Higher Mythology (19 page)

“It’s nice here,” Dola said in a soothing voice. Listen to me, she thought. I’ll be telling him stories next.

“Uh-huh. You ought to get ready for bed, you know.” Skinny walked into the room he’d designated as hers. She followed and watched him flatten out the sleeping bag on the bare, striped mattress, and plump up the thin pillow. He rummaged in the brown paper bags until he found the nightlight, and plugged it into the wall next to the bed. Its soft yellow glow warmed the honey maple floor. “That’ll do you.”

“It will,” Dola said, watching him. She smiled slightly, feeling the calm night beyond the cabin walls raising her spirits. “But you can take the nightlight away. I won’t need it in such natural surroundings.” He bent to pull the unit out and headed for the door. Dola called out after him. “And thank you,” she said.

It was the first time she had said it to him, and Pilton was charmed. “No problem,” he said. He paused, as if he was going to say something, then seemed to change his mind. “You and I’re gonna get along just fine here. G’night.”

“Good night,” Dola said. An owl hooted beyond the walls. Skinny went white around the eyes, then caught himself, and threw her a sheepish grin. He shut the door behind him.

In the middle of the night, Dola got up to go to the bathroom. When she passed Skinny’s room, the glow of the nightlight shone out from underneath his door.

***

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Mona Gilbreth, in full power suit, strode into the PDQ offices with her head high. It felt as if the beams of the brilliant Chicago sun were shining just for her. People had paused on the street when they saw her, standing back just a little in awe, the way they would in the presence of a celebrity. She was
known
, and it made her feel wonderful.

The taping at the television station had gone very well. The television interviewer was deferential, and stood strongly behind all female candidates no matter what their affiliations. The fact that she was a native daughter of Illinois made him stress the fact that his state was sending more women to Washington this year than any other state. Her campaign manager was delighted with the tape, which could raise her standing in the polls still higher. Her rating was already at an all-time high. Not bad for a campaign run strictly on the cheap. The station had given her a high-quality copy of the interview. There were a few sound bites in it that would make good ads.

Donations were still not pouring in, the curse of all smaller candidates in a tough economic year. Her manager had hinted that she should throw in more personal money to cover the bills that were piling up. She pretended not to understand, and he let the subject drop, saying that the creditors would undoubtedly wait until after the election, especially if it was successful. Mona knew he had hopes of becoming her aide in Washington—and why not? He was a good organizer, great with people. He could get blood out of a stone, which it sounded like he was having to. He was definitely earning his place on her staff.

The telephone call from Jake the night before reported that the child was giving no trouble, for which Mona was grateful. She was going to have to let the girl go sooner or later, but not until she elicited a promise from H. Doyle to let her alone in his turn. She sighed. Money would be nice, too. All that could be dealt with when she went home.

Paul Meier met her in the gray marble lobby, and escorted her personally up to the conference room. Mona looked down her nose at the hawk-faced man, granted him a gracious smile. In the elevator, he complimented her on her suit, her hair, and her shoes, picking with unerring instinct the three items in which she had taken the most professional pride that morning. No question, he was good at his job. Whether or not the performance was put on, it still made her relax and feel expansive.

“We want to show you the spread of where your campaign ads are being placed,” Paul said, walking beside her. “I’ve got a complete timetable, stations, programs, the works. We’d like to do more, but we’ve done the best we can with the budget.”

Another hint for money. Mona, groaning inwardly, carefully put him off. “For now, let’s do what we can with what’s already on the table,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Maybe around election time I’ll authorize more.”

“Maybe,” Paul said practically, “but then you’re competing for air time with the big boys and girls. No offense, but this is a presidential election year, too. Early name recognition can save you big bucks later. You don’t want to be just one of the names in the pack.”

“I’m depending on you to make me stand out,” Mona said confidently, and passed through the door he held open. She stopped in mid-step, staring in shock.

Keith, rising as the guest arrived, stared back. Mona Gilbreth stood in the doorway gaping at him like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. He probably looked as surprised as she did. Mentally, he cudgeled himself for forgetting that when he interviewed her she
had
said something about coming in this Monday. He’d even mentioned it himself when he left Gilbreth. He felt like an idiot. She wouldn’t see him as an ally any more, not after the last time she’d seen him, staring at her through a broken factory window stealing back an elf baby.

On the tip of his tongue was a demand that she tell him where Dola was, and why she had kidnapped the children in the first place, but he quashed the impulse at once. He needed urgently to get her aside to talk.

