4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly (9 page)

Given that we’d all left work yesterday still unaware of the identity of the murder victim, I expected to find a gaggle of gossiping coworkers congregated in the break room. Instead, I discovered the break room empty except for a freshly brewed pot of coffee and half a cinnamon streusel coffee cake. I poured myself a cup, cut a slice of cake, and headed for my cubicle.

I’d taken all of one bite and two sips when my office phone rang. “Anastasia Pollack.”

“Mrs. Pollack, this is Marie Luscy, Mr. Gruenwald’s secretary.”

“Yes?”
 

“Mr. Gruenwald would like to see you.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“I’m on my way.” I placed the handset back in its holder and stared at the phone. Why was Gruenwald even here today? Shouldn’t he be home mourning his mistress’s death? Making funeral arrangements? Who shows up at work the day after his girlfriend is brutally murdered?

“Good morning,” said Cloris, poking her head into my cubicle. “I see you snagged some coffee cake before the vultures consumed the last crumb.”

“Huh?”

“Hey, you okay? You look dazed.”

I realized I still clutched the phone. I released my death grip and withdrew my hand. “Why on earth would Gruenwald want to see me?”

“Gruenwald?
Our
Gruenwald?”

I nodded. “Since when does the corporate CEO call meetings with staff members?”

“Since never. He won’t even make time for our editorial director. I once overhead Naomi complain that she had to set up an appointment with him three weeks in advance. And then he stood her up.”

“His secretary just called. He wants to see me. Immediately.” A boulder the size of Seattle settled in my stomach. “What if I’m being laid off? I’m barely making ends meet now.”

Cloris placed her hand on my shoulder. “If you were getting laid off, you’d be summoned to Human Resources, not the CEO’s office.”

“I suppose. What do you think he wants?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I forced myself out of my chair and willed my feet to carry me toward the elevator. Cloris followed along for moral support. “Whatever he wants, I doubt it’s good news,” I said.

“You don’t know that it’s bad news.” She pressed the elevator button. When the doors opened, my feet remained planted until she pushed me inside.

“You’re not coming with me?”

“He didn’t send for me; he sent for you.”

With that the doors whooshed closed, and I was on my own. The last time I’d ventured onto the marble-tiled, mahogany-walled fourth floor, two crazed women were speeding down the Interstate, bent on killing me. The time before that, I’d sneaked into Hugo’s office to figure out if he’d killed Marlys Vandenberg, only to bump into the real killer a few minutes later. Needless to say, I wasn’t keen on making another trip to the fourth floor.

Before the birth of
Bling!
, I don’t think Alfred Gruenwald ever set foot in his office here in our little neck of the Morris County cornfields. We housed corporate headquarters only for the magazines, a small part of the Trimedia stable.

Up until recently, Gruenwald oversaw his fiefdom from the luxury of the Trimedia Building, a thirty-five story high-rise on Lexington Avenue in Midtown Manhattan. That changed once he offered Philomena her own magazine. Not that I ever bumped into him, but rumors circulated among the staff each time he deigned to grace our steel and concrete abode.

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open. After taking a deep breath, I swiped my sweaty palms down either side of my khaki pencil skirt, stepped out of the elevator, and headed for the double glass doors that separated Gruenwald’s real estate from the rest of the fourth floor suits.

An enormous Carrara marble-topped reception desk sat opposite the glass doors. A plaque on the desk told me the woman seated in the leather chair behind the desk was Marie Luscy, Gruenwald’s secretary.

She offered me a friendly smile. “Mrs. Pollack?”

I nodded.

“Please have a seat.” She indicated an area off to the right where a deep umber leather couch and two matching club chairs flanked a free-form Carrara marble coffee table.

I crossed the room and perched nervously on the edge of one of the club chairs while she picked up the phone. “Mrs. Pollack is here, sir.” When she hung up, she turned to me. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

Shortly
being a relative term. The minutes ticked away, and with each passing one, I grew more nervous. After ten minutes my nervousness segued to annoyance. For someone who wanted to see me
immediately
, Gruenwald was certainly taking his sweet time. Was this some sort of power play? If so, I failed to see the point.

After fifteen minutes I stood and walked back over to the secretary’s desk. “If he’s tied up, I can come back later.”

“No need,” she said, again smiling sweetly. “I’m sure he’ll be out momentarily.” Then she dismissed me by turning her attention to the computer monitor on her desk.

I refused to take the hint. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Sorry,” she said, keeping her attention focused on the monitor while her fingers raced around her keyboard. “You’ll have to wait to speak with Mr. Gruenwald.”

A minute later her phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring and said, “Yes, sir? Very well, sir.” She hung up the phone and turned to me. “He’ll see you now, Mrs. Pollack. Just go in. No need to knock.”

I opened the massive mahogany door and stepped onto snow white carpet so plush, I nearly lost my balance. I thought about removing my shoes, fearful that I’d deposit a trail of debris in my wake, and stole a quick glance at Gruenwald’s feet. Since he wore his shoes, I abandoned the idea and kept my toes curled in mine.

Gruenwald ushered me to one of two black suede upholstered accent chairs positioned in front of an ebony cabinet that held a massive flat screen television. Matching bookcases on either side of the cabinet contained a collection of leather-bound books and various service awards, the kind designed by Tiffany, Waterford, and Baccarat.

After I sat, he took the seat opposite me. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Pollack.”

An odd comment, given I hardly had a choice in the matter. When the CEO summons, the peons appear for an audience.

