Death by Pantyhose (2 page)

The lobby was deserted when I got there. It
was nearly eleven, that quiet time before the
lunch rush, and I had the place all to myself. I
rang for the elevator and started rehearsing my
opening greeting.

"Hello, Mr. McCormick," I said to the elevator doors. "I'm Jaine Austen."

Nah. Maybe "Mr." was too formal. These ad
agencies were hip, happening places.

"Hey, Stan. Jaine here."

No, no, no! That was way too familiar. I
wanted to be his writer, not his golf buddy.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCormick," I
tried. "I'm Jaine Austen."

Suddenly a voice came out of nowhere.

"A pleasure to meet you, too, Ms. Austen."

I whirled around and saw a tall guy in his late
forties, graying at the temples, in khakis and a
cashmere blazer. He wore tinted aviator glasses
and carried an attache case that cost more than
my Corolla.

Dear Lord, I prayed. Please don't let him be Stan
McCormick.

He smiled a craggy suntanned smile.

"Hi. I'm Stan McCormick."

Great. My would-be employer saw me talking
to myself. Just the impression I was going for.
The Recently Released Mental Patient Look.

The elevator, which had taken its sweet time
showing up, finally dinged open, and we both
got on.

"This is so embarrassing," I said. "Not exactly
the way I was hoping to start my interview."

"Interview?" He blinked, puzzled.

"I have an appointment to meet with you at
eleven this morning."

He still looked puzzled.

"I answered your ad for a freelance writer. Remember?"

"Damn," he said, slapping his forehead with
his open palm. "Now look who's embarrassed. I
forgot all about it. Completely slipped my mind.
I've been down in Newport all morning with a
client."

The elevator doors opened onto the RubinMcCormick reception area, a stark white expanse
with nothing on the walls except the Rubin McCormick logo. A cool, blond receptionist
fielded phone calls behind a wraparound desk.

"Actually," he said, waving to the receptionist,
"I'm starving. How about I take you to Westwood Gardens and we have our interview over
an early lunch?"

My spirits perked up. Lunch-along with
breakfast, dinner, and brunch-happens to be
one of my favorite meals. What's more, he was
taking me to Westwood Gardens, one of the best
restaurants in town.

"Sounds wonderful," I said, as we started back
down to the lobby.

"Mind if we take your car?" he asked. "I just
dropped mine off with the valets to be detailed. "

Drat. I'd sweated bullets putting together my
Prada-Manolo Blahnik ensemble, hoping to pass
myself off as an A-list writer. What would he
think when he saw my geriatric Corolla, littered
with McDonald's ketchup packets?

"I don't mind," I lied. "Not at all."

We headed over to my dusty Corolla, which I
saw, to my dismay, was sporting a big white blob
on the windshield, a love note from a bird with a
serious gastrointestinal disorder.

"Excuse my car," I said, as we got in. "I'm
afraid it's a mess."

"No, no. It's fine," he said, plucking an Almond joy wrapper from the passenger seat before he sat down.

I gritted my teeth in annoyance. Why the
heck hadn't I washed the car before the interview?

I turned on my new state-of-the-art stereo sys tem, a gift I'd bought myself with my Big John
earnings, hoping Stan would be so impressed
with the quality of the sound, he wouldn't notice the Big Gulp Slurpee cup at his feet.

And he did seem impressed.

"Great speakers," he said, "for such a crummy
car.

Okay, so he didn't say the part about the
crummy car, but it had to have been on his mind.

It was a short drive to Westwood Gardens,
most of which we spent making small talk and
staring at the bird poop on the windshield.

I pulled up to the restaurant and handed the
Corolla over to a valet. Normally I'd circle the
block seventeen times looking for a parking
space before springing for a valet, but I didn't
want to seem like a piker, especially when Stan
said, "Don't worry about the valet, Jaine. I'll
take care of him."

I handed my keys to the valet and we headed
inside.

Westwood Gardens is an upscale eaterie with
exposed brick walls, flagstone floors, and rustic
wrought-iron furniture. Very "My Year in Pro-
vence."A reed-thin hostess/actress seated us at a
cozy table for two by the window, overlooking the
bustling Westwood street scene. Sizing up Stan
as someone who could possibly give her a part in
a play/movie/commercial, she shot him a dazzling smile and drifted off.

"So," Stan said, after we'd looked through our
menus, "what looks good to you?"

Now this was a tricky question. What looked
good to me was the steak sandwich with onion
rings and thick-cut fries. But I couldn't possibly
allow myself to order it. I had an image to up hold. Women in Prada and Manolos simply do
not order dishes that come with ketchup and Al
sauce. Women in Prada and Manolos order
dainty salads made of arugula and endive and
other stuff I usually don't touch with a ten-foot
fork.

"I'll have the chopped salad," I said, with a
sigh.

,.Is that all?" Stan asked. "I'm going to have
the steak sandwich. It's fantastic. You really
should get it, too."

"But it's an awful lot to eat," I demurred.

Yeah, right. If he could only see me alone in
my apartment plowing my way through a pepperoni pizza.

"Oh, go on," he urged. "You only go round
once, right?"

"Well, if you insist." I felt like throwing my
arms around the guy and kissing him. "One
steak sandwich it is."

At which point, a stunning actor/waiter sidled
up to our table. Like the hostess, he shot Stan a
high-wattage smile. Something about Stan simply radiated importance. I, on the other hand,
in spite of my Prada and Manolos, wasn't fooling anybody. The gang here at the Gardens instinctively knew me for the poseur that I was.

"Hi, I'm Phineas," the waiter said, still beaming
at Stan, "and I'll be your server today." He reeled
off the list of Today's Specials with all the intensity of Hamlet yakking at Yorick's skull.

