Clubbed to Death (12 page)

Before. Jackie’s life, like Helen’s, was divided into BD and AD—before the divorce and after.

“He is interested in charity causes, like I am. He’s recently divorced.

We were in the same circles before.”

“Sounds interesting,” Helen said.

“It’s too soon to plan our wedding,” Jackie said, but Helen could tell she had hopes. “I haven’t even gone out with him yet. But I feel I know him so well. We were part of the same social circle for years. I’d like to live the way I did before.”

I wouldn’t, Helen thought.

“You know the worst part of being single?” Jackie said. “There’s no one to share your thoughts with. No one cares whether you wake up in the morning. There’s no one to find your body if you die in the night.”

Helen shivered. She liked being single, but then she wasn’t really, was she? She had Phil. Jackie’s loneliness surrounded her like a thick perfume. Jackie carefully rolled the aluminum foil that she’d wrapped her egg in and put it in her purse. She reuses it, Helen thought. She’s that hard up.

“That can’t be true,” Helen said.

“Oh, but it is,” Jackie said. “I have no children.”

“But your friends are fixing you up with dates.”

“They feel sorry for me. They don’t come around the way they did before. Well, things will get better.” Jackie put on a too-brave smile.

“They have to.”

There was an awkward silence. Jackie, in her loneliness, had revealed too much too soon. Now she was embarrassed. “Guess we’d better get back,” she said.

Helen clocked in early. She was glad to be at her desk, away from Jackie’s sad desperation. She reached for her insistent phone almost gratefully.

“Hello,” said a soft, pleasant voice. “This is Demi Dell.”

The wife of the hairy, horny plastic surgeon.

“I misplaced my club member card,” Demi said. “I took it out of my wallet before I went to New York, and left it on my dresser. Now it’s gone.”

“No problem,” Helen said. “Would you like me to freeze your account?”

“No, I don’t think the card was stolen,” Demi said. “It’s lost somewhere in the house. I’m coming by to play tennis shortly. I’ll stop by and pick up a new one.”

“I’ll make sure it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Demi said.

There was a word Helen didn’t hear much from the members. She printed out the new card and examined the photo. Helen had seen many hard, rich faces at the club. Demi was a surprise. Everything about her seemed soft and sweet: her curly dark hair, her plump lips, her big brown eyes. How could the ugly surgeon cheat on such a pretty woman?

“Hello? Is anyone alive here or am I in a wax museum?”

Helen looked up from the card machine. The young woman at the counter wore a pouty expression and a tight halter top. Her cantaloupe breasts looked as though they were fighting for room in the tiny top.

“How may we help you?” Jessica asked. Frost should have formed on the young woman’s shirt.

“I want to return this useless shit,” the young woman said, and threw a Superior Club shopping bag down on the counter. Jackie gasped.

“When did you buy it?” Jessica said.

“I didn’t,” the young woman said. “Dr. Dell bought it for me last month. I have the receipt.”

Helen wondered whether this was the infamous staffer who’d caused Dr. Dell’s recent tirade over the bill. She looked a bit chubby to be some doctor’s new cookie. They usually liked flat-stomached babes.

“Are you a member here?” Jessica asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Of course not,” the young woman said. “I wouldn’t join this old folks’ home if you paid me.”

“What is your name, please?” Jessica said.

“Mandy,” the young woman said. “Now, are you gonna give me my money back or not?”

Jessica studied the receipt. “I’m afraid all I can do, Mandy, is direct you to the Superior Togs shop, where they will issue Dr. Dell a credit for the clothing.”

“You mean I can’t get any freaking cash?”

“Sorry,” Jessica said. “But you didn’t buy the items.”

“Screw that,” Mandy said. She grabbed the bag and flounced out.

“Is that Dr. Dell’s new cookie?” Helen said.

“That’s her,” Jessica said. “And what a piece of work she is.”

“I’ve never seen two people who deserved each other more,” Helen said.

There was a soft “excuse me,” and Demi Dell was standing at the front counter in fresh tennis whites. Helen recognized her from her club photo.

“I’ll handle this,” Helen said to Jessica. “Demi Dell wants to pick up her new member card. I’ve already run it off the machine.”

The staff studied their desks or suddenly grabbed their phones. No one knew if Demi knew about the scene her husband created trying to get the bill or the infamous day of relaxation he’d bought for Mandy, his nasty staffer.

