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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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Yes, Ty was being way helpful. I mean,
way
helpful.
He'd promised me dinner out last night at a place he'd found on the Internet, a restaurant he said he knew I'd love. My vision of crab-stuffed lobster, baked potato all-the-way, and triple chocolate cake at a romantic restaurant overlooking the ocean was shattered all to heck when we pulled up in front of some health food place in Sherman Oaks.
I didn't even know what most of the food on their menu was and, frankly, if I never found out, it would be okay with me. Ty had seemed to enjoy his meal. I ate a little and pushed the rest around my plate until it was time to go.
He was setting a good example for me, being supportive and all—thank goodness he had been asleep when I left this morning so I didn't have to drink any more of that coffee—but, jeez, it was Monday morning. I definitely needed a boost.
The breakroom door swung open as I stirred some French vanilla–flavored cream into my coffee. Tina walked in and joined me at the counter.
“Good morning,” I said, and managed to put a lot of enthusiasm into my greeting, even though I hadn't had the coffee yet.
“Yeah, hi,” Tina mumbled, as she found a mug in the cabinet.
Tina looked a little weary today. But, oh well, most people did, after two days off.
“How was your weekend?” I asked, sipping my coffee.
Wow, real coffee. And real sugar. Yummy.
“It was okay,” Tina said, filling her cup from the carafe.
Hum. Maybe it could be a little yummier. I ripped open another sugar packet and stirred it into my cup.
“Mostly, it was boring,” Tina said, stifling a yawn.
I sipped. Oh, yeah. Now I was onto something.
“All weekend I was at home with sick kids,” Tina said, adding a touch of cream to her coffee.
Maybe a little more French vanilla—just to balance out the sugar. I added a dash, then sipped again. Oh, yeah, this was something—
Hang on a second.
“You were at home all weekend?” I asked Tina.
“Yeah, that's what I said.” There was a slight edge to her voice.
“You didn't go out at all?” I asked. “You didn't leave your house for medicine or anything?”
“That's what you do when you have sick kids,” Tina told me. “You stay home with them.”
She mumbled something under her breath, and left the breakroom.
Okay, that was weird.
Why would Tina lie to me about staying home all weekend? When I'd followed her down the 5 yesterday, I'd figured she was visiting family or going shopping, or something. No big deal.
But maybe it was a big deal. Maybe, if I was lucky, it somehow tied to Violet's murder. I didn't know how it possibly could, of course. But at the moment I had only three suspects, and two of them weren't looking all that guilty.
I hate it when that happens.
Max Corwin seemed a little paranoid—aren't most people who work for years in an office setting?—but I'd discovered nothing about his life that made him a likely murderer, except that he'd changed jobs a few times. Even though Detective Shuman thought that was somehow suspicious, I didn't.
Ray Boyd, the other new hire, didn't have much going for him in the I'm-a-murder-suspect category either. A guy who probably spent his evenings and weekends playing World of Warcraft didn't rate high on my personal I-could-kill-an-actual-human-being scale.
That left Tina. Not much to go on there, but why should that stop me?
I dumped another packet of sugar into my coffee and went back to my office.
C
HAPTER
14
I
needed an old lady.
With the brain boosting effect of my real-sugar-flavored, cream-added, loaded-with-caffeine coffee, I sat in my office plotting my next move in Violet's murder investigation. Luckily, a flash of brilliance shot through my head almost immediately.
An older woman was who I had to talk to. One who had worked here at Dempsey Rowland for a long time, had known Violet, and hopefully had been friends with her.
Since most of the women I'd seen so far in this place surely had age-defying and anti-wrinkle written on every jar in their bathroom cabinets, I figured I had plenty to pick from.
I searched the desk and cabinets until I found a black leather portfolio with the Dempsey Rowland logo on the front and a pad of yellow legal paper inside, then chugged the last of my coffee and left my office.
Though I didn't really want to, I knew I had to start at the reception area. Camille, whose appearance screamed office-of-the-living-dead, would likely know everyone who worked here, plus a lot of gossip.
Still, I didn't want to spend too much time with her. She creeped me out big time. So I came up with a perfect cover story, thanks in no small part to that supercharged cup of coffee I'd downed.
I approached the reception desk trying not to look Camille directly in the eye, afraid she might put the whammy on me, or something. She had on a fuchsia suit today, which made the blotches on her thin, overtightened skin appear fuchsia, too.
Not a look likely to be featured in
Glamour
anytime soon.
