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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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“Can I check something in Constance's office?” I asked Shuman.
On the off chance that Adela might want to verify my story—like I'd made it up or something, which I had, of course, but still—that the birthday decorations were actually in the cabinets in Constance's office, I wanted to check and find out for sure. I'd meant for only Shuman to hear me, but I guess Madison had dog ears, or something.
“You want to get inside?” he asked, loud enough for the employees in the nearby offices to hear. “Why's that, Miss Randolph? So you can manipulate the crime scene? Hide evidence? Is that why you want to get inside the office where a murder took place?”
Two men walking by looked at me funny.
Not a great feeling.
So what could I do but channel Mom's I'm-better-than-you attitude and say, “The reason I need access to that office, Detective Madison, is classified information that you're not authorized to know.”
Before he had a chance to call me on it, I put my nose in the air—channeling Mom big time—went back into my office, and closed the door.
Luckily, Madison and Shuman left. Whew!
I sat back in my chair suddenly desperate for a mocha frappuccino. This whole-new-me thing was really working on my nerves. How was I supposed to function without an occasional chocolate and caffeine boost?
Something—really—called my name. It drew me out of my chair and to my office window. I looked down at Figueroa Street. Lots of traffic, lots of people, but my gaze homed in on one thing—Starbucks.
For a minute I thought I was going to lick the glass. Obviously my whole-new-me plan needed a slight modification. How could I be expected to execute the high standards of Dempsey Rowland's demanding event planning department without the necessary nutrition?
Starbucks was very nutritious. I read that somewhere. I think. Well, I'm pretty sure.
I went back to my desk, got the Dempsey Rowland corporate card, called the Starbucks, and ordered a venti mocha frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate, which they promised to deliver.
Yeah, okay, Adela hadn't said I could order myself a frappie, but she didn't say I couldn't either. Besides, I was only doing this to ensure that Kinsey Miller—whoever she was—had a spirited, fun, exciting birthday celebration this morning. I'm sure—kind of sure—Adela would approve of my total commitment to the success of the birthday club.
That's how I roll.
A few minutes later, Camille called. I hoofed it to the reception desk and—thank goodness—found my mocha frappuccino waiting for me. By the time I got back to my office, I'd finished off a third of it and, already, my brain cells were clicking like snap closures on Gucci handbags.
Shuman barreled into my thoughts—but only in the line of duty, of course—and I recalled his not so subtle hints that something was up with Max Corwin. Shuman wouldn't out-and-out ask for my help, but he wouldn't have mentioned Max if he didn't want my input.
Like I'd said to Shuman, Max seemed like a worrier. A man his age—I put him at mid-forties—probably had a lot on his mind. Health problems; keeping his wife happy; kids in college; a mortgage to pay. All of which required money. Plus, he'd somehow lost his last job before taking this new one with Dempsey Rowland, which could have caused him more money problems. A break in income or a loss of benefits, maybe. He could have been forced to take a lower starting salary.
Maybe he figured killing Violet would delay the background investigation—if he had something to hide, of course—so he'd continue to draw a paycheck until someone new was hired to fill her position.
But if he had something to hide and knew he might not pass the background check, why would he have taken the job in the first place? Unless, like me, he hadn't known a security clearance was required.
I slurped the last of my frappie. There was nothing for me to do but find out what was going on with Max Corwin, and find out why Shuman was interested in him.
And I knew just how to do it.
I grabbed the cake, decorations, and bouquet of balloons and left my office.
C
HAPTER
8
W
ow, had this section of the office been here all along? After wandering the halls, weighted down by the balloon bouquet, cake, and decorations, I'd finally found the department Kinsey Miller—today's birthday girl—worked in. Patty had left good notes, but for a few minutes there, I thought I'd have to access Mapquest to find this place.
The S
UPPORT
U
NIT,
as the tiny sign over the main door indicated, was a giant cube farm. Around the perimeter of the room were glass-walled offices where, presumably, supervisors sat. A lucid moment from the tour I'd endured during my first day surfaced, and I recalled that this area handled all the administrative—that's code for crappy—work here at Dempsey Rowland.
Luckily, the cubes were all numbered, so I followed the signs and located Kinsey's workstation. Even though I was super early, a number of other workers were already there. They were all girls around my age.
I smiled but didn't get much in return, so I wondered if maybe nobody really liked Kinsey. But, hey, that's no reason to take it out on me. I was here to decorate her cube and start her day with a big Dempsey Rowland birthday wish.
Like anyone in upper management gave a rip one way or the other.
I tied the balloon bouquet to Kinsey's chair, took the cake from its box and centered it on her desk. I glanced around and saw that a half-dozen girls were standing in their cubes staring at me, and they definitely did not seem to appreciate all the trouble I was going to.
