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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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I took my time getting back to the office. Everything Erma had told me kept running around in my head and I needed some time to process it all.
Violet's beloved granddaughter had been denied a job at Dempsey Rowland, then Violet learned from Erma that she'd been significantly underpaid for decades. Iris claimed she saw Violet coming from the Executive Unit the day before her murder, looking absolutely furious.
Had she had a confrontation with Arthur Dempsey? Or maybe with Ruth, since she kept everyone away from Dempsey at her own whim, it seemed.
And, regardless, was it a motive to murder Violet?
I took the elevator up to five. Camille waved to me as I stepped off. Thankfully, she only had some messages for me. No sign of another guy waiting to sing a love song in the lobby.
“I'm having cupcakes delivered tomorrow at noon for the entire staff,” I said. “Let me know when they arrive, will you?”
“Of course,” Camille said. She smiled—I think. “That's so sweet of you, Haley. Constance never did anything like that for the staff. And the birthday club is so much nicer now that you're running it.”
I decided to take this opportunity to use Camille's compliment for my own benefit.
“Do you remember when I told you about the memorial service for Violet?” I asked. “You were surprised when I said Mr. Dempsey knew about it. Why was that?”
“Mr. Dempsey and Violet didn't always get along. I often heard them disagreeing,” Camille said. “It was Violet's fault, really. She just wouldn't let things go.”
“I guess she felt like she should have a say in things, since she helped start the company,” I said.
“But she wasn't a partner, or anything,” Camille pointed out. “Ruth told me many times that Violet could be quite pushy and overstep herself, especially where Mr. Dempsey was concerned. Ruth and Violet never really got along either.”
“I see,” I said.
I didn't really, but it was easier to just walk away.
I headed for my office, the effects of my mocha frappuccino zapping my brain cells like price scanners at a clearance sale.
If neither Ruth nor Mr. Dempsey liked Violet, why give her a memorial service? Was it just to keep up appearances?
Or maybe to throw suspicion off of her killer?
Despite my lack of real evidence, I still hoped that Ruth was the murderer. Violet, according to Iris, was furious with somebody in the Executive Unit the day before she died. It could have been Ruth.
What about Mr. Dempsey? He wasn't exactly the nicest man on the planet, but that wasn't motive for murder. In fact, it seemed like Violet had a heck of a good reason to kill
him
.
And why would either of them kill Violet here in the office? A murder and a police investigation sure as heck weren't good for the company image that everyone was so concerned about.
Either somebody else had killed Violet—like Max or Tina, my other two suspects—or Ruth or Mr. Dempsey had a megahuge reason to murder her on the spot.
But what was it?
I turned the corner and spotted Adela walking toward me. Her pace picked up when she saw me, and I could see that she was in there's-a-problem mode, big time. She stopped in front of me.
“I need to speak to you immediately,” Adela said.
Her jaw was clinched so tight, her lips barely moved.
Not a good sign.
Adela whipped around and headed back down the hallway, leaving me to follow her into my office. Inside, I saw that yet another arrangement of roses had been delivered. I knew without looking at the card that they were from Ty.
It was really sweet of him, of course, but, come on, enough already. My office was starting to resemble a wedding chapel.
Adela wasn't the least bit touched by the lovely ambience or sweet floral scent in my office. She turned on me like a soccer mom on double-coupon day.
“I just spoke with Mildred in accounting,” Adela declared.
“What
is going on with your corporate credit card?”
I didn't think she really wanted an answer, because she didn't wait for one—which was good, since I didn't know what the heck she was talking about.
“According to Mildred, you're not using approved vendors,” Adela said.
Vendors had to be approved?
“You've purchased balloons for the birthday club. Balloons aren't authorized,” she said.
Birthday club items had to be authorized?
“And you're dangerously close to going over budget,” Adela told me.
There was a budget?
“What is going on?” Adela demanded.
It sounded to me as if Adela already knew perfectly well what was going on, thanks to Mildred in accounting—whoever that was—ratting me out. But, luckily, I'd worked in a corporate environment before and was very familiar with the time-honored tradition of passing blame along to someone else.
Immediately I shifted into I'm-right-and-you're-wrong mode.
“First of all, I'd suspected there were some irregularities on accounting's end regarding the corporate card,” I told her. “In fact, I planned to speak with Mildred this afternoon.”
Lying
was another time-honored corporate tradition—which was really bad of me, but what else could I do?