“I'm planning Violet's memorial service,” I said to Camille, flipping open the portfolio.
She turned to me—I'm pretty sure I heard bones rattling—and said, “A memorial service?”
“It's the right thing to do,” I said.
“Does Mr. Dempsey know you're doing this?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
I kept my gaze down hoping Camille would think I looked sorrowful over Violet's death, rather than simply afraid to make eye contact with her.
After nearly a full minute passed with no response from Camille, I chanced a quick glance up. I got the impression she wanted to frown, but since none of the muscles in her face could actually move, I wasn't sure.
“Violet was a wonderful woman,” Camille said. “This place couldn't have run without her.”
I pretended to jot that down.
“I want to get some input for the service and some background on her,” I said. “Can you give me the name of someone she was close to here?”
“Beatrice,” Camille declared. “Talk to Beatrice. She's an admin assistant in contracting.”
“Thanks.”
I snapped my portfolio closed and headed down the hallway, just as if I actually knew where the contracting department was located.
I channeled my mom's pageant walk and morphed it into my own I'm-not-lost walk, and wandered the corridors for a while. Then it hit me that the contracting department was probably in the Support Unit.
My spirits fell a little. I didn't really love the idea of going back into that snake pit again but didn't have a choice.
I can make the hard decisions when I have to.
I turned a corner and found myself in a totally different part of the office complex. Jeez, how did that happen?
A small sign over the entrance read ENGINEERING UNIT.
Engineering Unit?
I'm really going to have to find out what the heck this company does.
My dad was an aerospace engineer, and I'd actually dated an engineer a few months ago—long story—so I knew the atmosphere in this unit would definitely be less hostile than in support. Maybe somebody here could tell me where to find contracting.
Engineers were brilliant. They'd taken us off this planet, designed behemoth aircraft, ships, and buildings, and given us more gadgets, gizmos, apps, and downloads than most of us knew how to operate. But no way were any of them the first invited to a party.
Let's face it: not
everyone
is good at
everything.
The cube dwellers here were all men. Young men, mostly, dressed in what I'd come to think of as the engineer's uniform: khaki pants and a pale blue oxford shirt. They were all hunched over computers and calculators, working feverishly while, I'm sure, “Highway to the Danger Zone” played in their heads.
I walked past the cubes trying to catch the eye of one of the guys—which you wouldn't think would be difficult since I am, after all,
me
, plus I had on a killer new outfit—but all of them kept working. Kind of depressing.
Then I spotted another hallway with a sign that read CONTRACTING DEPARTMENT.
Do I have fabulous luck, or what?
A brilliant idea exploded in my mind. Adela had told me when I was hired that I would be assigned to the contracting department. On the off chance—and I'm talking a real long shot here—that I passed the background investigation and got my security clearance, I would actually work there.
It would help if I knew what that department did, of course. Maybe I could use my super-stealthy-private-investigator-while-looking-totally-hot skills to find out from Beatrice exactly what it was, plus solve Violet's murder at the same time.
Am I not truly awesome? Wow, maybe I should wear a cape.
I passed yet another cube farm, this one much smaller than the one I'd seen in the Engineering Unit. I found Beatrice's cube along the perimeter of the room outside a glass-walled office where I supposed her supervisor worked. No sign of the supervisor.
“Beatrice?” I asked, standing in the entrance of her cube.
She jumped as if I'd startled her, and slammed her desk drawer shut. Before it closed I spotted an open box of candy inside.
So far, Beatrice was my kind of gal.
“Hi, I'm Haley Randolph,” I said, giving her my biggest I'm-completely-nonthreatening-and-you-can-trust-me smile. “I took over for Constance in the Executive Unit. I'm handling all the corporate events. Can I talk to you for a minute about Violet Hamilton's memorial service?”
Beatrice covered her mouth with her palm as if I couldn't see that she was chewing, and made a sound I decided meant sure, come in, so I did.
She looked like a lot of the other women I'd seen at Dempsey Rowland. Fiftyish, chunky, gray haired, with clothing, shoes, hair, makeup, and accessories that were in style around the time of the
When Harry Met Sally
premiere.
I settled into the chair beside Beatrice's desk. I needed to get her take on Violet's death, but I saw no need to rush into it immediately. Better to open with something that benefited
me
.
“So, how's it going?” I asked, and nodded toward the nearby cube farm.
“Fine,” she said.
