Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1) (2 page)

“I’m not sure. Please understand I am not exaggerating when I say he is fairly reclusive. But it’s not a bad thing, it’s just his nature,” she said. “Work is his element. He is very good at his job and he’s developed an extensive system to ensure communication with his employees that, at times, may come across as a little brash and impulsive.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

She escorted me to the door and I walked out to my car, feeling a little overwhelmed from all the information. I wasn’t completely sure what I had gotten myself into. From what I could gather, I had apparently agreed to work for the next year for a reclusive, obsessive-compulsive, vintage-clothes-wearing and special-diet-eating boss.

Chapter 2

Grant

Daylight faded as I turned my car down the alley that led to the garage. After parking I entered the house and listened carefully. Nothing but sweet, glorious quiet. Genevieve must have already left for the day. That relieved a bit of the tension that had built in my shoulders and neck. After a long day of working in the Raleigh office, I coveted time alone.

I crossed through the kitchen and inhaled, pausing for a moment. What was that? An odd scent lingered in the air. Something lemony. Maybe Genevieve wore a different perfume? I inhaled, trying to narrow down the origin, but couldn’t put a finger on it.

“Stop obsessing,” I said aloud, mimicking Genevieve’s authoritative voice. The fake voice was right, because really, I had things to do, and analyzing perfume scents wasn’t one of them.

Walking past her desk, I picked up the report sheet she left me each day, updating me on messages and paperwork or any assignments not completed. The day was perfect, every task checked off and that was why I would miss her working here. She never let me down. Not once—other than the occasional book mix-up. Nothing related to work, for sure.

I did see the notation that Amelia Chase, the new PA, had come in. She’d passed her initial interview and was set to return next week under Genevieve’s instruction. Good. The less disruption, the better. Between the Foundation and my personal work, I had little time for any interruption in how my offices were managed. I made a mental note of her start date and headed upstairs.

In my dressing room I was struck by the same scent from before. Faint, but enough to taste on my tongue. I caught my reflection in the mirror. The pulsing dilation of my eyes told the true story. I was famished. Unfortunately, I had work to do first.

After changing and dropping my soiled clothes into the hamper, I entered my office. I inhaled. No lemons here. Just perfect, quiet, nothingness.  I set the iPod, and spread the day’s newspapers across my desk, flipping through the pages, looking for the details on the murder I’d heard about in the news today. The police didn’t have much—only a body and some lame theories. Their favorite being the ridiculously misinformed ’animal attack’.

The kill made the third murder in six weeks. It was more than what we normally had around here in a year, and the kind of crime that brought unwanted attention to this part of the country. I frowned down at the papers, unhappy with the news. This type of situation was bad for business. That was something I couldn’t risk.

I marked the pages I needed and arranged the paper with the others. I considered calling Elijah, asking for his opinion, but a fierce twinge of hunger forced me from my seat.

So much for getting anything accomplished tonight.  I stood and walked back into the dressing room and again caught that same delectable smell. No wonder I was hungry; Genevieve’s perfume triggered an intense physical reaction. Like chocolate for someone with a sweet tooth.

My research would have to wait, because my sudden, ravenous hunger could not.

Chapter 3

Amelia

Graduation came and went with the usual caps and gowns, tassels and photos. My mom and dad came up for the weekend from Atlanta. In an instant, my college career was over and my new job as a personal assistant would start. The library job had been completed and I'd spent the last two weeks training with Genevieve. I felt pretty confident I could manage Mr. Palmer’s affairs, despite Genevieve’s constant reminders of his quirky, hard to predict behavior.

“How is he hard to predict?” I asked one day as she introduced me to his computer system. “If he’s so OCD then it seems like it would make it easier.”

She shrugged her petite shoulders and simply said, “You’ll see.”

I never encountered Mr. Palmer during my training period. Genevieve said he spent much of his time at meetings in Raleigh or even flying to other cities, raising or allotting funds for the Foundation. We’d have to meet at some point. It did seem weird to take on a job and never have a formal introduction to your boss, but again, beggars can’t be choosers.

Rain fell in sheets on my first day of working solo. I tried to pretend it was good luck, but it only proved to be a huge pain in the ass. I drove up to the building and parked on the street, wishing I’d been given a spot in the spacious underground garage. After a brief fight with my umbrella I managed to make it to the house fairly dry and let myself in with the key that I'd been given by Genevieve. The foyer carried the silence of an empty building, and after hanging up my coat and umbrella, I went straight to my desk.

My desk
.

I took a second to sit in the chair and relish the moment. My first real job and my very own desk. Pushing aside the daunting realization I was now a real grown up, I took out my phone and snapped a picture, thinking I’d post it on Instagram later.  Genevieve had removed all of her personal items and the desk was clean and free of any clutter. I’d brought a few trinkets from home but reconsidered when I saw the flat, spotless surface. I liked the sense of opportunity.