Demi signed the paperwork for her new card and left with good-byes and thank-yous. Helen could almost hear the audible sighs of relief when she was finally gone.

“She’s a nice person,” Xaviera said. “She doesn’t deserve him.”

“Who does?” Jessica said.

“Ms. Halter Top,” Helen said. “I wonder if Dr. Dell installed those outsized breasts.”

With that, Brenda with the hatchet-blade hair blew in the office.

“We aren’t paying you to hold a cocktail party,” she said.

“Oh, boy,” whispered Jessica. “She’s in a mood.”

“Cam!” Brenda shouted. “What is that pile of files doing on your desk?”

“They’re resignations. I just got them this morning.”

“You should have processed them by now. You know Mr. Ironton hates desk clutter.”

Cam resentfully picked up the files.

“I’m going to reorganize the supply cabinet,” Brenda said. “It’s a mess.”

“Terrific. We won’t be able to find anything for weeks,” Jessica whispered. “I hate it when she starts straightening things. She always loses something important.”

The staff worked in sullen silence, except when they were on the phones. Helen could almost see the black clouds over their heads. She could hear slapping and thumping as Brenda worked in the supply cabinet.

By three o’clock, Helen was hungry. She sneaked an energy bar out of her purse and took a bite, then hid the rest by her phone.

Brenda emerged, carrying a box of envelopes. “Helen! What’s that thing on your desk?” She pointed a nearly meatless arm dramatically at the half-eaten energy bar. “Throw it away. You know it’s against the rules to eat at your desk.”

Helen picked up the bar and shoved it in her purse. She wasn’t tossing it.

Brenda wheeled around and said, “Jackie, what’s that on the floor behind your desk?”

Jackie swivelled in her chair to check. “A piece of paper,” she said.

“Pick it up. This office is a pigsty. And why are you wearing open-toed slingbacks? You know they are against regulations.”

“My shoes—” Jackie began.

“No excuses. I’m writing you up.”

Jackie cowered miserably at her desk.

“And you, Xaviera. Why do you have those unsanitary daggers?

Your nails should not be longer than half an inch. And red polish is strictly forbidden.”

“Go to hell,” Xaviera said. “You’re jealous because my nails are real. So are my boobs.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Brenda said. “I’m an assistant manager.”

Kitty came running out of her office, Kewpie-doll curls bouncing.

“And I’m Xaviera’s supervisor. I’ll discipline my people. That’s not your job.”

“You aren’t doing your job,” Brenda said. “You’re letting them get away with murder.”

“Obviously, Brenda, you have a lot of time on your hands if you can interfere with my staff . Maybe I should ask Solange to give you additional duties.”

“She’s not here,” Brenda said.

But the office door opened, and Solange was there. She still looked like she’d just gotten out of bed, but after a sleepless night. There were dark shadows under her eyes that even concealer couldn’t cover.

“I had a horrible meeting with Mr. Ironton. Horrible.” Solange nervous ly ran her fingers through her tousled red hair. “But first, I have another issue to address. Has anyone found the Winderstine file?”

“We would have told you,” Kitty said. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“The file room is a mess,” Brenda said. “I don’t see how you could find it.”

“We’ve searched the file room four times,” Kitty said.

“Then make it five,” Solange said. “I need that file. I have to write the letter of reprimand within seven days of the incident. The missing file is part of a larger problem. Mr. Ironton has received a detailed report that there are multiple staff abuses in our office. It gave dates and times. Our staff has been dressing improperly!”

She glared at Xaviera’s red nails. Xaviera glared back. Jackie tucked her illegal slingbacks under her desk.

“And eating—yes, eating—at their desks. You know how Mr. Ironton feels about that.”

He should get over it, Helen thought. This place has a lot bigger problems than my energy bar. That damned Brenda. She’s been keeping notes on us. Her latest attack was to underline her spy memo.

Jackie looked ready to burst into tears. Xaviera seemed about to explode.

“Worst of all, someone stole company time by conducting personal business during working hours,” Solange said.

“That’s a lie,” Cameron said. “I needed to go to the title company for my new condo, but I cleared it with Kitty first. I came in early off the clock to make up the time.”

“I didn’t mention your name,” Solange said.