She looked a little uncomfortable, as if someone from the Executive Unit showing up at her cube and asking questions was completely out of the ordinary—and not in a good way.
“What is it you do here in contracting?” I asked. “Exactly.”
Beatrice didn't answer right away. Her gaze zipped around the cube as if she thought this might be a trick question, so she wanted to think about it before responding.
“Contracts,” she said.
Okay, obviously I was going to have to push a little harder for info.
“By contracts, do you mean ... ?”
I deliberately left my question hanging so she could jump in with a full explanation.
She didn't jump in.
“I mean contracts,” Beatrice said, looking slightly alarmed now.
Apparently, she wasn't going to work with me on this whole contract thing. I decided to move on.
“So, about Violet's memorial service,” I said, and opened the portfolio. “I'd like to get a little background on her. I understand you two were friends?”
“Well ... yes,” she said. “You might say that, I suppose.”
“Had you known her long?” I asked.
“Years,” Beatrice said.
“And what did you think of her?” I asked.
“She was nice.”
Beatrice seemed to be one of those employees who just want to put in their time, mind their own business, and go home at the end of the day. No gossiping, no rumor spreading, no talking crap about anybody, no interest in office politics. I grasped the concept, of course, but that sort of attitude sure as heck took all the fun out of working in a big office.
“Does Mr. Dempsey know you're doing this?” she asked, her eyes looking a little wild now.
“Of course,” I said. “I spoke with his secretary, Ruth, about it.”
I saw no need to mention that Ruth looked as if she might taser me if I didn't jump on planning the service immediately.
“I'm not trying to trip you up here, Beatrice. I just want to do the right thing by Violet at her memorial service,” I said.
She hesitated another minute, then leaned forward just a little and lowered her voice.
“Violet was a wonderful person. She started this company alongside Mr. Dempsey, you know. Built it from the ground up. He couldn't have done it without her,” Beatrice said. “She knew this place inside out. Nothing got past her. Nothing.”
“It's hard to imagine that somebody would kill her,” I said, because, really, it was.
“In the last year, Violet mostly kept to herself because of the security work she was doing,” Beatrice said. She shook her head. “Everybody liked her. Well, I guess everybody but one person. The person who ... murdered her.”
Camille and now Beatrice had told me what a great person Violet had been. So who would have killed her? And why?
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm Violet?” I asked.
Beatrice pressed her lips together, as if forcing herself to not say anything. A few seconds crawled by and finally she whispered, “Something happened with her granddaughter.”
Whoa. Where did this come from?
“Her granddaughter?” I asked, then added, just to make sure, “Violet's granddaughter?”
“She was supposed to come to work here, but something happened and she didn't. It got ugly, very ugly,” Beatrice said. “Violet was furious over the whole thing. Her granddaughter was furious with Violet.”
“Furious enough to kill her?” I asked.
Something outside her cube caught Beatrice's attention. She sat up straight and grabbed a stack of papers from the corner of her desk. I turned and saw a man—her supervisor, I guessed—walking toward us.
“Talk to Iris in payroll,” Beatrice whispered. She turned away and started shuffling papers. I left.
Hearing that things had gotten ugly between Violet and her granddaughter boosted my day considerably. As I wandered the corridors searching for my office, it occurred to me that if things had gone sour between the two of them and Violet's murder had nothing to do with the background investigations she was conducting, then Detective Madison would be forced to cross me off his suspect list.
That was some good news I could sure stand.
My thoughts raced ahead.
Maybe Violet's granddaughter had killed her over some family thing. Of course, I had no idea what had really gone on between Violet and her granddaughter. I was short on suspects—not to mention motives—so what could I do but speculate about both and hope for the best?
I'm pretty sure that's the way all the great investigators do it.
By the time I found my way back to the Executive Unit, I realized it was nearly lunch time. I decided to see if Marcie wanted to meet somewhere.
I walked into my office and froze.
A huge arrangement of yellow roses sat on my desk. I opened the little envelope almost hidden in the greenery. It read,
Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Ty.
Ty had sent me flowers? Wow.
I studied the handwriting and—oh my God—he'd actually signed the card himself. That meant he'd gone to the florist in person, picked out the flowers, stood at the counter, and composed the message to write on the card.
My heart fluttered and my stomach got all gooey, just like it always did when Ty did something nice for me—which really wasn't that often, but still. Maybe this was all part of his plan to show me what a great boyfriend he could be.
So far I liked this a heck of a lot better than his help-me-with-the-whole-new-me thing.

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