“My latest crop of interns,” Paul was saying, swinging a hand toward them. The supervisor pulled out the chair at the head of the table for his guest. She remained standing, so he moved away from her side to the foot. “Four of the brightest young minds ever to set foot in PDQ. I’d like to keep them on deck during our discussion, if you don’t mind. Dorothy Carver, Brendan Martwick, Sean Lopez, and Keith Doyle.” Each of the students nodded in turn.

“How do you do?” Ms. Gilbreth said, her voice weak at first but quickly recovering. “So you’re Paul’s next creative team?”

“They’ve been reviewing your accounts, Ms. Gilbreth,” Paul said. “They’ve been eager to meet you. The rest of your team will be here in a moment. We’re planning to cover both of your campaigns this morning, the political and the commercial. We shouldn’t waste an opportunity while you’re up here in our neck of the woods. Can I offer you coffee? Pastries?”

“Why, yes,” Mona said. She was careful not to look back at Keith. “That would be lovely.”

“I’ll go,” Keith volunteered at once. Paul nodded at him, and he shot out the door toward the cafeteria.

Thankful that Keith had removed himself, Mona took a few deep breaths. She knew he was connected not only with Hollow Tree Farm but with PDQ. Why had seeing him struck her so hard? She ordered her pounding heart to slow down. The boy was not likely to blurt out in the middle of a meeting that she had kidnapped his young cousin, or whatever relation the girl was to him, and that she’d demanded money for her safe return. Or was he? Mona couldn’t guess how he had figured out the child was concealed there. Was he working with the police? Had there been a tap on the phone line? Perhaps he had observed some trace of the children while he was visiting the factory, and arranged for the raid three days later. The thought made her uncomfortable. She realized that Paul and the young people were staring at her. She shook off the uneasy sensation, and with the air of a practiced stumper, Mona set about getting to know the other students.

It was more for practice than anything else, since none of the young people lived in her constituency. Dorothy sat at the table glancing up at her, and going back to her sketchpad, drawing something. Mona watched for a moment as Dorothy swept long, undefined lines onto the paper that suddenly took on the appearance of a handsome minimalist portrait, and began to add detail. Mona met her eyes and smiled. The black woman smiled back, and opened her lips tentatively, as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. Mona smiled again, nodding. Abandoning Dorothy for more interesting prospects, Mona moved on to the two other young men, who were still on their feet beside their chairs.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gilbreth,” Brendan Martwick said, enveloping her hand in both of his and pumping it once as he looked deeply into her eyes. His own were a compellingly intense blue, something she always found attractive. “I’ve been studying your product line, and I think we have something new to say about fertilizer.”

There was a muffled snicker from the girl at the table, and Mona turned her back on her more firmly. She resented anyone making fun of her product. It was hard enough to be taken seriously by the people who actually bought it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Sean Lopez,” the other youth introduced himself. His handshake was jerky and awkward, but his smile was more brilliant even than Martwick’s. She was struck by how handsome he was, like a young Tyrone Power. “My grandfather is a wheat farmer outside of Springfield. He uses your products.”

“I’m very happy to hear that,” Mona said. “I’d like to hear more, but will you just excuse me a moment?” She parted from her two admirers and took Meier aside. “That boy. Keith Doyle.”

Meier’s forehead wrinkled. “Something wrong with him? I know you met him last week.”

“If you don’t mind, Paul, I don’t want him in here with us.”

“Eh?” Paul asked, puzzled. “Keith is very creative. He’s a fine student, and has a real knack for ideation. He could be a real boon to this session.”

“He looks … well,” Mona struggled for an excuse, “like he might … vote Republican, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re the boss,” Meier said with a shrug.

Brendan Martwick came over to show her a handful of oversized art cards. She glimpsed the black-framed storyboard format on at least one of them. “Ms. Gilbreth, while we’re waiting, perhaps we can show you some of the ideas we’ve been working on.”

Meier, allowing Brendan a chance to prove himself, backed off a short distance. Mona smiled at Brendan as he turned over each card and looked up, seeking her approval. She liked the attentive attitude of this young man, and his dashing blue eyes.

“I know it’s irregular to have input from college interns, but consider,” Brendan said persuasively, “just consider the image of associating yourself with ‘America the Beautiful.’ ‘O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain,’ your image appears, and then music under the ad copy, then the plug, ‘Gilbreth Feed and Fertilizer, for a healthy future.’ Wholesome, environmental, and appealing to patriotism, too. Can you picture it?”