Just as I’d been told, I found the list written by Mr. Palmer. For weeks now I’d been fascinated with his handwriting. He had the most elaborate, distinct script I'd ever seen. It had a very old-fashioned style. A preciseness, like it had been printed off a computer and not by hand. I was jealous of the smooth lines and curves of his letters and immediately hoped I never had to write something for him in my own loopy, girlish handwriting. Next to the list was a brand-new smartphone with a yellow post-it note stuck to the screen.

Keep with you at all times. For work purposes only.-GP

I slid the bar on the front and it came to life. I noted several apps had already been loaded, most organizational. The address book was loaded as well as the contact pages, including employees at the main Foundation office.

My instructions for the day included gathering his laundry for the cleaners and running some basic errands to the home improvement and drug stores. He also needed a certain type of pen from a specialty shop north of town. I was instructed to go to his PO Box (boxes—there were four) where he had his mail and newspapers delivered. Apparently, Mr. Palmer subscribed to over 15 newspapers a day, local, national, and from surrounding states. He reviewed these each night. I had no idea how he consumed all that information after a full day of work but I guess it was not my business.

Not my business—the first rule of being a personal assistant.

I reviewed the list and the instructions, taking time to call for directions to one of the shops. A shiny, silver credit card was attached to the note pad with a black clip. ‘The Palmer Foundation’ was embossed in raised letters on the front. A separate note explained I was to use this only for approved purchases.

Six hours, eight stores, one stop for gas, another for lunch, one stumble into a puddle and an argument with the Duds and Suds Laundromat manager later, I was back at the office. I was exhausted and drenched from being out in the rain all day. All I wanted was to go home and get in bed. But I had two hours to go, and needed to put away my purchases and finish the small list of things described to do here at the house.

I spent some time changing the light bulbs out in the library and parlor. Apparently Mr. Palmer decided to switch over to environmentally conserving bulbs. I felt wasteful throwing out the old, perfectly fine ones but that was not for me to judge.

Nope. Not my business.

In the library, I was distracted by the books that lined the shelves wrapping around the room. As with many other things in the house it was a mixture of old and new, and there were even a large amount of books in foreign languages including German, French and Italian. I paused to pick up a series of leather-bound editions of Shakespeare. They were worn and soft. There were copies of Homer and Steinbeck. I also noticed a tidy row of thick medical journals, with cracked leather spines. I knew he was supposed to be a prodigy, having taken over the Foundation in his early twenties, but I found it hard to believe he could read all of these books. If he didn’t read them, then that meant…well, increasingly, I had the feeling Grant Palmer was quite possibly a pretentious ass.

But that was the thing I couldn’t figure out. Who exactly was Grant Palmer?

Drew and I had looked him up after my initial interview. Google notified us that he was young, smart, and good looking (of course he was handsome). The society pages said he did a bunch of amazing things for charity. The business community loved him and found his methods groundbreaking. Oh, and the gossip blogs? They couldn’t figure out who he dated because he came to and left every event alone. He answered every personal question with a simple, “No comment,” leaving everyone to their own speculations. Drew and I both felt like this seemed a bit of a stretch. Did I mention he was handsome? And rich? And super generous? He probably rescued drowning kittens, too.

Maybe he required everyone to sign a non-disclosure agreement—including the kittens.

After I finished saving the world one light bulb at a time, I made my way upstairs carrying the laundry and other personal items to his dressing room. My list described a set of casual clothing to fold over the back of a chair. Then I needed to place the newspapers on the dressing counter, lining them up so a small gap at the top revealed the title of each copy.  I arranged his mail in the slotted organizer, large envelopes in the back with the smaller in front. Genevieve implied he had an office in the area she’d designated off limits. I found it strange that I couldn’t leave the newspapers and mail in there but whatever…

Not my business.

Moving to the dry-cleaning I picked up, I tore the plastic wrappers off and removed the hangers provided by the cleaners. I snorted at the extravagance of using special hangers, thick wooden ones, but god forbid we use anything but environmentally-safe light bulbs. There were enough hangers in this room to make a whole tree. They lined up neatly, sterile and uniform. I swapped the appropriate hangers and placed the clothing in the appropriate location. Style, color, season… I knew it was the right spot because I had a chart, a cheat sheet (or rather, a cheat binder), given to me by Genevieve. Each item was photographed and documented in its proper location.

Pretentious.

I walked around the room, adjusting and making sure everything was in its place. Even though this room was sort of insane, I liked being up here. So far it had been a little lonely being in the house without company all day and being in this dressing room made me feel like I was working for a person, not a phantom. The rest of the house felt kind of impersonal but up here I was able to learn a little more about the elusive Mr. Palmer.

Underneath the perfectionism I found signs of his real nature.  Below his dress shirts I discovered a collection of vintage tees hanging on one of the racks. I flipped through each one, reading the names and scanning the logos; The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Janis Joplin, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Queen, and KISS. I stopped at the KISS one and ran my fingers over the slick surface of Gene Simmons painted face and ridiculously long tongue. There were too many to go through but they seemed in chronological order and at the end of the row I saw one for Cher, Elton John, Nirvana, and the last one for Madonna's latest tour.

It was an impressive collection, very eclectic. He must have found a specialty shop that worked off original designs. I wondered whether or not Genevieve was in charge of finding and purchasing these.