“You didn’t have to,” Cam said. “We all know Brenda wrote that memo. Why does Mr. Ironton listen to that Botoxed bitch?”

“Why, indeed?” Kitty said. “Our department just finished a huge customer care mailing without overtime. We’re operating below budget. We rank higher than any other department in customer satisfaction. I hope you told him that, Solange.”

“Well, no,” Solange said. “I was so shocked and surprised I didn’t say anything.”

“Were you really?” Kitty said. “You know what a backstabber Brenda is. Why would you be shocked when she snitches on us?”

“I think we’d better have the rest of this conversation in my office,” Solange said.

“Fine.” Kitty’s small determined chin was stuck out in battle mode.

She grabbed a notebook and followed Solange into her office. Brenda tried to follow them, but Kitty slammed the door in her face. Brenda had a smug smile when she retreated to her office and shut the door.

“Miserable bitch,” Xaviera said. “I’ll get her for that.”

“We all will,” Cam said.

CHAPTER 11

“Honey, I’m home,” Helen called when she opened the door to her apartment.

Thumbs, her six-toed cat, was waiting for her at the door. The big gray-and-white cat with the golden eyes twined himself around Helen’s feet, then led the way to the kitchen.

“I’m just a drudge,” Helen said to the cat, as she followed his plume of a tail. “Someone who fixes your meals and cleans up after you. Do you really care about my feelings?”

Thumbs patted his food dish with his enormous six-toed paw.

When Helen didn’t immediately fill it, he stared at her, then deliberately flipped the empty metal dish. It clanged and clattered on the floor.

“Apparently not,” Helen said. She righted the dish and poured dry food into the bowl, then changed the cat’s water. Thumbs gently nudged her out of the way so he could get to his dinner.

“I’m not getting much sympathy here,” she said to the cat’s back, as he methodically chomped the brown pellets. “Guess I’ll have to look for satisfaction outside our home. Just remember, if I stray, it’s your fault.”

Helen rummaged in the fridge for a box of red wine. That’s all it said, red. There was no mention of grapes. Instead of a vintage year, it had an expiration date. She changed into jeans and one of Phil’s white shirts, picked up the box of wine and half a bag of pretzels, and padded out to the Coronado pool to salute the sunset.

She could hear her landlady, Margery, laughing with Phil. Helen thought if Margery were twenty years younger, Phil would run off with her. Sometimes, Helen wondered if he might anyway. Margery was old and made no bones about it. She scorned the nip-and-tuck work of the Superior Club crowd. It made her seem sexier and younger than they did. Margery wore her age like an achievement.

She also wore purple. She always did. Helen never had the nerve to ask why. Today, Margery was in lavender from her cotton top to her flowered flats. She had fired up a Marlboro and was blowing smoke rings across the pool.

How did she do that? Helen wondered. Could you take smoke ring–blowing lessons? Maybe the community college had a class.

Phil was stretched out on a chaise next to Margery, dressed in a white shirt and jeans. The shirt looked much better on him than on her, Helen decided. The jeans matched his blue eyes.

“So how was your day?” Margery said.

“Lousy,” Helen said. “All I did was listen to complaints.”

“So what?” Margery said. “I hear complaints all day, too, and nobody pays me. People bend my ear for free.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to listen to ‘Do you know who I am?’ If I had a dollar every time I heard that, I’d be rich enough to join the Superior Club,” Helen said.

Margery sent another smoke ring skimming over the pool. “They aren’t asking you that question,” she said. “They’re asking themselves.

They don’t know. They’ve never had the chance to find out. You’re the lucky one.”

“Oh, please,” Helen said. “These people have everything. I have nothing. I know who I am: a failure. We’re all failures in that office.

Jessica is a failed actress. Jackie is the failed wife of a rich man. I’m a failed corporate wonk.”

“To fail, you have to try something first,” Margery said. “They’ll always be cushioned by mummy’s money and daddy’s lawyers. If they screw up, their parents will rescue them and find them a safe place in the family business. They can’t even fail.”

“Lucky them,” Helen said.

“Not really. Look, Helen, learn to handle those people, so you don’t upset yourself. Anybody who works customer ser vice has a few key phrases they use to handle the screamers. Here’s my favorite: Next time Mrs. Rich screams at you, tell her, ‘Rest assured that topic will be brought up to the staff.’