“If you'll recall, Adela,” I went on, “I accepted this position in corporate events planning under extremely difficult circumstances. I'm working with directions, lists, and models put together by Patty and Constance, which concerned me from the start. Now, after hearing of these questions from accounting, I can see that my concerns were well-founded.”
Yeah, I know, it was all b.s., plus it was super stinky of me to throw both Patty and Constance onto the sacrificial I'm-desperate-to-keep-this-job corporate altar. But if they didn't want people talking smack about them behind their backs, they should have come to work.
Adela didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, then went into back-down mode.
“Fine,” she said. “I'll leave this situation to you. But I expect it to be handled promptly.”
“It's been my experience that
promptly
is the only way to handle an incident of this nature,” I told her.
“Fine,” Adela said again, then whipped around and left my office.
I pushed my door closed and launched into full-on, all-out, big-time total panic mode.
Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my God.
I could get fired for scheduling lunches at restaurants where the food actually tasted good? And for buying balloons?
Balloons?
If Mildred in accounting was blabbing to Adela now, what would happen when the charges for today's lunch with Erma and the zillion cupcakes I'd bought rolled in?
I couldn't—
could not
—lose this job. Sarah Covington would find out. Ty would find out.
Everybody
would find out.
The pay here was beyond fabulous, and there was no end to all the things I wanted to buy.
There was no time clock here—something crucial to my employment success. Nobody paid any attention to when I got to work, when I left, or even if I stayed all day, making this my all-time perfect job situation.
And, besides, I'd bought eight—
eight
—business suits. Where would I wear them if I didn't work here?
I forced myself to calm down. I had to think.
There was still an outside possibility that whoever was doing the background investigations now might not bother to verify that the UM I'd listed on my résumé was really the University of Mixology and not the University of Michigan. I mean, really, who would question that? I might actually pass the background check and get my security clearance.
I paced back and forth through my office, my brain pounding, searching feverishly for a solution.
Wow, could I ever use a Snickers bar or two right now.
Nobody had asked for my résumé—I still didn't know why mine was the only one that had been lost—so that meant my background investigation hadn't actually begun yet. I still had time to redeem myself for my unapproved restaurant and birthday club faux pas.
I hate the birthday club.
Now I hate balloons, too.
Then an idea blasted through my brain. I knew just how to salvage this situation.
I'd have to do a stellar job on Mr. Dempsey's retirement party. Yeah, that was it. Any minor screw-up I'd made with the corporate credit card on a few cupcakes, lunches, and unauthorized balloons would be forgiven in a heartbeat once everyone saw what a fabulous job I did on that party.
My entire future came down to one party.
Was that crappy, or what?
Anyway, I heaved a sigh of relief that I'd figured everything out. I had a plan—a great plan—to put into action.
But first I had to rearrange my office, call a friend—and go shopping, of course.
I grabbed my purse and left.
C
HAPTER
23
F
ive o'clock was the official quitting time at Dempsey Rowland and the place emptied out pretty much on time—I knew this because I was usually among the first wave of employees to hit the elevator.
Of course, there were always a few kiss-asses who lingered, hoping to be seen by senior management and score some points toward their next promotion and pay raise. Today, I was one of those people who stayed late—but for an entirely different reason.
I sat at my desk, staring at my watch, willing my phone to ring. Right on cue, at three minutes before the hour, Camille called.
“You have a visitor,” she said. “I told him the offices were closing, but he insisted.”
“Thank you, Camille, I'll be right there,” I said.
It took everything I had not to run through the halls to the reception area, but I forced myself to walk slowly. In the lobby—looking way hot in jeans, a dress shirt, and sport coat—stood Jack Bishop.
Wow, what a sight at the end of a long day.
“Miss Randolph, thank you for seeing me so late in the day,” Jack said as he came forward extending his hand.
I'd asked Jack to come to my office and pretend he was a visitor during a phone conversation we'd had this afternoon. He'd agreed to do it—but he didn't know what else I had in mind for him.
Yeah, okay, it was crappy of me not to explain everything to Jack before he got here, but some things were better when presented in person.
“Thank you for coming by,” I said as I took his hand.
My knees wobbled. Talk about a warm, firm handshake.
“Let's go to my office,” I said. That might have come out in a breathy little sigh.
Jack threw a quick, questioning glance at Camille. She looked particularly skeletal this afternoon, her face more drawn and waxy than usual.