Ah, the life of the rich.

I left the room, switched off the light and closed the door behind me. I wandered down the stairs to my desk and filled out my daily report. I typed it up, not wanting to reveal my hideous handwriting, and left it on the edge of the desk as instructed.

As I gathered my things I considered that it had been a good day, but I was happy to head home to order a pizza and go over the day's events with Drew. I wondered if I would see Mr. Palmer anytime soon, since my interest was getting more and more piqued as the days went by.

Surely I had to come face to face with him at some point.

Chapter 4

Grant

Lemons.

The scent assaulted my nostrils the instant I walked into the house. Stronger than before, which meant it wasn’t Genevieve and I could only assume it was the new PA. I preferred not to have our first encounter be a reprimand—not that it was a reprimand.  It was more a necessity. It’s not that the scent was unpleasant, it was simply one of those fragrances that at first it smells appealing but then becomes overwhelming and obnoxious. Distracting. I didn’t have time for distractions.

See? I’d already spent too much time thinking about perfume, again.

I would leave her a note tomorrow asking her to stop wearing the scent, claiming it was giving me migraines. That may be a stretch, but the odor messed with my head one way or the other, and migraine sounded as plausible as anything else I could come up with.

In my dressing room, I removed a shirt from my collection off the hanger. I was going out tonight. I needed to. I had the tendency to shut myself off in the house after a day at the office, decompressing from the long days at work. Normally, I didn't go into the office so much, but as it was the end of the fiscal year, there were many meetings with accountants and committee chairs reviewing the budgets and organizations we funded. The hospital fundraiser was only a couple of months away. I had no choice but to show up and fulfill my role as CEO. Either way, it was time for a public appearance. Recluses made people nervous. I went to great lengths to keep people at ease.

I pulled the light blue shirt over my head and tugged my jeans up, buttoning them at the top. I selected my favorite pair of brown boots and a seasonally appropriate, light-weight jacket before walking over to the desk to peruse the mail from today. I held an envelope under my nose and winced as it elicited a sharp pain in my temple.

Damn lemons
.

Sniffing the envelope one more time before leaving the room, I tucked several of the papers under my arm and left through the front door instead of the back. It was still misting as I set off on foot in the direction of the more populated and trendy section of town. It wasn’t a long walk, a couple of miles, and the fresh air made my head feel better. Yes, the perfume had to go, it was entirely too disturbing.

I crossed the street and continued toward my destination, taking time to observe passing groups and listen to their chatter. It was a Monday so the crowds were thin and thoughts seemed to be on work or other regular life stressors.

Trivial.

I entered the corner café, the one with a patio out front, and greeted the counter worker with a smile. She knew my face and my order, as I was a regular here. Businesses came and went in this area and this particular shop had been here for about six months, which was perfect for my needs. Long enough to been seen but not long enough to make an impression.

“Nice shirt,” said the girl working the counter. She looked up at my face and smiled warmly. I noted the tiny birthmark on her cheek.

“Thank you.”

She blinked twice with crystal blue eyes that contrasted off her dark skin. “Looks vintage.”

“Oh, does it?” I asked, ignoring the encouraging tone of her voice. “I’ve had it for a while.”

“I’ll bet,” she said with a coy smile.

Out on the covered patio, I placed my papers and drink on the table, and settled into the hard plastic chair. I noticed a phone number scribbled on the side of my drink and the name, “Laurel.”

I scanned the first paper, tagging the items of interest with a black pen. The third murder victim had been identified—a young woman from Lake Junaluska. I could only imagine the family’s distress. The police would try to convince them that it was an animal attack or some sort of random accident. That there was no way this was connected to the other recent deaths. Unfortunately, they were incorrect. There was a murderer—a serial killer—attacking women, and he was coming our way.

As I read, I was aware of the nagging pain that would not leave me. I wondered if someone else was wearing the cursed fragrance as well. This could be a problem for me if it suddenly became popular.  I sniffed the air and realized, with astonishment, that I was the source of the foul odor.

I pulled up the front of my shirt to my nose and inhaled.

A burst of fragrance came from Gene Simmons' upside down, makeup-covered face and my head began to spin. I dropped the shirt for a moment and took a gulp of fresh air.

Okay, better.  If anything, I was a master of discipline, and I used everything I had to calm myself. I was better than allowing this to rattle me. In fact, I saw this as nothing more than a challenge.

Grant Palmer loved a challenge.

So I sat and read, marking stories and jotting notes, ignoring the throbbing pain. Occasionally, I found myself pulling my shirt up quickly and breathing in, under the guise of checking to see if it was any less offensive.

It wasn't.

But I didn't stop, either.

Like a junkie craving a hit of cocaine, each time I sucked in the odor I felt a rush, followed by pain, and then disgust.

After an hour of repeating this ridiculous pattern, I threw away my untouched coffee and collected my papers. I should go home and toss the offending shirt in the hamper. I should go home, but the pain increased and the desire continued to build. I stood on the corner long enough for two buses to pass. I had two choices. Go home as intended or go out and satiate my cravings.

The cravings won.