Dying to Get Published (11 page)

Jennifer got her big chance to search the files at four o'clock when a breathless, red-faced young woman came begging for help. A major paper jam had developed in the Xerox machine down the hall. Edith scurried off, leaving the files unguarded.

Jennifer had passed Moore in the hall on her way back into the building. He told her he was on his way out to lunch. He hadn't come back. She was alone in the office.

She immediately flew to the cabinet where she pulled each and every file and found… nothing. Nothing was in the files. Nothing except things like when and where Moore last spoke to the Woman's Club or Allen helped open a supermarket, and, of course, various flight schedules and trips.

Just as Jennifer was slipping the last folder back into place, John Allen walked through the door. She slammed the drawer shut.

Allen stared at Jennifer, looked back toward the hall, and then back at Jennifer. "Do I know you?" he asked, screwing up his face as though he were looking into the sun. He was dressed in a Bulldogs T-shirt and walking shorts.

"Jennifer Marsh," she said, offering her hand. "I'm your new assistant."

His grip was mushy.

"Yeah, well, the turnover is pretty big around here. Most of you don't last long enough for me to remember your names. But you look kind of familiar…"

"Happens all the time," Jennifer insisted. "It's the face."  She pointed at herself. "Very common face." She didn't want to deal with his recognizing her as the caterer at Moore's party, but it didn't look as if she'd have to. No flashes were going off in that dull brain.

"Did they bring my clothes?" he asked, running a hand over his chin and ruffling through his hair.

Jennifer nodded. "A jacket, shirt and tie.  I hung them on the back of your office door."

"Did they bring cuff links? Last time they sent French cuffs without any links. I had to use safety pins. I spent the whole newscast trying to keep the sleeve of the sports jacket from riding up too high."

Poor baby. This news business was tough. "No cuff links and no French cuffs."

"Any mail?"

"It's on your desk. Two fan letters." (She assumed business letters didn't come with red heart stickers and a big red lipstick print over the seal.) "And a credit card bill."

Allen mumbled, went to his office, and shut the door behind him.

Jennifer let out a sigh. She had one more place she wanted to look before Edith got that copier machine back in order.

She slipped behind Edith's desk and pulled out the file drawer on the bottom right. Neatly arranged one after the other were unlabeled manila folders. Jennifer pulled out the first one. Inside were all sizes of scrap paper with handwritten notes, all having to do with Channel 14 and the news department. A few names caught her eye, including Steve Moore and Kyle Browning.

"Don't use that kind of paper. Throw it away if you can't keep it out of the stacks with the regular stock." Edith's voice echoed down the hall.

Jennifer dumped the folder back into the drawer and flew to her own desk as Edith came through the door.

"I don't have time this late in the day to become a maintenance supervisor. Has he come in yet?" She motioned toward Allen's door.

Jennifer nodded.

"The clothes here?"

Again, Jennifer nodded.

"I'll give him a few more minutes. He has to be inspected before he goes down to makeup. The man doesn't even know how to knot his own tie."

Edith sat down behind her desk, pulled open the lap drawer and extracted a pack of cigarettes and some matches. She lit one with shaky hands, and turned a steely stare at Jennifer. "I'm smoking this here and now, and I don't give a hoot what you or any regulations say." She took a deep breath, burning down a good half inch of the cigarette, and flicked the ashes into an ashtray inside the drawer.

Jennifer hated cigarette smoke—she got enough of it at the private parties she and Dee Dee catered—but Edith obviously needed something to calm her nerves. She looked to be in a dangerous state.

After two more puffs Edith's hands stopped shaking, and some of the misery seemed to drain from her face. She stamped out the butt and shut the drawer.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm working in a nursery school. I have two big kids I've got to get dressed and made presentable five days a week." She laughed bitterly. "Some job, huh?"

A thought crept into Jennifer's mind. Did she dare say it? "Did you ever want to be part of the talent?"

Edith hesitated a moment, considering. "I started out as a journalist. I worked for a newspaper for five years. It folded, and then I thought, why not try TV? I should have looked in the mirror first."

It wasn't that Edith was unattractive. She had good features and nice hair if only she'd do something with it. And she'd have to lose those horrible, thick-framed glasses. She might actually be quite pretty—in person. But she'd never have that star quality, that charisma that had to make itself felt across the long cable from studio to TV set.

"If that's why you're here…" Edith gave her a long, appraising look. "Oh, hell, go for it. I'd be the last one to discourage anyone from going after their dreams."

"Do you still write?"

Jennifer had hit a nerve. She knew it as soon as she said it. That cloudy anger rose back up, close to the surface of Edith's features.

"Why would I write? Just what do you think someone like me would have to write about?"

Chapter 18

Jennifer shoved the reading glasses back up on the bridge of her nose, patted the black curls of her wig into place, and pressed the doorbell to Mrs. Walker's apartment. The first stanza of "Georgia" echoed through the door. A few seconds later she heard the dead bolt slide back and another lock turn. Immediately, a snarling ball of miniature mutt attacked her shoes.

"Isn't that sweet? Tiger is so glad to see you. Won't you come in, Sophie? Let me take that sweater for you."

"No, I'm fine. I tend to be chilly." Jennifer clutched the misshapen cardigan around her, fearful that without it she'd look like a shoplifter from Macy's linen department.

"I see you're well bolted in," Jennifer said, examining the locks on the door. "Are these all standard or did you have some added? I'd like to think you were safe with all the crime we hear about these days."

