Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 06 (2 page)

But noooo. Her boss had walked in not two hours ago, told her she was to handle the KoKo-Nut account, and walked right out on his way to LaGuardia and some Caribbean island. As if she could just cancel her hair appointment and her lunch with Giselle, as if her late afternoon aerobics class was inconsequential, as if she had nothing better to do than immerse herself in the marketing of some product that, from what was mentioned in the photocopied ads in the folder, consisted of synthetics. Geri hated synthetics (with the exception of rayon, of course). She hated her boss, she hated her secretary, she hated her father for making her work while everyone else was at the club playing tennis, and she hated Scotty Johanson for being such a lowdown, devious, horny bastard.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the receiver and punched for an outside line. Daring him to answer, she dialed her ex-fiancé‘s number. She was disappointed when the machine clicked on and a sultry female voice repeated the number and invited her to leave a message at the sound of the beep.

“I’m delighted you and your new friend have become intimate so quickly,” Geri purred. “But from what I’ve heard of her, I’m not totally surprised. I left a tortoiseshell brush in the bathroom. Be a sweetheart and pop it in the mail, and please make every effort to have a really nice day.”

She replaced the receiver, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and glared at the next page in the folder. Not only would she be obliged to deal with synthetics, she would have to deal with people of uncertain backgrounds. Five of them, to be precise, and all under her immediate supervision to participate in a cooking contest. For three days.

She hit the intercom button. “Meredith, cancel my hair appointment and the lunch reservations, and try to catch Giselle before she leaves the gallery. Oh, and get my mother on the line so I can let her know I won’t be home this weekend. Mr. Fleecum has simply ruined the next month of my life.”

“Yes, Miss Gebhearn. There’s a Kyle Simmons on the line to speak to you. Shall I put him through?”

“I cannot take any calls the rest of the day. Mr. Fleecum’s notes are indecipherable, and the contest is next month. I suppose I’d better run down my liaison at the KoKo-Nut office and—”

“Mr. Simmons is from that office,” Meredith interrupted without inflection. “He says he’s from promotion.”

“Then put him through,” Geri said crossly, “and don’t forget to cancel everything.” She drummed her fingers on the desk while various clicks and buzzes came through the line, mentally cursing Mr. Fleecum for his treachery.

“Miss Gebhearn?” said a male voice with no hint of upper-class nasality. “This is Kyle Simmons at KoKo-Nut. I suppose I’m the … well, just yesterday I was assigned to this contest thing. I was given your name and told to …” His shrugs and grimaces were almost audible; his gulps were. She was not in the mood for charity. “I’m very busy, Mr. Simmons. What is your point?”

“We’re supposed to coordinate the contest. I mean, your marketing firm is in charge, but I’m representing our company and sort of overseeing things.” He cleared his throat unhappily. “I’ll present the prize at the end.”

Geri shuffled through the stack of papers. “According to what’s here, the president of KoKo-Nut is going to be doing that very chore. It’s so very kind of you to offer, Mr. Simmons, but we’ll just pass on that. The media will respond so much better to …” An articulate adult, she concluded to herself.

“That would be my father, and last night he suddenly announced he had to take a business trip. I’m afraid you’re sort of stuck with me.”

“Then I guess I am, Mr. Simmons,” Geri said, attempting to insert a note of enthusiasm and failing miserably. “My boss just gave me the account this morning, and I’m still trying to sort it out. Why don’t I give you a call later in the week and we can set up a meeting to review the initial plans?”

There was a long silence, during which she could hear him breathing over the background clatter of the city. “I was … I was thinking we could do it sooner than that,” he said.

“Fine, Mr. Simmons, we’ll schedule it for”—she consulted her calendar—“the day after tomorrow, say tennish?”

“I’m in the lobby of your building.”

It was a good thing the secretary could not see Geri’s expression expression, which was not at all appropriate for a Vassar graduate from a very good family whose mother, at that precise moment, was mailing embossed invitations to a gala for Opera Relief.

“How very clever of you, Mr. Simmons. Please come right up and we’ll get started immediately.” She replaced the receiver and began to flip through the pages in the folder, wishing she’d done so earlier instead of obsessing over Scotty and the slut. Now her eyes were pink, and she would be facing the client with unsightly splotches on her cheeks and hair that was days overdue for a trim.

