A Meeting In The Ladies' Room (7 page)

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Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

BOOK: A Meeting In The Ladies' Room
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13
PAUL STILL WAITING
I
didn't get home until ten that night so I missed yet another Black Pack meeting. Paul was still up, waiting for my phone call.
“What happened?”
“Keith went with me. You should have seen Detective Gilchrist's face when I walked in with him. The man practically genuflected.”
Paul chuckled.
“He walked me through the morning Annabelle was killed. Then I wrote it all down and left.”
“So what happens now?”
“Keith is releasing the videotape to some reporter friend of his tomorrow.”
“Best offense is a good defense, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“I know you are upset right now, Jackie, but there is something I want to ask you when things settle down.”
Oh no! I knew what the something was. He had been waiting to ask it for a long time.
“Today has been rough, Paul. I can feel my brain shutting down.”
“I'm glad everything turned out okay, Jackie. I was worried.”
I yawned. “I've got to call Mama and then get some sleep.”
“Okay. Will you be home tomorrow?”
“No, I'm going to spend the day with Mama. She is still pretty frazzled about this whole thing. I need to reassure her that its almost over.”
“Alyssa came to the Black Pack meeting tonight. She told us that you signed her up for a few projects.”
“That's right.”
“Maybe you should have waited to see what the fallout will be for her.”
In other words, wait until Alyssa got back on the white folks' good side before hugging her to our collective bosom again. It was some sad, gutless plantation-type thinking and I didn't want to talk about it.
I changed the subject and tried to sound casual. “Who else showed up tonight?”
“Yes, Victor was there,” Paul said brusquely.
“I didn't ask.”
“Whatever,” he snapped.
“Good night, Paul,” I said softly, “and thanks for Keith.”
“Don't mention it.” He hung up.
I hadn't told Paul about the insulting e-mail that Victor had sent me. Maybe it was because I was ashamed of being treated so badly. Or maybe I was afraid he'd say that I deserved it for throwing myself at Victor again.
In any case, with the detective coming to my office, riding downtown in the back of Keith Williams's limousine and the videotape, which would probably be aired Monday morning, I'd have quite a story to tell at Black Pack next week.
Maybe I could embellish it a little and make Victor believe that Keith Williams was romantically interested in me. That would make him kick his girlfriend and her pretty new underwear straight to the curb.
14
DUST
B
y Sunday night, I was running across Mama's television screen with my braids flying behind me as I glanced anxiously at my watch and shoved the appointment book into my bulging tote bag at the same time. The doorman watched my hasty exit from the building in open-mouthed surprise and the tape ended in a flurry of static. The scene changed and Keith Williams was standing in front of The Dakota apartment building, surrounded by strobe lights and microphones.
He looked straight into the cameras and spoke firmly. “It is a testament to Mrs. Murray's character that she inspired the kind of dedication from her workers evidenced by this videotape. My client, Jacqueline Blue, was rushing off to meet with famed novelist Jamal Hunt, who was waiting for her in the offices of Welburn Books.”
Flurries of shouted questions were flung at him.
Why did Miss Blue hire you? What were Annabelle Murray's last words? How long had Miss Blue worked for the deceased?
Keith waited for silence and then continued with what was obviously a well-rehearsed speech. “Miss Blue is deeply distressed by the death of her employer, whom she held in extremely high regard. Like Mrs. Murray's family, she is hoping that the killer is brought to justice as quickly as possible. I have nothing more to say.” He marched to his limousine with the reporters trailing him and shouting more questions. As the car drove away, the outdoor scene disappeared and the program went back to the studio.
Mama sighed. “What are you gonna do, Jackie?”
“There is nothing I can do except keep my head down and hope this all blows over real fast.”
“Be careful, honey. This is a real dangerous mess.”
“I don't think anyone wants to hurt me. What would be the point?”
“Whoever did this might think you know more than you really do.”
That hadn't occurred to me. The idea made goose bumps rise on my arm.
The next morning, I ran into Leigh Dafoe at the elevator bank. Dafoe was a native San Franciscan from a prominent family. She had glossy dark hair, keen patrician features, and a little body with even smaller bones. She looked me over from head to toe and said, with the same fear and suspicion that always radiated from her eyes in the presence of African-Americans, “We need to talk right away.”
“We need to talk right away” suggested that I was not going to start my day by meeting with our art director to continue an ongoing battle over a minstrel-show-type cover illustration which I refused to approve. It implied that a conference call I had arranged for nine-thirty was going to fall through. It hinted that I was about to be fired by the second-in-command for running away from our leader when she needed me to protect her from a grisly death.
I was trembling with fear as we were swept along with a horde of others into the elevator. When we stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor, I said, “Let me hang up my coat and then . . .”
