Bait (11 page)

“We have other ideas, of course,” Maddie said, improvising hastily, because as of the end of that video they were pretty much fresh out. “Take, for example, your packaging.”

“What's wrong with our packaging?” Mrs. Brehmer asked, bristling.

“Nothing's wrong with it. Only ...” Fighting the urge to wet her lips, Maddie turned to gesture at the blowup of the sack of Brehmer's Dog Chow that was standing on an easel in the corner. It was an uninspiring brown with a dark green stripe across one corner, absolutely ripe for a makeover, whether the suggestion had been planned or not. “In today's marketplace, the name of the game is attracting attention. You might want to think about going with brighter colors, perhaps even something as bold as fuchsia or lime green. Research has shown that the primary buyer of pet food is a middle-aged woman with a family, and bright colors have been found to hold the most appeal for her as well as having the added bonus of jumping off the shelf visually.”

“Hmmph,”
Mrs. Brehmer said. “My husband designed that bag himself. Brehmer's Dog Chow has always come in a brown bag.” Her gaze slid from Maddie to Susan. Her voice sharpened even as its volume dropped. “You. I need a glass of water.”

Susan started.

“Yes, Mrs. B. of course. I'll get it right away,” she murmured, and moved toward the door. Since the door was located behind Maddie, Maddie got a good look at Susan's expression as she went by. Instead of rolling her eyes or seeming angry, as Maddie would have expected (actually, one or both of which she probably would have been guilty of herself), Susan merely looked more anxious than ever. Perhaps, Maddie thought, terminal anxiety was her natural expression.

White nodded at Mrs. Brehmer. “That's a good point, Joan. If we change our bag, our customers won't know what to look for. That brown bag is a Brehmer tradition.”

The other men nodded agreement.

“We're pretty big on tradition around here, young lady. Somebody should have warned you,” Bellamy said to Maddie, wagging his pencil at her. “Fuchsia and lime-green packaging may attract some customers' attention, but it won't tell them that it's
us.”

“That's where the national advertising campaign comes in, Mr. Bellamy. After they see spots featuring the redesigned bags on TV, your customers
will
know it's Brehmer's, and they will buy, because it's the same quality product they love at the same fair price they're used to paying. And you'll pick up new customers,
younger
customers who will stay with your products for years, because of the new, hip packaging, and fun ads that make them laugh.”

Bellamy tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the table and gave a skeptical grunt. Still smiling gamely, Maddie felt almost sick as she read the handwriting on the wall: They weren't going to get the account. After all the expense of coming, the worry and hard work, and the nightmare of last night and today, they were going to come up empty.

It was as clear as the expression on the prospective clients' faces.

Maddie swallowed. If Creative Partners didn't start landing some big accounts soon, the money was going to run out. Their current clients provided more or less steady work, but the billing from them barely covered all the monthly expenses. And, sometimes, it didn't even do that.

Of course, given what had happened last night, she might not have to worry about such mundane matters as company finances much longer ...

“We're a big believer in tradition ourselves.” Jon jumped boldly into the breach when, Maddie realized, she had remained silent too long. All eyes, including Maddie's, turned to him as he joined her in front of the pull-down screen on which the proposed ads had been projected. Maddie was thankful to no longer be the focus of attention. She needed a moment to thrust the memory of last night and the spurt of burgeoning panic that had accompanied it back into the “I'll think about it later” compartment.

An instant later, she caught herself nervously fingering the scarf around her neck, and dropped her hand.

“And, of course, tradition is one of Brehmer's strong points.” Jon was in full flow now. “Actually, we think you should emphasize the fact that your business has been family owned and operated for fifty-seven years.” Jon moved toward the blowup of the bag. “Besides the fresh new packaging”—he tapped the company's B-in-a-gold-circle logo dramatically—“we suggest giving Brehmer's Pet Food a more human face: yours, in fact, Mrs. Brehmer. Right here, in a gold frame, on every bag of pet food your company produces.”

For a moment there was dead silence. Maddie held her breath. She and Jon between them had decided to table that idea, but since nothing else was working she agreed with his reasoning: There was no reason not to try one more shot in the dark. Mrs. Brehmer's eyes widened, and her brows twitched ever so slightly.