I debated bringing up Philomena’s death. I suppose common courtesy dictated I say something, but I worried over choosing the proper wording. Finally I settled on, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Yes, a terrible tragedy.” He lowered his head and shook it side to side, taking a deep breath as he did. When he exhaled, he raised his head and faced me. “Which is the reason I wanted to see you.”

“Sir?”

“I’d like your help, Mrs. Pollack.”

“In what way?”

“From the tone of the questioning, I suspect the police believe I had something to do with Philomena’s death. They may also suspect my wife. They questioned her quite extensively as well. I need you to find the real killer.”

“Me? Sir, I’m no detective.”

“Don’t be so modest, Mrs. Pollack. Over the past year you’ve discovered both Marlys Vandenburg’s killer and Lou Beaumont’s killer.”

“That’s not exactly what happened. The killers discovered me. And both times nearly made me their next victim.”

“I’ll supply you with adequate protection while you investigate.”

“Protection?”

“My driver, Tino Martinelli, will accompany you throughout your investigation. He’s a former Marine.” Gruenwald stood, strode over to his desk, and returned with a business card that he handed to me. “This is his cell number. He knows to expect your calls and that you’re now his top priority.”

I stood to leave, holding the card out to him, but he kept his hands at his sides. “I’m honored that you think so highly of my investigational skills, Mr. Gruenwald, but you’ve tremendously inflated my abilities. You need to hire a professional.” And an attorney, but I kept that thought to myself.

“A detective nosing around would raise suspicions. You’d blend in better. You work here.”

“You think someone from Trimedia is responsible for Philomena’s death?”

“I do.”

Given Philomena’s connections to the rap world, I thought it far more likely her questionable past had finally caught up with her, but I opted for discretion, adding that thought to the others I didn’t voice. Instead, I asked, “Why would you think that?”

“I know many people here were jealous of Philomena.”

Jealous, maybe. But jealous enough to kill? I didn’t think so. “That’s not a very persuasive argument for convincing me to stick my nose into a murder investigation.”

“I have other arguments. Five thousand to be exact.” He slipped his hand into his suit jacket, removed a rectangular piece of paper, and handed it to me.

My jaw dropped. I sat back down and stared at a check for five thousand dollars, made out to me, from Gruenwald’s personal account.

“I know you can use the money,” he said.

“What if I’m not successful?”

“You will be.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“You have incentive.”

“So I only get to cash the check if I catch Philomena’s killer?”

“No, the money is yours. I have faith that you’re an honorable woman and will work hard to accomplish the task for which I’m paying you.”

“I could still fail.”

“I’m confident you won’t.”

I decided Alfred Gruenwald was certifiable. However if he was willing to pay me five thousand dollars for a wild goose chase, who was I to complain? I folded the check in half. “Before I agree, you’ll need to clarify a few things for me. Full disclosure. No holding back.”

“Such as?”

“What were you and Philomena arguing about behind the booth
 
Sunday afternoon?”

Now it was his turn to drop his jaw. The color leached out of his face. “How do you know about that?”

“I overheard you.”

Gruenwald’s demeanor quickly segued from overconfident to mightily pissed. “So you’re the one who told the police. That’s why I’m their prime suspect.” He pointed a finger at me. “This is all your fault. I should fire you right now.”

Great. Me and my big mouth
. “You’ll also have to fire the entire
Bling!
staff.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because every single one of them in that booth also heard you and Philomena. She’s not exactly quiet and reserved, and your voice carries even when you’re not shouting.”

Gruenwald dropped his bluster. “They all heard?”

I nodded. “Everyone watched the two of you and Norma Gene leave the Javits Center. They stood around whispering about it afterwards.”

He waved his hand in the air as if trying to swat away my words. “The argument was nothing important.”

Bullshit. “Sounded much more than nothing to me. Philomena made threats. You both second-guessed your relationship with each other. Then she stormed out, grabbing Norma Gene on her way. You followed, looking less than happy. As far as I know, that could be the last time anyone saw Philomena alive.”

“Damn. No wonder the police suspect me. You all fingered me.”

“I’m sure the police would have suspected you whether they heard about the fight or not.”

“Why is that?”

“The spouse or boyfriend more
often than
not turns out to be the killer.”

He began pacing, repeatedly covering the short distance between where I sat and the matching chair before turning and retracing his steps. After four laps he sat back down and shoved his hands into his pockets. Staring at his feet, he said, “Sylvia—my wife—served me with divorce papers Sunday.”

“Wouldn’t that make Philomena happy?”

“It would have if Sylvia wasn’t also suing Philomena for alienation of affection.”

“Which isn’t legal in New Jersey.”

Gruenwald’s head shot up. “How do you know that?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose not now. The papers were drawn up in Hawaii where we have a vacation home. For various reasons, we list it as our permanent residence.”

Score one for Naomi. Maybe Gruenwald should ask her to investigate the murder. “Philomena made threats against your wife, didn’t she?”

He nodded.

“Forgive me for saying this, Mr. Gruenwald, but given Philomena’s associations with a certain seamier element of society, isn’t it more likely that someone from her past killed her? Maybe he had a score to settle.” Which made far more sense than someone at Trimedia knocking off the Queen of Bling.

“She cut all ties with those people except for Norma Gene when she went mainstream. She’d cleaned up her act. They both had.”

“Yet, she was willing to contact someone concerning your wife. It sounds to me like she hadn’t severed
all
ties with her past.”

Again, he swatted away my words. “Idle threats to get me to convince Sylvia to drop the lawsuit.”

“You seemed more than concerned about those threats on Sunday.”