When the door opened, she finished the page before looking up with a coolly professional smile. It faltered as she took in Kyle Simmons, the scion of Krazy KoKo-Nut, Incorporated, but her years of cotillion training served her well.

“Please sit down,” she murmured, gesturing at the chair across from her desk. “Would you care for coffee?”

Kyle Simmons hesitated in the doorway. He was in his late twenties, but he had less poise (and more gawkiness) than a junior high school boy who had never dared glance below a girl’s collar. His face was small and angular, with a pointy chin and recessed eyes that were blinking as if he were in a sandstorm. Thin dark hair was slicked down like a glittery skullcap. His overcoat was rumpled, and his tie quite the wrong color for his shirt. On the other hand, Geri instinctively noted, his watch was outrageously expensive, his briefcase was more expensive than hers, his shoes were Italian, and his suit had never hung on a rack.

“Please sit down,” she said, then waited until he’d done so and repeated her invitation for coffee. He shook his head with such alarm that she toyed, albeit briefly, with the idea of offering him a soda pop and a cookie. “Well, then,” she continued, “I’ve only had the account a few hours, but I think I have a grasp of the immediate concern, which, of course, is the contest a month from now.”

“Next week.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Simmons, but—”

“Kyle. Call me Kyle.”

“Then I beg your pardon, Kyle, but the contest is four weeks from tomorrow. Two of the finalists have sent their acceptances. As for the other three, it might be expedient to fax them some sort of formal—”

“The contest is next week, Miss Gebhearn, and I have the updated list of finalists in my briefcase.” He opened it and began to dig through its contents. Slips of paper fluttered to the floor, along with gum wrappers, laundry receipts, and a very brown apple core. He at last surfaced with a page ripped from a notebook. “Good, here it is. I suppose you’d better have a copy run off so you can contact everybody about the new date.”

“Next week?” Geri glared at him, her exceptionally large brown eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “That’s impossible. I only received the account—”

“The Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff is to begin on Tuesday.”

“But I can’t possibly organize it in less than a week. This is ridiculous, simply ridiculous. I’d prefer at least six months, but I’m willing to do it in one.” She hit the intercom button. “Meredith, see if you can catch dear Mr. Fleecum at LaGuardia. Have him paged and say it’s an emergency.”

“His flight left ten minutes ago, Miss Gebhearn.”

“Don’t sound so damn pleased!” Geri leaned back in her chair and tried to pretend it was the chaise lounge on the deck of the summer house.

Kyle held up his hands placatingly. “I’m as perturbed as you are. I’ve been working in the quality control division, and I know nothing about this contest. Last night my father packed a suitcase and, on his way out the door, informed me that I’m to be the liaison for the contest.”

“Why was the date changed?”

“Several weeks ago an investment group called Interspace International, Inc. managed to purchase enough stock to have a controlling interest in Krazy KoKo-Nut. Their marketing people insist that the contest be next week. Furthermore, they want it held in a hotel they own in the midtown area, so they can control the cost and take full advantage of the write-off.”

Geri could almost hear Scotty snickering from under the picture frame. She dropped it in a drawer, winced at the tinkle of glass, and fanned out the contents of the folder. “This is sheer and utter madness, but we’d best get started, don’t you think? May I see this updated list of contestants?” She took the page and compared it to what she had before her. “Three of the names are different. Why is that?”

Kyle shrugged. “According to my father, one of them declined and two had accidents. The investment firm called him yesterday with these names, and that’s what we’ll have to go with.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. Prodding, Polk and Fleecum is conducting the contest; we’re in marketing and that’s what we’re paid to do. Why would Interspace International be involved with bothersome details like this?”

“Favors to friends and relatives, I guess.”

“So the contest is rigged?” Geri said indignantly, having been reared in an ambience of fair play and the superior sense of morality that was affordable with wealth. “Do you have a second memo that names the winner? Why bother to conduct the contest in the first place?”

“Neither you nor I appear to be in a position to ask that question,” Kyle murmured.