Vacillating wildly between despair and hope, Maddie did a quick visual sweep of the table. The men's eyes were now fastened on their boss. Their expressions were frozen, as if they weren't sure how they were supposed to react. They would, Maddie realized, take their cue from Mrs. Brehmer.

“Brown-nosing is not a quality I admire, young man,” Mrs. Brehmer snapped. It was all Maddie could do not to sag. Frowning, placing her bony hands with their plethora of rings flat on the table, Mrs. Brehmer seemed prepared to end the meeting. The men shifted in their seats in response, and Maddie feared they were all about to rise.

“Now, hear me out. I'm serious.” Exhibiting the kind of never-say-die valor that in Maddie's opinion merited a raise if only she'd had the funds to fund one, which she didn't, Jon held up a hand in protest and somehow kept them in their seats. “Putting his face on his product worked for Dave Thomas with Wendy's. It worked for Harlan Sanders with Kentucky Fried Chicken. You are the soul and spirit of Brehmer's Pet Food, Mrs. Brehmer. Why shouldn't you be the face of it, too?”

Momentarily speechless in the face of such heroic eloquence, Maddie barely managed to stop herself from applauding as she waited with clasped hands and a thudding heart for Mrs. Brehmer's reply.

“Because nobody wants to look at an ugly old woman,” Mrs. Brehmer said tartly. “Don't waste your time bullshit-ting a bullshitter. I may be old, but I'm not stupid.” She looked around the table. “Well, gentlemen ...”

The door opened, and Susan appeared with a glass of water.

“Linda's brought ...” she began as everyone glanced around, and then chaos erupted behind her. Shrill barks and the scrabble of clawed feet on slick floors were drowned out by a woman's shriek.

“Ouch!
No! Stop! You come back here!
Zelda!”
The yell came from somewhere down the hall.

“Zelda!” Mrs. Brehmer called, coming to her feet as a foot-tall mop of golden brown hair shot past Susan, who flattened herself against the open door with a gasp and dropped the glass of water. The resulting crash and sound of glass shattering was as loud as an explosion. Maddie jumped. The suits leaped up.

“What the—”

“Look out!”

“There she blows!”

“It's that damned mu—uh, darned dog!”

“You idiot! She'll cut her feet!” bellowed Mrs. Brehmer at Susan, her voice a full-throated roar that all but drowned out the exclamations of her employees as the mop—Maddie realized it was a small, long-haired dog trailing a lavender leash at just about the time it dashed past her feet—ran through the spreading puddle and made a flying leap for the window.

Maddie's mouth dropped open as it crashed headfirst into solid glass. With a single truncated yelp, it then dropped like a stone to lie motionless on the floor.

SEVEN

The dull thud of impact still reverberated in the air as the room erupted.

“Zelda!” Mrs. Brehmer and Susan cried at the same time. Chairs skittered backward as everyone rushed toward the scene of the accident. Because she was closest, Maddie reached the fallen one first. The dog was lying, sprawled on its stomach, looking for all the world like a small fur rug, eyes closed, chin resting on the floor, all four limbs and fluffy tail splayed out flat around it like spokes in a wheel. A small, incongruously perky pink satin bow adorned its head, pulling the long hair between its ears up into a floppy topknot. Except for the flat monkeyish face and the tips of four black-clawed paws, it was all hair. For a moment, as she tentatively placed a hand on the silky coat, Maddie feared the dog was dead. It was motionless, inert, and didn't seem to be breathing. Touching its face, she was not reassured. She didn't know a whole heck of a lot about dogs—she'd never had the chance to own one—but were their noses supposed to be cold?

Having their sales pitch end with the sudden, shocking death of Mrs. Brehmer's pet would plunge this alreadynightmarish trip to New Orleans to a whole new low.

“Watch out, she might bite,” Susan warned under her breath as Maddie held her fingers in front of the animal's smashed-in-looking nose to see if she could feel air moving. Both Susan and Jon were looming over her, Maddie realized, and the suits were gathering around, too. The rapid clack of Mrs. Brehmer's high heels told Maddie that the old lady was coming on fast from the far end of the table. Not that Maddie glanced around to check. All her attention was focused on the dog.

Nothing. Nada. Not breathing.
Or at least, if it was, Maddie couldn't detect it.