"The locks came with the door. We're not allowed to put anything on ourselves. But you don't have to worry, dear. This is a secure building. Ernie won't let anyone in he doesn't know. I told him you were coming this morning. You didn't have any problems, did you?" Mrs. Walker continued to wipe her hands on the towel she held. Her red gingham apron showed signs of what looked like ketchup across the bib.

Jennifer shook her head. The doorman had greeted her by name when she arrived a few minutes ago, and she felt certain he would let her in anytime whether Mrs. Walker told him she was coming or not.

Ernie was particularly concerned about Jennifer's condition. His niece had given birth to her firstborn while stuck in city traffic in a taxicab. Since then, he assured her, he had taken a first-aid class that included "birthing babies." He seemed anxious to put that training to the test. Not a reassuring thought.

He had put Jennifer in the elevator and even offered to go up with her. He couldn't have been nicer without handing her the key to Apartment 1129.

Jennifer ran her hand over Mrs. Walker's door frame. One dead bolt, one standard lock. She could easily get past the standard lock. Her serial killer, the vile, demented Marcus, knew how to slip one in less than five seconds. That's why she had him kill people who lived in older houses. This new type of dead bolt would be a problem. It was state of the art with a good, two-inch bolt. Unfortunately, the only breaking and entering experience she had outside of her own apartment was on paper, and a real lock wouldn't open by typing "the lock gave way" or "the bolt slid cleanly back into its housing." She'd been fudging too long with her writing. She had to find some real way to defeat a lock like this one.

"Come along, dear. You need to get that weight off your feet. We don't want your ankles swelling up like balloons."

Jennifer followed Mrs. Walker into the living room, Tiger nipping at her heels.

"I made lasagna. I thought your grandmother probably made it for you, and I want you to feel right at home here."

The only lasagna served at Jennifer's grandmother's house had come out of the frozen food section of the grocery store. Grandma had made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and homemade biscuits. Jennifer had savored those Sunday dinners. Of course, that was before Grandma discovered the wonders of refrigerated biscuits and canned gravy. And before Jennifer had had her philosophical awakening about meat.

"It smells delicious," Jennifer assured her, sitting down, the distinct odor of Italian sausage filling the apartment. If the sausage chunks were big enough, she could pick them out. Otherwise, she'd try to isolate the noodle/cheese layers from the sauce. If all else failed, she could always plead morning sickness.

"Can I give you a hand?" Jennifer offered.

"Oh, no. It'll be in the oven for another ten minutes. The salad is in the fridge, and I just popped in the garlic bread."

Mrs. Walker sat down close to Jennifer on the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the diminutive monster who had caught his spindly incisor in the woven leather of Jennifer's shoe right next to her little toe. Jennifer had to get the woman out of the room.

"Could I have a glass of water?" Jennifer croaked.

Mrs. Walker patted her knee. "You most certainly may. I've got some nice bottled spring water in the pantry. I'll be back in a shake."

As soon as Mrs. Walker cleared the doorway, Jennifer took hold of Tiger, disengaged his tooth from her shoe, and held him high in the air. "I thought we had an understanding." He growled his disagreement.

She had to keep him off of her, but she didn't know any way short of sacrificing one of her shoes. Limping back to Macon was not part of her game plan. She looked pitiful enough already.

With her free hand, she frantically searched through her purse. Her hand closed on a leather glove, and she pulled it out.

She lifted the skirt on the sofa and tossed the glove under it, shoving Tiger in after, just as Mrs. Walker returned with a large tea glass of sparkling water.

"There you are, dear." She looked about the floor. "Has Tiger disappeared again? It's strange, but many times when I have company, I'll step out of the room for just a moment, and the little darling vanishes."

Jennifer just bet he did.

The sofa emitted a muffled rumble.

"Did you hear something?" Mrs. Walker asked.

"It's just my stomach. I had a light breakfast, and the smell of your cooking is making me hungry."

"Good for you, dear. You must nourish our little one and drink plenty of water. It's absolutely essential."

Jennifer took a sip from the glass and placed it on the coffee table. She now had an idea of Penney Richmond's front door security. The only other way into the apartment was a small balcony. Maybe it would offer easier access.

Jennifer put a hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, tried to think
pale
, and fanned her free hand rapidly in front of her face. "I think I need some air. Do you mind if I…" She motioned toward the spectacular view.

"No, of course not. Feeling a little queasy, are we?"

Jennifer gulped back a reply having to do with just who
we
were and followed the older woman to the windows. The glass gave the impression of standing on a precipice, a clear drop of
twelve stories to the ground.

The door to the balcony was custom-built and looked like one more large, double-paned panel. The lock was standard. Security had been pretty lax when they put in these doors, or so Jennifer thought, until she stepped outside into the cacophony of downtown Atlanta.

"I don't come out here too often," Mrs. Walker yelled.

"I can understand why." Jennifer could also see why security had scrimped on the balcony lock. The narrow platform was not much more than a two-person perch above the city. It was about six feet long and wrapped to the left around the brick wall so as not to obstruct the view of the windows.

Each balcony was a good distance from the other, spanning most of the length of the apartment, way too far to leap from one to another. But the balconies beneath all lay in a straight, vertical line. Someone with mountain-climbing equipment could make their way up fairly easily. Don a black turtleneck, sweatpants, a cap, a little soot on the face—piece of cake—for Daniel Craig. In her current physical condition—exercise was something to be watched and appreciated aesthetically—Jennifer couldn't get past the patio on the first floor. And heights—well, she thought she was just fine with heights until she took a peek over the railing.

"Just look at you! You're turning green!" Mrs. Walker shouted above the din. "This air isn't good for you." She pulled Jennifer back inside and shut the door, cutting off the noise. "Sometimes I think you have no concern about your condition," she scolded.