“No. Now.”
It was like a death march. Staffers murmured “Good morning,” unable to resist staring at me as I moved swiftly behind Leigh through the corridors. Leigh unlocked her office door, slammed it behind me, and flicked on the lights. Without bothering to put down her briefcase, she came straight to the point.
“Craig Murray called me last night. He needs to know . . . I need to know . . . Sarah Jane needs to know . . . indeed, every employee at Welburn Books needs to know what you were doing at Annabelle's place on the morning she was murdered.”
I didn't want to answer Leigh Dafoe's questions, but I was afraid of getting fired.
“I stopped by to pick up my appointment book. Who is Sarah Jane?”
“She is Annabelle's sister. Are you saying that Annabelle was in possession of your book?”
“Yes.”
“How did she get it?”
“I left it at her house by accident two days before.”
“What were you doing at her house two days before?”
I wanted to tell Leigh about the Moms Mabley manuscript but Craig now owned the company and I was afraid to anger him by revealing his secret.
“You'll have to ask Craig about that.”
The Thin Pink Line formed instantly.
“I'm asking
you
!
”
“Well, I'm sorry, Leigh, but I just can't tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I was sworn to secrecy by Annabelle. She didn't want you or anyone else to know about the project I was working on.”
Silence.
“This is a real mess.”
I agreed. “Yes, it is.”
Silence.
All of a sudden, I knew that Leigh hadn't called me in to fire me. She simply wanted information.
“Why would a hotshot attorney like Keith Williams get involved in something so trivial as a lost appointment book?”
I didn't answer.
“Craig Murray wants to talk to you.”
“He has my home number.”
“What?” It came out as a gasp.
I stepped forward. “Where is Craig?”
She backed up until her desk was between us. “He is on the way over. The three of us will meet in the conference room and get to the bottom of this.”
I shook my head. “Not without Keith.”
“Well, then I suggest you get him over here, because your job is on the line.”
Leigh's words, tone, and body language were brave, tough, unyielding—but, as usual, I could smell her fear and it made me angry. Why was she so scared? What did she see when she looked at me? A big, black, vicious grizzly bear with braided fur instead of a stocky, brown-skinned, ink-stained editorial drone?
“Fine, I'll do just that.”
Down Editors' Row I marched, passing the open doors of my brethren who were already caught up in the ceaseless mini-dramas that were part and parcel of American book publishing.
“. . . she wants a six figure advance for that piece of crap . . .”
“. . . you promised me a first look at his next work . . .”
“. . . it's a Black book. I'll have to run it by Jacqueline Blue before I can give you an answer . . .”
“. . . I figured out who the killer was in the first chapter. . .”
“. . . Oprah doesn't pick funny books. It needs a dysfunctional family in it, for chrissakes . . .”
“. . . the book is in production now—you can't change the ending . . .”
“. . . Governor Cuomo will sue our asses off if we print this . . .”
There was only one male voice in the chorus. Our industry, which 100 years ago had been a club for white, privileged, Ivy League males, was now a ladies' room crammed primarily with their latter-day counterparts—upper middle class, white, female, trust-fund babies. Of course, each one of the giant publishing houses (with one glaring, stubborn exception) had an African-American editor on staff, but the Thin Pink Lines kept us in such deep check that we never produced anything really innovative or revolutionary for Black book buyers. In spite of all this, I'd been in love with books all my life, and assisting in their creation was the only type of work I wanted to do.
Your job is on the line.
A loud, rumbling noise filled my head and I breathed deeply—in and out, in and out—to quiet it as I approached Asha's desk. She was on the phone, giggling during what was obviously a personal call, and held her hand up in a
wait
motion when she saw me. Held her hand up! No doubt my previously hardworking assistant had seen my end run across Annabelle's lobby on the news last night and reached the conclusion that my days at Welburn Books were numbered.
“Get off the phone,” I commanded.
“Girl, I'll call you back,” she whispered into the receiver.
“What was that?” I did the
wait
sign.
“I'm sorry.” Her voice was contrite. Her expression did not match.
I ignored the half-assed apology. “Get me Keith Williams and then Paul Dodson. When I'm done with them, bring in your project status report so I can make a list of what needs to be accomplished this week.” I turned to leave but the loud, rumbling noise in my head had returned. “Asha, look at me.”
She looked up.
“Do you like your job?”
Asha fumbled for words. “Yes . . . I . . . of course . . . I'm sorry.”
“Then don't ever disrespect me like that again.”
She tried to say something else but I gave her a
stop
signal and retreated to my office.
Both Keith and Paul were in meetings, and I was too shaken and out of control to debate the minstrel cover without losing my temper or participate in the conference call, so I closed the door and tidied up my work space.
