Karen MacInerney - Margie Peterson 01 - Mother's Day Out (23 page)

“That’s right,” I said.  “You’re going for the pink Cadillac.”

“After going through Attila’s files, I might just put you down for one of everything.”

I groaned and tossed back the rest of the Chardonnay.

By the time Blake was snoring, I had consumed half a bottle of slightly vinegary wine and half a Cadbury Dairy Milk bar.  The combo would never get written up in
Gourmet
, but it was fine for medicinal purposes.

I prodded my husband a few times.  Nothing.  Then I slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of khakis and a polo shirt.  I took one last look at Blake, sprawled under the covers. 
Who are you really?
I asked him silently. 

Then I slid the keys from the top of his dresser and tiptoed out to the minivan.

#

Sixth Street is a different place by night than it is by day.  The business suits and khakis of daylight had morphed into painfully tight jeans and dresses that looked more like fabric swatches than clothing.  The shiny SUVs and luxury sedans had been replaced by sleek sport cars and low-riding coupes.  Under the bright lights of the bar marquees, my crumpled minivan felt like the automotive equivalent of a maiden aunt. 

I was almost relieved when I pulled into the garage beneath Blake’s building, flashing his blue parking card at the attendant and pulling into a corner spot.  I grabbed Blake’s keys from the ignition and caught the elevator to the lobby.  As the doors slid open to reveal the lobby, I thought,
so far, so good
.

That came to a screeching halt a moment later.

I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe a slot to stick Blake’s card into that would allow me to whisk up the fourteen floors to his office unchallenged?  What I got was a beetle-browed security guard who looked like she’d just found her husband cheating on her with a two-hundred-pound baboon.

She glared at me as I tripped across the cool terrazzo floor.  “Can I help you?” Her voice made it clear it wasn’t high on her list of things to do.

“Yes.  I’m headed up to Jones McEwan.” 

She squeezed her eyebrows even tighter together.  “Then you’ll have to sign in.”  She pushed a clipboard toward me.  “Name?”

“Um, Priscilla Anderson.”

She opened a binder and ran her fingers down a list of names.  Then she looked up at me, suspicion in her close-set black eyes.  “You’re not in here.”

I panicked.  Her black eyes bored into me, suspicion growing with each moment I failed to supply an answer.  Finally, I let out an exasperated sigh.  “You’re kidding me! They told me last week that everything would be taken care of.”  I thrust Blake’s security card at her.  “Here.  Maybe this will help.”

She peered at the number on the card and ran her finger down the list of names in her binder again.  “Says here the card’s registered to a guy named Blake Peterson.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Oh, for God’s sake.  They let him go last month.  I’m his replacement.”

The hard certainty in her eyes wavered.

“Look,” I said.  “Why don’t you take my name down and check it out with Herb McEwan tomorrow? I’ve got a big case going to trial on Monday, and if I don’t get everything together, heads are going to roll.”  I gave her a pointed look, hoping that she would take it to mean that hers might be among them.

“Well, it’s not standard procedure…” Her resistance was faltering.

“If anyone gives you a hard time over this, I promise I’ll go to bat for you.”

She chewed on her lip.  Just when I thought
Victory
!, she shook her head.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t bend the security procedures.”

Crap
. I gazed at the elevator with longing.  So near, yet so far…. “Would it help if I called Annette Morton?” She glanced at her list.  “She’s a senior partner of Jones McEwan,” I supplied helpfully.

“Well, with her permission, I suppose…”

“Great.”  I whipped out my cell phone and dialed.

“Hello, Annette? Sorry to bother you.  This is Priscilla Anderson.”

A sleepy voice came through the phone.  “Margie? Is that you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, but I’m standing at the front desk of Jones McEwan, and I need you to tell—” I glanced at the guard’s badge “—Melissa here that it’s okay to let me into my office.”

Becky’s voice was confused.  “What?”

“Can you just do that for me?”

“Where are you again?”

“Like I said, I’m in the lobby.  Here’s Melissa.  She’s running security tonight.”  Then I handed the phone over the desk and prayed that Becky would figure it out.