“Never saw anything like that in my life. Dog tried to jump right out the window,” Mr. Bellamy said.

“Guess she didn't realize we were on the fiftieth floor,” Mr. White replied in a hushed voice.

“What do you think it is, a rocket scientist? It's a dog,” Mr. Oliver said impatiently. “What does it know about fiftieth floors?”

“Hadn't somebody ought to go call a vet?” Mr. Thibault was the only one of the men who sounded at all concerned for the animal. “Or something?”

“Is she hurt?” Mrs. Brehmer asked. There was a quaver of real fear in her voice.

Maddie hesitated, pressing her fingers right up against the animal's muzzle in a desperate quest to feel it breathing. The prospect of telling Mrs. Brehmer that the pet might be dead appalled her. Not knowing what to say, she rolled an eye up at Susan, who was looking even more appalled than Maddie felt.

No help to be had there.

“I, uh ...” Maddie began, preparing to stand up and move aside as soon as she broke the bad news in case someone else felt more qualified than she did to attempt doggie CPR. Just then she felt something warm and wet on her fingers. Her gaze shot back to the animal.

“She's licking my hand,” she said with relief.

“Give her to me.” Mrs. Brehmer strong-armed her way to the front of the group and held out her arms. Instinctively complying, Maddie gathered up the dog and stood. For all its seeming stockiness, it was surprisingly lightweight, she discovered, not much heavier than a good-sized cat. The abundant hair gave visual bulk to a tiny body.

“She's moving,” Maddie was pleased to report as the dog stirred in her arms. Clearly, she thought, looking down at it, this was a pampered pooch. Its coat was shiny and well-brushed, its collar was lavender patent leather studded with what looked like real amethysts, and it smelled—maybe too strongly—of some floral perfume.

It was also very sweet. Its eyes had blinked open now—they were slightly protuberant and shiny-black as olives—but it was still licking her fingers. Avidly. The eager swipe of the rough, warm tongue continued even as Maddie handed the animal to Mrs. Brehmer, who clasped it to her bosom like a baby. Mrs. B. must have been holding it too tightly, because it immediately began to squirm to get free.
Or perhaps,
Maddie thought,
it had not yet quite recovered its wits.

“She likes you.” Susan regarded Maddie with what looked like surprise. For her part, Maddie was just barely managing to resist the urge to wipe her licked fingers on her jacket. They felt surprisingly sticky, stickier than she would have imagined that a small dog's tongue could make them. Then, remembering the pastry that had been shedding cream filling when she picked it up earlier, Maddie realized that she'd found the answer to the animal's apparent affection. But if Susan and the others chose to think that the dog had been licking her because it liked her, well, who was she to correct them?

At this point, Creative Partners needed any advantage it could get.

“She's cute,” Maddie said, putting her sticky hand in her pocket.

“Cute?” Mrs. Brehmer, glancing at her, sounded affronted. “I don't think I'd call her
cute.
This is Zelda von Zoetrope. She's a Grand Champion Pekingese who's taken best of breed at Westminster. Twice.”

“Oh, my.” As responses went, this probably ranged right up there with “cute” in the inadequate department, but at the moment it was the best Maddie could come up with. Ready and willing to acknowledge herself as a philistine as far as the world of championship-winning dogs went, Maddie struggled for a more fulsome reply even as she looked at Zelda with fresh eyes. With the dog wrapped in Mrs. Brehmer's arms, though, there wasn't much to see but a still-squirming tangle of brown fur.

“You must be very proud,” she achieved.

Too late. Mrs. Brehmer was no longer looking at her. She was once again focused exclusively on the dog.

“Oh, we are,” Susan said.

“Zelda, Zelda,” Mrs. Brehmer crooned as she hugged her wriggling pet. “My dear, darling girl, whatever were you thinking? You might have been killed!”

Zelda growled, the sound low but unmistakable. Mrs. Brehmer stiffened. Then, lips tightening, she set the dog on its feet. Zelda seemed momentarily unsteady. Then she shook herself vigorously and started to trot away, only to be brought up short as she reached the end of the leash Mrs. Brehmer held. Zelda tugged. Mrs. Brehmer reeled her back in, and at the same time looked daggers at Susan. “Where is that fool, Linda? I pay her good money to look after this dog.”