By noon, I had rearranged my 100-plus books. They were now lined up neatly in alphabetical order on two white pine bookshelves. It was time to clean the mess that was my desk. I had removed the stapler, paper clip holder, and Scotch tape dispenser before realizing that some sort of weird dust had come off on my hands.
15
TAPPED?
T
he police had obviously dusted my office for fingerprints. Again, I lifted the receiver. Paul was still in a meeting. Keith was on his other line. I told his secretary that I would hold until he was free no matter how long it took.
I rocked back and forth in my ergonomically correct executive chair with my eyes closed, imagining Detective Marcus Gilchrist poking his sausage-like fingers around in the papers on my desk.
Had the computer department given the police my access code so they could read my e-mail? I chuckled at the thought. There were no homicidal thoughts in my computer files. Only endless e-mails to Victor Bell, over the past year, much of which had gone unanswered.
Given all the ruckus going on about Annabelle's death, Victor would probably come to Black Pack next Friday. Why did I still want Victor after the vulgar e-mail he'd sent me? A therapist would say I was suffering from low self-esteem, but who knows? Maybe he and I are soul mates and we'll just have to work all this out in another life.
I had just started mentally searching my wardrobe for an outfit he hadn't seen when Keith Williams barked into the phone.
“What's the problem, Jackie?”
He sounded annoyed and I was about to reprimand him for his abrupt manner when I remembered that I couldn't afford his services and how lucky I was to have him on the line. I told him about my conversation with Leigh Dafoe and the powder in my office which I thought was fingerprint dust.
“Jackie, I want you to calm down. The police are just doing their job. They have to try and match all the prints inside the house to people that the victim knew. Anyway, they expect to find your prints—we've admitted that you were there twice in forty-eight hours. So, what is the problem?”
I felt slightly ridiculous but there was one point left. “Craig is down the hall in Leigh Dafoe's office. She hinted this morning that if I don't talk to them, I'll lose my job. Can you come over here?”
“Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can. What I need you to do in the meantime is relax and go about your business as normally as possible. That means you should buy and sell books, talk to your colleagues about anything except this case, and try not to look anxious. Okay?”
“That detective may have put all kinds of strange thoughts in Craig's head. What if he says something terrible like ‘Jackie, why did you kill my wife?' ”
Keith's voice turned hard. “Did you hear what you just said on a company phone that may be tapped? Just for the record, did you kill Craig Murray's wife?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then I suggest that you hunker down and do what Welburn Books is paying you to do.”
I felt utterly stupid. “I'm sorry.”
“No problem. I'll see you in about half an hour.”
There was a click and Keith Williams was gone.
Even though I was a nervous wreck, I still needed to settle the cover feud. Normally, editors do not have any control over what their author's cover will look like, but due to Annabelle's insistence, Helen, the art director, had to get my approval on the covers that were aimed at African-American readers. When I saw the direction that the artists were taking for Willow Van Silver's latest romance novel, I hit the roof. It was one of those cartoony-looking covers with the usual screaming primary colors.
I took the cover with me down to Helen's office and knocked on her door. She looked up and gave me a faint smile which turned to a Thin Pink Line when she caught sight of the sketch in my hand.
“Good morning, Jackie.”
“Hello,” I answered pleasantly. “May I sit down?”
She nodded at the empty guest chair and I sat.
“Is there a problem, Jackie?”
Helen knew goddamned well there was a problem. She'd had her assistant deliver the cover to my office and I had refused to sign off on it.
“Actually, there is. Perhaps we can work out a solution together.”
She didn't want me to take this conciliatory approach. What she wanted was for me to flat-out accuse her of not understanding the audience that the cover was meant to reach so that she could go screaming to Leigh that I was “too sensitive” about racial issues. We'd been down this road many times and I had no intention of falling into that trap today.
“What do you think the cover needs?” she inquired through gritted teeth.
“Well,” I answered pleasantly, “perhaps you could tone down this screaming red, put some faces on the characters instead of blanking them out . . . better yet, you could hire real people to pose for it.”
“Anything else?” she snapped.
“Yes. Do you think it is appropriate that both the man and woman are doing a jitterbug with their butts arched high in the air? I mean, the book is about a teacher and the handsome pediatrician who has come into her life. They aren't dancers.”
Helen leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Why must you and I go through this with just about every cover that is created for your books?”
This was my cue to say something that she could twist around to make me sound like an unreasonable militant.
I stood up and gazed at her with a sympathetic expression on my face. “Why, Helen, I didn't realize you felt that way. Let's go to lunch real soon and I'll be happy to listen to all your concerns and ideas. All right?”
She just stared at me—all angry eyes and red cheeks set above the Thin Pink Line—and said nothing.
I slammed her door on my way out.

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