Jeez, who'd have thought birthday club prep would be so confrontational?
I decided to take the high road—thanks in part to the lingering effects of my mocha frappuccino—because I figured the Support Unit was a target rich environment for new friends. All the women I'd seen over in my section of the building were older than Grace Kelly's signature Birkin bag, so this would be the perfect place to find a lunch buddy or two.
I gave them Mom's pageant smile and amped it up a bit. “Hi! I'm Haley Randolph. I'm handling corporate events now.”
“Yeah, we know who you are,” one of the girls said.
Seemed office gossip spread fast at Dempsey Rowland.
“You're the Queen of Morale,” someone else said.
I was finally queen of something. Mom would be so proud.
Everybody started eyeing my suit—but not in a good way, and I don't think it was because it was a leftover from last fall.
“So what did you do to get this job?” another girl grumbled.
I kept my smile in place and said, “Patty quit so I was asked—”
“Not the birthday club,” the girl said. “The
other
job. The one they hired you for.”
“Yeah,” somebody else sneered. “The one you got only because that old bastard is on his way out.”
Okay, something weird was definitely going on here, but that didn't mean I was willing to become the birthday club punching bag to find out what it was.
“When Kinsey gets in, tell her happy birthday and I hope she enjoys her cake,” I said, keeping it light. I made quick work of finishing the decorating, then left.
Yikes! Tough crowd, I thought as I headed back to my office. I was considering ordering a whip and chair on my corporate card for the next time I had to go to the Support Unit, when I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Max Corwin hurrying toward me.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly. He glanced up and down the hallway, then eased a little closer. “I heard the detectives came to see you again this morning.”
“They came to take another look at Constance's office,” I said.
No way was I getting into the exchange I'd had with Detective Madison, though from the look on Max's face, the whole thing had already zoomed down the office rumor superhighway.
Max looked even more concerned. “Those detectives, they didn't talk to me again. Or Ray or Tina.”
I remembered—barely—that Ray and Tina were the other two new hires who'd come on board with Max and me.
Max glanced around again, as if he suspected we were being spied on, or something.
“Watch yourself,” he whispered. “There are lots of undercurrents in this place. I've seen it happen before at other companies. Backstabbers are everywhere. Who knows what the other employees are telling those detectives?”
He darted away as if he suddenly realized he shouldn't be seen with me.
As I headed through the maze of hallways trying to find my way back to my own office, I realized that Detectives Madison and Shuman hadn't questioned Max again because they already had something on him and probably didn't want to make him suspicious. Then I realized that if they weren't questioning the other two new hires, maybe that meant they'd uncovered something on them also.
And I knew I'd figured all of that out due to a late-firing brain cell, which I could only attribute to the mocha frappuccino I'd had earlier.
Yeah, this whole-new-me thing definitely needed some work.
Since finding my office again might take a while, I pulled out my cell phone. Juanita's disappearance had been swirling around in the back of my mind since Mom first mentioned it. Yeah, I'd blown it off, thinking it was a typical Mom thing. Now I wondered if I should have taken her seriously from the start.
Jeez, I really hope I don't have to start taking Mom seriously all the time.
I hit Juanita's home number, which I'd programmed in while I was in traffic this morning. Her voicemail picked up. I left a message. I tried her cell phone next. Same thing. I left another message.
I'm not big on suspense so I considered calling hospitals and morgues. But since I wasn't ready to make the huge mental jump to my-mom-actually-knows-what-she's-talking-about, I decided I'd take a run by Juanita's house first.
For a minute I thought about calling Ty. When I left this morning, he claimed he intended to stay at my place all day—which I doubted he would do since, even though it's been in business for a hundred years or something, he thinks Holt's can't survive a day without him. But on the off chance that he was still sleeping, I didn't want the phone to wake him. He'd call me when he got up. Probably. Hopefully. Well, I'd call him later this afternoon.
The hallways were filling up now as more people showed up to work. Lots of men dressed in great suits—not that I really noticed, since I have an official boyfriend, of course. A few of them smiled, some looked right through me, a couple looked at me weird. One of them gave me big-eyes, then glanced behind him, and quickened his pace.
I looked down the hallway. Oh my God! Madison and Shuman! I spotted them through the glass wall of one of the small conference rooms talking to Adela and Mr. Dempsey.
They were still here? Asking questions? About
me
? Okay, this was too much.
My future flashed before my eyes: Being called into Adela's office. Hearing that I was being put on administrative leave. Enduring the long walk of shame to my office. My personal belongings already boxed up and waiting. A security guard escort all the way to the parking garage.