"We'll have two steak sandwiches," Stan said
when he was through.

"Wonderful choice!" Phineas gushed.

"And how about we split a tiramisu for
dessert?" Stan said to me.

Was this the boss from heaven, or what?

"Sounds great!"

Phineas whisked off to get our food, barely
restraining himself from leaving a head shot
and resume in Stan's lap.

"So," Stan said when he was gone, "tell me
about yourself, Jaine."

I put on my tap shoes and launched into my
usual spiel, telling him about the work I'd done
for Toiletmasters (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!), Ackerman's Awnings (just a Shade Better), and Tip Top Dry Cleaners (We Clean for You.
We Press for You. We Even Dye for You.) I wished I
had classier accounts to talk about, but Stan
seemed interested.

After a while, Phineas showed up with our
steak sandwiches. We devoured them with gusto,
and afterwards, Stan looked through my book
of writing samples. When he was finished, he
shut the book and popped the last of his fries in
his mouth.

"Frankly, Jaine, I was looking for someone
with a bit more experience on national accounts."

My heart sank. Oh, well. I had to look on the
bright side. At least I got a steak sandwich out of
the deal.

"On the other hand," he said, grinning, "I
like the way you write."

He liked the way I wrote! Maybe I had a shot at this
gig, after all.

"So the job is yours if you want it."

"Oh, yes! I'd love it."

Then, just when I thought things couldn't get
any more divine, Phineas showed up with what had to be the creamiest tiramisu this side of Tuscany.

"Perfect timing," Stan said. "Let's celebrate."

I picked up my fork and was just about to
plunge it into the delectable confection when
Stan asked, "Don't you want to know what the
assignment is?"

"Oh, right. Sure. The assignment."

In my excitement over the tiramisu, it had
sort of slipped my mind.

"It's a brand new product launch. I think
you'll be perfect for it. I've got all the facts here
in my attache case."

He reached down to get his case and frowned.

"Damn. I must've left it in your car."

"I'll go get it," I said, shooting a wistful look at
the tiramisu. I hated to leave it, but the man had
just offered me a job, and the least I could do
was get his attache case.

"No," Stan said. "I'll go. You start on dessert."

Obviously he could see how much I was lusting after the tiramisu.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Of course. I'll be right back."

What a sweetie he was to give me first dibs on
dessert. I gave him the parking ticket, and he
headed for the door.

Once more, I gazed at the tiramisu in all its
creamy glory. I debated about whether or not to
take a bite. I really should wait until Stan got
back. But he did tell me to go ahead and get
started. I'd just have one teeny bite. And then
we'd share the rest together.

I took a teeny bite. Okay, so it wasn't so teeny.
It was a major forkful. Sheer heaven. I couldn't resist taking another. But that was it. No more.
Absolutely not!

And I'm proud to say not a single morsel
passed through my lips-not for three whole
seconds. Then I broke down and had another
bite. And another. And another. Until, to my
horror, I saw that I'd eaten all but one biteful.

I was utterly ashamed of myself. What would
Stan think? He'd probably take back the job offer.
I'd given up a lucrative gig with Rubin-McCormick
for a piece of tiramisu!

It was at that moment that I happened to
glance out the window and saw the valet handing
Stan the keys to my Corolla. That's funny. Stan
was getting in on the driver's side of the car.
Surely he'd left his attache case on the passenger side.

It's a good thing my mouth wasn't full of
tiramisu; otherwise I might have choked at what
I saw next. Much to my amazement, Stan started
the engine, gave a friendly wave to the valet, and
drove off.

What on earth was he doing? And then it
dawned on me.

Stan McCormick had just stolen my car!

' If course, the man who stole my car wasn't
really Stan McCormick. The man who stole
my car, as the cops pointed out when they
showed up at the restaurant, was an opportunistic car thief who'd pulled this let's-take-your-carto-lunch scam many times before.

Like an idiot, I'd unwittingly given him all
the information he needed. He'd overheard
both my name and Stan's name while I was rehearsing in the lobby. And then, on the elevator,
I'd told him I was a writer coming in for a job interview. I'd practically handed him my car keys.

The cop who wrote up the police report offered little-to-no-hope of my car being recovered.

"We'll call you if we find it," he said, "but it's
probably on its way to a chop shop as we speak."

Oh, crud. That meant I was probably going to
have to buy a car. Even with the money I got
from my insurance company, it was still going to
cost a fortune.

I might not have been strapped for cash that
morning, but I was now. I needed that job with
Rubin-McCormick, and I needed it badly. So as
soon as the cops left, I got out my cell phone
and called the real Stan McCormick.

Unfortunately, the real Stan McCormick did
not believe my story about meeting the phony
Stan McCormick in an elevator and driving off
to lunch with him. He thought I was just another
airhead who'd slept through her interview. It
didn't help that I was babbling while I told it to
him. (You see, he was wearing an expensive cashmere
blazer and 1 just assumed he was you, especially when
he waved to the receptionist, and of course, he already
knew your name because he'd overheard me talking to
the elevator doors....

"I would've respected you a lot more," the
real Stan McCormick said, "if you'd just told the
truth and admitted you screwed up."

And then, before I knew it, I was babbling to
a dial tone.

I snapped my phone shut, on the verge of
tears.

I guess Phineas could see how upset I was, because at that very moment, he rallied to my side
with a cup of coffee and a bill for $76.23.

"I already added in the tip," he said, "in case
it slipped your mind."

What a 'thoughtful fellow.

"Will there be anything else?" he asked.

I sure hoped not.

Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the
restaurant when my best friend, Kandi To-
bolowski, came roaring up in her Miata. The cops had offered to give me a lift, but I needed a
shoulder to cry on, so I'd called Kandi, whose
shoulder is always available for weeping and
wailing.