Mona experienced a sense of exaltation. “Yes!” she said. “That’s good! That’s exactly the image I want. Did you come up with that? What a talented young man you are.”

Brendan glanced back at the table to see if any of the others could overhear him. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, begging the question of whose idea it had been. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Oh, I do. I like the idea of associating Gilbreth Feed with ‘America the Beautiful.’” Mona looked at him, and wondered if she could consider him an ally. “In fact, I’d say you have a future in this business.”

“I hope so,” Brendan said sincerely. “PDQ is giving me a chance to prove myself. I hope I can.”

“I’ve been a client for a long time,” Mona informed him. “I know how the program works. Have you any idea whether you’re being favored for the job offer?”

Brendan glanced over his shoulder at the young woman at the table, then at the door. Mona guessed that either Dorothy Carver or the young Doyle stood ahead of him. “As much as anyone,” he answered at last.

“Well, the word of a client does have some weight around here,” Mona said. “If I liked your work I could insist that you be the one given the job.”

Brendan smiled, giving her that intense stare. “I’d be glad to put in extra time to please such an attractive client, ma’am.”

“I’m sure you’d enjoy the work,” Mona said. “That young man who left …”

“Keith?” Brendan asked. He glanced over his shoulder again to make sure no one had heard the surprised exclamation.

“Yes, Keith. You think he’s a little ahead of you in the running?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Brendan demurred.

“If you helped me, I could see him removed entirely from the race.”

“With pleasure,” Brendan said in a low voice, but never losing his edge of smooth persuasiveness. “He hasn’t got his mind on his job right now, and I have no idea why. You know,” he added conversationally, “there’s no place for a scatterbrain in this business. The more on the ball we are, the better it is for you, our client.”

Mona let Brendan babble on. Reminded of the child shut up in her summer cabin, Keith’s ‘niece,’ Mona felt a twinge of guilt but pushed it down again. She was here to help create a presence for her product and herself, but mostly herself, and to protect herself from Keith and his cronies at Hollow Tree Farm. The campaign was too important to let even worried environmentalists cause her grief. And money was becoming more scarce.

“I want this ad campaign to increase business,” Mona insisted out loud, for the benefit of Paul and the others. “I’ll be in favor of whatever it takes to raise my receivables.”

“How’s the bottom line been?” a man asked, coming into the room, and shaking hands with Mona. She remembered that his name was Larry Solanson, and he was her account executive. He’d clearly heard her last statement. “Will you be able to increase your budget slightly this season?” he asked. “The prices for all kinds of ads are going up, and television commercials are going off the scale. In an election year we have to compete for production house time. We could get better saturation of your voter spread with, say, $15,000 more in the kitty.”

Mona’s heart sank. Not more talk about money, not when she was worrying about whether she was going to be hauled away to jail in the next half hour. Young Doyle had been gone a long time. Was he getting the police? Her worry must have shown on her face.

“Ssst, sst, sst,” Paul said, with a concerned glance at her. He made damping down gestures. “Tact, Larry.” Solanson smiled his apology for being tactless. He pulled out Mona’s chair for her.

“Sorry,” he said diplomatically. “I always want to do more. I forget not everyone shares my enthusiasm.”

The door burst open, and Keith came in, a cardboard tray laden with small cakes and coffee cups balanced between his hands. There was a solid metal coffeepot hooked over his wrist. Gingerly, he set the bottom of the pot down on the table and worked his arm free without jostling the cups. “Sorry for the delay. We were out of doughnuts, so I ran down to the bakery.” He started to approach Mona to offer her some, but Paul gestured to him to put the pastries on the table and to sit down. Keith complied promptly, and plunked into the only empty chair at the table, which lay at the far end from Mona. She was relieved that he hadn’t come back with police, but he’d attempted to get close to her, and that worried her.

“Very nice. Everyone help themselves. All right,” Paul said, after a woman and another man had arrived and taken their places at the table. “We’re all here. Mona Gilbreth, you know Suzy Lovett, our staff artist, and Jacob Fish, who’s on your creative team.” Mona nodded to them, and Meier beamed. “Ms. Gilbreth, it’s getting crowded in here. Would it be all right with you to keep one of my students around? Teach them how it’s done? They’ll understand if you need your space.”

It was a tactful lie. There was still plenty of room, but he was giving her an out to avoid having Keith present. The interns looked dejected but resigned.