No way—long story—was I going through
that
again.
I whipped around and headed in the other direction. If Shuman thought there was something suspicious in Max Corwin's background, I intended to find out what it was. And while I was at it, I would check out Ray and Tina, the other two new hires. Then I'd investigate every person Violet Hamilton had ever known in her entire life, if I had to, to prove to Detective Madison that I was innocent.
I hurried to H.R. and stopped outside Adela's office. I didn't know how long she'd be tied up with the detectives, but I didn't need much time.
I glanced up and down the hallway and slipped inside.
I hoped that since we'd all just come on board, the new-hire personnel files would still be on Adela's desk. No such luck. I glanced at the doorway, saw no one walk by, then eased open the bottom desk drawer. Lots of folders, but none with our names on them.
I slid around the desk to the credenza on the other side of the room. Two huge stacks of folders sat at each end. I ran my gaze down the tabs on the closest one. No luck.
Voices sounded in the hallway. I darted back to the visitor chairs in front of Adela's desk, put on my most casual I'm-not-doing-anything-wrong expression, and pretended to study the artwork on the wall.
From the corner of my eye, I saw two men walk past.
Whew!
I spun back to the credenza and eyed the other stack of folders. My heart jumped. There, near the bottom, were our personnel folders.
Darn. That meant to get to them I'd have to shuffle through about fifteen folders. Not exactly a stealth move.
I sure could use some superpowers at a time like this—or maybe just a couple of Snickers bars.
I looked back at the door again. Nobody in sight. I strained my ears for the sound of approaching footsteps. Nothing.
I turned back to the credenza and reached for the top folder.
“Haley?”
I whipped around and saw Adela and Mr. Dempsey standing in the office doorway. They both looked surprised to see me—not as surprised as I was to see them, of course—but luckily I don't think my presence uninvited and unescorted in Adela's office was the problem.
Mr. Dempsey gave me a hard look, then said to Adela, “We'll continue this another time.”
“Certainly,” Adela murmured. She went to her desk and kept her head down while she shuffled papers.
“I'll come back another time,” I said, and headed for the door.
“No, that's fine, Haley,” Adela said, finally looking up at me. Her cheeks were pink. She straightened her shoulders. “What did you need?”
Oh, crap. I had to tell her
something
.
“I wanted to ask about Constance,” I said—which just proved that the lingering effects of a mocha frappuccino were indispensable when working a high-pressure job. “I noticed her nameplate wasn't outside her office this morning.”
“Oh, yes.” Adela sank into her chair. She drew in a deep breath and said, “Constance's condition has worsened. She's had some sort of a breakdown and won't return to work for a while.”
I tried to think of something sympathetic to say. Nothing came to me.
That happens a lot.
“Which means—” Adela's phone rang. She picked it up, listened, then said, “I'll be right there.”
Adela pulled open her bottom desk drawer. “That means, Haley, you'll have to take over all of the events, not just those Patty was handling.”
I remembered seeing the list in her computer. Business luncheons, birthdays, meetings in the office conference rooms. Nothing major.
“No problem,” I said. “It looked as if Patty was handling most of them anyway.”
Adela froze, a folder halfway out of the desk drawer. “You don't
know?
”
I was supposed to
know
something?
“It's the premier event in the history of Dempsey Rowland,” Adela declared, and yanked the folder out of the drawer.
Yeah, well, that sounded important, all right.
I channeled my mother yet again—which was starting to creep me out—and said, “I'm well aware of everything Patty was assigned to handle. But everything Constance was working on is inside her locked office, sealed with crime scene tape, completely out of my reach.”
Adela pushed her desk drawer closed and rose from her chair.
“Mr. Dempsey is retiring,” she told me. “The ceremony will be a gala affair at the prestigious Roosevelt Hotel, attended by twelve hundred guests and dignitaries from all over the globe. It will be an evening of monumental importance befitting Mr. Dempsey's outstanding and far-reaching accomplishments on the world stage.”
Okay, I couldn't help it. My mouth fell open.
“Constance has devoted most of the past year in preparation,” Adela said. “Now you'll take over.”
“But everything is in her office.” I think I whined when I said that.
“If you'll excuse me,” Adela said, shooing me out of her office ahead of her.
“I don't have access to anything she's done.” I'm sure I whined that time.
“You'll figure it out,” Adela declared.
She locked her office door and walked away.
Oh, crap.
 
Around noon, my desk phone rang, startling me a bit because I'd been deep in thought.
Since my Plan A had failed this morning when Adela and Mr. Dempsey walked in on my covert op, I'd immediately jumped to Plan B. It had taken longer than expected to arrange, but finally it was done—and now I was being interrupted.

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