passively aggressively update the automated reply. He chugged the rest of his Mylanta, silently cursing all the uselessness around him.
Food poisoning. How convenient. This was no coincidence. When he ran the numbers on train related expenses, he discovered how much overtime the company paid. Some of the security staff earned the equivalent of half a year’s pay during the course of six weeks. This was a sick out. If this pattern persisted, he could be in real trouble, because hourlies in other departments also historically picked up extra work in those six weeks.
His focus wandered all afternoon. Stupid emotions tugged at rational thoughts and pulled them off track. His father wouldn’t be able to pull this off without help, and why had he bothered calling? He had no interest in helping. His advice, especially regarding Claire, was mean spirited and petty. Then again, so was flaming dog poop.
A knock on the door startled him.
“Mr. Fordham, it’s six. I’ve stayed late enough.”
“Good night, Grace. See you tomorrow.”
Her departure reminded
him it was time to go home and monitor the media. He tried slipping out the back door, but the camera found him as he neared his car. He held his briefcase high enough to hide his face, knowing if the footage reached the airwaves, he’d appear guilty of something. At this point, he didn’t care. He wanted to get home; except he knew that wasn’t quite enough.
He needed to see Claire. Yesterday he gave her space, room to let her anger go before she accepted this was merely a business decision, nothing personal. If anything, the last day and a half taught him how much he needed her. If she was behind this, she could stop it. If she wasn’t behind this, and he didn’t think she was, well, she understood this town in a way he did not and would know how to fix the outside chaos. Besides, she was one hell of a kisser.
After finding an in-town address for Evans in the phone book, he drove past her house. It was easy to find and clearly hers. A huge paper banner with the words “Save our trains” stretched across the front yard. Other handmade posters proclaimed, “Fordham sucks!” and “We love tiny trains.” Some looked like children’s drawing.
The proverbial cookies in his stomach begged to be tossed. He pulled into the driveway, anyway. Balloons bouncing in his peripheral vision drew his attention to the mailbox, shaped like an old-fashioned red caboose. He assumed her grandfather put it up. That seemed like something an older guy would do, someone like Walter, not an attractive woman. Even if she dabbled in some silly hobby.
He rang the bell but saw no movement within the house. Another car sat in the driveway in front of a detached yellow garage. She was probably home. He tried the back of the house, since there was no fence to stop him. Nothing. The inside looked dark. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. Claire liked to walk. She said as much. He dialed her number. No response. As he turned toward the driveway, a gigantic dog sprang in front of him and growled.
“Hey trespasser, you have 15 seconds before I call the police.” A man yelled out.