“Ms. Morton?” Melissa was silent for a moment, and I crossed my fingers tight behind my back.  Finally, her eyebrows relaxed.  “Okay.  Will do.”  She handed the phone back to me.  “She says it’s okay.”

Thank you, Becky
. “Great,” I said, trying not to sound too relieved.  Melissa got up and lumbered over to the elevator and punched the up button for me before returning to her desk.

That the security guard didn’t find it odd for me to call one of the two senior partners of Jones McEwan after midnight made me wonder about the quality of security these days.  On the other hand, she had given me a really hard time.  But it didn’t matter.

I was in.

Blake’s security card slid into the key slot of Jones McEwan like it was greased.  The door opened with a click.

I turned on the lights to the lobby and the hall and trotted to Blake’s office, my hands damp with sweat.  I needed to get and get out before Melissa thought too hard about my midnight phone call.

Blake’s office door was unlocked.  I flicked on the light and made for the desk.  Like the desk in his home office, the slab of dark-stained walnut was clear of anything but a pair of Blake’s beloved Mont Blanc pens.

I slid into his leather chair and did a quick survey of his desk drawers, not knowing what I was hoping—or dreading—to find.  Motel receipts? Crack cocaine? Thong underwear with plastic fruit? But the contents were uninspiring.  Nothing but paper clips, plastic rollerball pens and rubber bands.

I flipped the switch on the computer.  While it booted up, I swiveled around and opened the top drawer of the credenza.  Client files.  Nothing that would indicate where two thousand dollars a month were going.  I was about to close the drawer when three fat green files labeled
International Shipping Company
caught my eye.  I pulled them out and laid them on top of the credenza.  They were stuffed with half a dozen manila files.

The first few folders were for cases connected with what looked like unhappy clients.  I raised my eyebrows. Apparently International Shipping Company wasn’t as rigorous as it could be in recording and shipping the correct amount of stuff.  My thoughts turned to the Calvin Pitts, the lascivious CEO we had met that morning.  He was so sleazy, I couldn’t say I was surprised.  I opened the fourth file.  Apparently the company wasn’t too good at recording profits, either.  The corporate offices might look luxurious, but unless their coffers were well lined, the company might have to downgrade their office space soon.  The IRS was suing for back taxes to the tune of a couple of million dollars.

The computer bleeped, and I turned to look at the screen.  Another password request.  I typed in a couple of likely candidates: social security numbers, children’s names, mother’s maiden name.  Nothing.  My name didn’t work either.  I sighed and turned to the next manila folder, which was labeled
E. M. Hernandez
— the same name I had seen on the files in Maxted’s office that morning.

I flipped through the file. Once again, bills of lading.  Apparently Hernandez had shipped several loads of piñatas from Guadalajara to a company called Innovative Imports.  I looked at the address and blinked.  It was the same as the one scrawled at the bottom of the page on Maxted’s appointment book.

I flipped past the bills and was about to read Blake’s notes on the case when a squeak sounded from the hall.

I jammed the files back into the folder and shoved them into the credenza, pushing the drawer closed with my foot.  Then I dashed around the desk to switch off the lights. 
Damn!
I had left the hall lights on.  Nothing I could do about it now.  I flicked the off switch on Blake’s computer and scurried under the desk.

My breathing was so loud I was convinced whoever was approaching would hear me from the hall.  Was it the security guard? Had she called someone and found out I was a fraud? I concentrated on regulating my breathing and making myself as small as possible.

The footsteps paused outside the door to Blake’s office.  I pressed myself deeper into the dark well under the desk.

Then the lights went on.

I glanced up at the credenza to make sure the drawer was closed and cursed silently.  The drawer was closed, but Blake’s keys gleamed on the edge of the credenza. 

The footsteps approached the desk.  I fought to still my breathing and pressed my back into the hard walnut desk. 

A pair of gray slacks came into view, ending in polished black wingtips.  Whoever it was, it wasn’t the security guard.  She’d been wearing blue polyester.  I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that whoever was prowling around my husband’s office wouldn’t look under the desk.  Then I opened them again.  Who the heck
was
prowling around my husband’s office? And why?

As I watched, the top drawer of the credenza slid open.  After a moment, it slid shut again.  And then I heard the sound I had been dreading.

The jingle of keys. 