“I'm pretty sure she came back through time to kill John Connor,” I whispered.
He nodded and followed me down the hall.
“Nice,” he commented as we walked past the LAPD crime scene tape still covering the door to Constance's office.
“The cops won't take it down,” I told him as we walked into my office. “That's why I called you.”
Jack eyed the massive floral arrangements filling my office.
“Did someone else die?” he asked.
“The day's not over,” I said.
I pushed my office door closed and turned to face Jack. Fading sunlight filtered in through the window. The room seemed smaller. Jack seemed—
Never mind. I had to stick to business.
“I need a favor,” I said. “It's nothing big. Really. And it's not illegal—technically. I don't think. Well, probably not. But you have to be quick.”
“I'm never quick.”
I wish he hadn't said that in his Barry White voice.
My stomach got kind of gooey, but I fought it off.
“Come over here,” I said, moving past him to the tall file cabinet in the corner. “All you have to do is help me get up there, then wait while I climb through the ceiling into the office next door, and pull me back up when I'm finished over there.”
Jack just looked at me. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Jack had a way about him that affected me in lots of ways, and forcing me to blab on with his silence was one of my least favorite.
I'd come up with this plan after Adela's oh-so-pleasant visit to my office this afternoon. If I had any hope of keeping my job, I absolutely had to pull off a fabulous retirement party for Mr. Dempsey. Everything I needed to do was locked up in Constance's office, sealed behind LAPD crime scene tape. I had no idea where the key was kept, and even if I managed to find it, I didn't want anyone to see me going inside. If word got back to Detective Madison—and it would because that's just the way offices work—he would be down here in a superhero flash, slapping on the cuffs.
“Look, I need information that's in that office,” I told Jack.
I saw no need to mention my renegade balloon purchases or my flagrant disregard of the corporate list of authorized restaurants.
“There's no way to get what I need except to climb in through the ceiling,” I said.
“What kind of information?” Jack asked.
“It's nothing illegal or top secret,” I said in my let's-move-on voice.
“What kind of information?” Jack asked again.
Good grief. Why can't he just roll with this?
“It's information about a party,” I said.
His left eyebrow crept up a half-inch. “A
party?
”
What was it with men? Why did they have so much trouble understanding the most basic concepts?
“The less you know, the better,” I told him. “Nothing illegal is happening here. We're not breaking and entering because nothing is being broken, and
entering
doesn't count if you're already in the building. Probably. And if it does, it shouldn't.”
Jack just stared at me.
Okay, now I was getting annoyed. I couldn't hang around inside the building after office hours forever. Someone would notice my leaving later than usual and it might arouse suspicion. Plus, I had to work at Holt's tonight and I didn't want the hassle if I was late.
“Your total involvement is to help me get over the wall, then pull me back again,” I said.
I remembered from being inside Constance's office that she had no furniture in the back corner of the room, the spot that corresponded to the tall file cabinet in my office, leaving me no way to get back into my office.
Of course, once I was inside I could move something over to stand on while I climbed back up, but what if Detectives Madison or Shuman came back to check something? They'd probably made a diagram of the office—that's what they do on all the TV crime shows—and they'd know the furniture had been moved, and I'd be their one and only suspect.
“It's no big deal,” I insisted. “I go to the gym and work out, but I concentrate on my thighs and legs, not my arms.”
Jack's gaze dipped a bit. “Time well spent,” he said.
“Are you going to help me, or not?” I asked.
He hesitated a few seconds, then said, “I'm in.”
“Good. Now turn around while I get undressed,” I said.
Both eyebrows shot up.
“A covert op in lingerie?” he asked. “Why didn't you say that in the first place?”
“Just turn around,” I told him.
When I'd decided to climb into Constance's office this afternoon, I knew I couldn't execute the necessary moves in my business suit and heels. No way could I go home to get something op-worthy to wear, with Ty there. So I'd found a store a couple of blocks from here and bought sweatpants and a T-shirt—in black, of course.
I grabbed my shopping bag from under my desk and retreated to the far corner of my office near the door, but away from the glass panel that allowed anyone in the hallway to see inside. Jack turned his back and stared out the window.
“Hey, did you find out about the Dempsey Rowland lawsuits I asked you about?” I said, and kicked off my pumps.
“You mean the last favor you asked?” Jack said.
“Yeah, okay, I've asked a lot of favors lately,” I said as I took off my suit. “I owe you dinner, or something.”