“Well, I appear to be in a position to make sure the outcome is fair, and unless Mr. Fleecum returns in time to oversee this absurd cookoff thing, I intend to see that it is. Now then, shall we continue?”

“Next Tuesday?” Brenda Appleton said incredulously as she stumbled to a halt in the middle of the den. Her hand fluttered to her unremarkable brown hair, then fluttered away like a disoriented moth.

Jerome nodded. “That’s what the lady said when she called. You’re a finalist and I’m invited to accompany you. I’ve got plenty of work I can do at the hotel.”

“But I never dreamed I’d be invited to the finals of the cooking contest! If you hadn’t pestered me, I wouldn’t have bothered to enter in the first place. I don’t have a thing to wear, not a thing.” Now the hand fluttered to her chest. “And what about my bridge party? I’m having three tables of bridge Wednesday afternoon, and the girls will be furious if I cancel.”

“Screw ‘em,” he said as he lit a cigar and then regarded her through a bluish haze. “You’re a finalist, and you’re going through with the contest, even if you have to wear nothing but an apron and your mink.”

“The children, Jerome! I never told them I entered, because I knew they’d tease me about it. I’d better call them immediately. What time is it in California? Three hours earlier? Will Vernie be home yet or should I wait? I cannot stand to waste money talking to that machine of hers, especially when I know she’s standing right there listening and can’t be bothered to pick up the receiver and talk to her own mother.”

Jerome turned to the sports page to see if the Mets had done anything worthwhile, for a change.

Catherine Vervain sat at her desk, utilizing her textbook to conjugate French verbs and recording the answers in neatly rounded handwriting. When she heard her mother open the bedroom door, she finished the column and impassively looked over her shoulder.

“The date of the contest has been changed to next week, Catherine. I’ll reschedule your hair appointment for tomorrow, and after you’re done, we’ll spend the afternoon shopping for our outfits.”

“Cancel my violin lesson.” Catherine turned back to the tedious lesson.

“I’ve already done it. I think we’ll try that new shop at the mall, the one next to the movie theater. I saw an adorable pink dress with tiny pearl seed buttons that will do, and I’ll have the cleaners dye white satin shoes to match.”

“I was, I am, and I will be,” Catherine muttered.

“Will be what, dear?”

“Whatever you want me to be,” she said softly, flashing small, even teeth as she bent further over her notebook.

“Next Tuesday will be fine,” Durmond Pilverman said. “I’ll take the train down and be at the hotel by five o’clock. That’s right, I’ll be by myself. My wife died several years ago and I really don’t know anyone who might wish to accompany me.” He chuckled modestly. “And the good Lord knows I don’t need a chaperone at my age. I’m just a lonely old widower who loves to dabble in the kitchen.”

After he hung up, he made several other calls, none of them eliciting a chuckle, then went into his study and took the .38 Special out of the desk drawer. He sat down at the desk and began to clean the barrel with an oily rag, whistling softly through the slight gap in his front teeth.

“A cooking contest?” Gaylene Feather said, scratching her neck with a scarlet fingernail. “Jesus, I don’t know. Like, I can barely make the can opener work, much less make fancy food.” She sank down on her bed and began to pluck at the dingy sheet. “Don’t you got anybody else who can do it, honey? I’m supposed to work every night next week, and Mr. Lisbon falls all over me if I’m five minutes late. What’ll he say if I tell him I gotta miss three nights in a row?”

Her boyfriend drained the last of the beer, then crumpled the can in his hand and lobbed it toward the garbage sack. “I’ll explain to Lisbon why he should not bother you about missing work, and I promise you he won’t object. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll give you a present to express my eternal gratitude.”

“And what might that be?”

“Some new luggage, a first-class ticket to Vegas, and a limo to pick you up at the airport.”

“You’re kidding!” she squealed. “A limo?”

“Nothing but the best for my girl. As long as you do a few little favors for me, I’ll do some big ones for you.”

“Are you sure I should be in a cooking contest?” Gaylene persisted, having no luck imagining herself in an apron. She could play a lot of roles (sadistic Nazi mistress being a specialty), but Betty Crocker wasn’t one of them.

“I must admit if I could find somebody else on this kinda notice, I’d do it, because I am personally and painfully acquainted with your lack of expertise in the kitchen department.”