Fortunately, they were in fact my husband’s keys, and therefore it was reasonable for them to be in his office.  The problem was, if whoever it was walked off with them, I had no way to get the minivan home.  And it would be darned hard to explain to my husband why the minivan was in the parking garage of his office.

Please, please, please put them back
.  A split second later, I added,
and please don’t look under the desk, either
.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the keys thunked down on the credenza.  The pants disappeared, the lights went off, and the footsteps receded down the hall.

I waited a few minutes, then clambered out from under the desk and slid the credenza drawer open. 

Even in the faint reflected light of downtown, it was obvious what was missing.  The files on International Shipping Company were gone.

I slid my keys off the credenza and stuffed them into my pocket.  Then I crept to the door.  The hall was empty.  I dashed to the end of it and peered around the corner into the lobby.

Nobody.

I crossed the room and slipped through the front door, jabbing at the elevator button and trying to disappear behind a potted ficus tree.  I’d made it out of the office okay.  With my luck, I’d be caught waiting for the elevator.  When the door finally opened, I ducked inside and punched the “Door Close” button.  I sagged against the mirrored wall and prepared myself for the lobby, where Melissa the security guard was waiting for me.  Maybe if I moved fast, I could get out before she had a chance to stop me.

When the door opened, I broke into a trot, but the efficient guard called out before I had taken three steps.  “That was quick.”  Her voice was icy.  “I thought you had a mountain of work to do.”

I plastered a smile onto my face.  “Oh, the computers were down, so I figured I’d get a good night’s sleep and try again tomorrow.”

Her brows beetled with suspicion again.  “You need to sign out.”

“Oh.  Sure.”  I hurried over to the register and jotted
12:45
next to my name, glancing at the lone entry under mine.

Herb McEwan.

“By the way, I talked with Herb McEwan a moment ago,” Melissa said.  “And he said he never heard of a Priscilla Anderson.”

I forced a tinkly laugh.  “Men never know what’s going on, do they? Oh, well.  I’m sure Annette will fill him in at the next board meeting.”  I tapped my forehead.  “It’s always us women who keep things running, isn’t it?”

Before she had a chance to answer, I turned and hustled toward the garage elevator.  As I crossed the lobby, a whirring sound came from one of the lobby elevators.  Someone—probably Herb McEwan—was on his way down.

I picked up the pace, skipping the elevator and ducking through the door marked stairs.  Melissa took a step toward me, calling, “Wait! Wait a moment!”

I pretended not to hear, instead turning to give her a brief wave.  “See you later!” I called, and disappeared through the door.

Just before the door to the stairwell snicked shut, the lobby elevator dinged. 

I pelted down two flights of stairs and burst through the door, sprinting for the minivan.  I needed to get out before Melissa had a chance to alert the parking attendant. 

A moment later, I roared past McEwan’s black Mercedes and held up my blue pass for the parking attendant, who waved me by.  I smiled at him and sailed past the parking booth.  His radio crackled to life behind me as I pulled out of the garage and disappeared into the neon-lit traffic on Sixth Street.

NINETEEN

 “Becky’s taking you shopping for clothes?” Blake slurped his coffee and smiled.  “That’s a great idea! She always looks so put-together. I’m sure she can find something that will look nice on you.”

I scowled and poured myself a second cup of coffee, reflecting that it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why I had married this man in the first place.

I had made it home without incident last night, exhausted, but also revved up. Blake was still in the same sprawled position when I slid under the covers.  As I lay in the darkness, trying to calm myself down enough to sleep, it occurred to me that Peaches was right: I hadn’t needed any help getting into Blake’s office.  My marriage might be headed down the toilet, but at least I was turning out to be a pretty decent private investigator.  Frankly, it wasn’t much consolation.

This morning, when I floated my idea about doing a little ‘volunteer’ work at the school office and then shopping for an outfit to wear to the Junior League Fashion Show, he’d been thrilled.  “Great! I’m so glad you’re taking better care of yourself.  Image is
so
important.”  But when I told him I needed to go back into the office the next day (that was my cover for Maxted’s funeral), he shook his head.  “I’ve got a client meeting.  You’ll have to get a babysitter or do it another time.”