“I'll take
or something
,” he said.
Jeez, I wish he'd stop talking that way when I'm half-dressed.
“Dempsey Rowland has been the target of a number of lawsuits,” Jack said.
“Nuisance suits?” I asked, pulling on sweatpants. “That's pretty standard stuff for any big company.”
“More than that,” Jack said. “Sex discrimination suits filed by women who worked here. Executive-level women complaining about low salaries, slow promotions, things like that.”
“Maybe that explains why so few younger women work here, except in the Support Unit, and why so many women in support never get promoted,” I said. “Word got out that Dempsey Rowland wasn't a good working environment for females.”
“Try hostile environment,” Jack said. “Arthur Dempsey has been sued personally for sexual harassment.”
Okay, that really explained why so few young women worked in the Executive Unit. Human Resources must have figured that with Dempsey retiring, it was finally safe to hire women—thus, my new job.
Wow, did I have great timing, or what?
“The suits that were settled all had a confidentiality clause,” Jack said.
“That figures,” I said, as I pulled on my T-shirt. “Dempsey Rowland is crazy concerned about their public image.”
I pulled the tote I'd bought this afternoon from the shopping bag. It was a no-name canvas bag—the Temptress would have been perfect for the occasion—and I felt a familiar wave of nausea at carrying a nondesigner bag, but I powered through.
I can do that sometimes.
“Okay, let's do this,” I said.
Jack looked me up and down, from my head to my bare feet—thank goodness I had a fresh pedi—and said, “It's going to be dirty up there.”
“No problem,” I said.
“It's a small space,” he told me.
“Doesn't scare me.”
“With bugs,” he added.
“Bugs?”
“And spiders.”
“Spiders?”
Oh my God, I'd never thought about bugs and spiders. I didn't want to crawl around with bugs and spiders—not in this outfit. I needed a hazmat suit with goggles, gloves, and boots.
I drew in a breath, forcing myself to calm down. Icky as it would be, I had to go through with this. I absolutely had to get that retirement info from Constance's office. My entire life depended on it. Sort of.
“That's okay. I'm doing this,” I said. I might not have said that with as much conviction as I should have.
“Let's go,” Jack said.
I pushed my desk chair over to the file cabinet, then removed Ty's roses and put them on my credenza. When I looked again, Jack had his jacket and shirt off revealing a snug, sparkling white wifebeater and drool-worthy muscles. In a flash, he stepped onto the desk chair, climbed onto the file cabinet, lifted out the panel in the drop ceiling, and disappeared.
My knees gave out and I dropped into the chair. Oh my God, was that hot or what?
Then I came to my senses and scrambled up the chair and onto the file cabinet.
The crawl space was creepy, all right, dark and dusty, with all kinds of cables and wires running alongside duct work. It didn't smell so great. The ceiling panel in the adjoining office was gone. I raised onto my tiptoes and peered over the common wall.
Jack stood below looking up at me.
“What do you need?” he asked, in a low voice.
“I'll be right there,” I said.
Oh my God, who cared about dirt, bugs, and spiders? I was desperate to get into that office with Jack—just to make sure nothing was missed, of course.
He glanced at the glass panel in the office door. At any second, somebody could walk down the hall and see him inside. Or peek into my office and see me on the file cabinet.
“The clock's ticking, Haley,” he said.
Jack was right.
I hate it when other people are right.
“Look in the desk for files labeled ‘retirement party' or anything to do with the Roosevelt Hotel,” I said.
Jack blasted through the cabinets, the credenza, the desk drawers, pulling out file after file. He handed them up to me.
“I'll check the computer,” he said quietly, and went back to the desk.
From the number and weight of the files he'd given me, I figured this had to be everything. Plus, Constance probably wasn't any better with her computer than most of the other women in the building, which was why she'd had Patty—her second brain, as Adela had called her—to help.
Jack perched on the edge of the desk chair and started pecking away at the keyboard. I climbed down from the cabinet, dumped the files on my desk, then shimmied up again.
From the angle of the computer, I could see Jack paging through screen after screen—obviously, Constance didn't believe in password protecting anything—then he stopped. I knew he'd found something.
I squirmed higher on the wall and leaned into Constance's office as far as I dared. Jack went through the drawers again, then stopped and pulled out a box of CDs. He flipped through the jewel cases, then selected a disk, which must have been blank, and popped it into the tray on the tower.

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