1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (33 page)

"Anastasia!"

"What?"

"Stop babbling and listen."

"What's so important?"

"Vittorio Versailles is dead."

"OMIGOD! How?"

Through the phone line I heard Cloris take a deep breath. "A
bullet to the back of the head. One of his peacocked goons found
him at his apartment when he failed to show for some luncheon
today."

Three slices of mushroom pizza flip-flopped in my stomach.
"I'll call you right back." I clicked off, grabbed my cell phone, and
headed for the back porch.

"Anastasia! What's going on?" asked Mama as I raced through
the kitchen.

"Not now, Mama." I grabbed my coat off the hook in the mud
room and slammed the back door behind me.

"Execution style?" I asked Cloris when she answered on the
first ring.

"What was that all about?"

"Batswin and Robbins tapped my phone."

"Is that legal?"

"I gave them permission."

"Are you out of your friggin' mind? Why on earth would you
do that? They're trying to pin Marlys's murder on you, in case
you've forgotten."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten. They gave me no choice. Tell
me about Vittorio."

"The news mentioned the lawsuit he filed against Trimedia.
And according to an unnamed source, the police are questioning
several persons of interest at the magazine. The newscaster implied
the police think someone at Trimedia took out a contract on Vittorio."

"I suppose whoever paid to get rid of Vittorio figured a hit
man was a heck of a lot cheaper than an extended court battle."

"No guessing as to the outcome, either."

"But who?"

"Someone with balls. And connections."

The mushroom pizza solidified into a two-ton cannonball.
"Hugo?"

"He fits on both accounts, doesn't he?"

According to the rumor mill, Hugo grew up in the shadows of
organized crime, his father having been an accountant for one of
the five New York crime families. Years ago Hugo had changed his
name from the ethnic sounding Herschel Rosenbaum to the aristocratic sounding Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. However, those same
rumors claimed he still maintained ties with many of his father's
associates and his own old friends from back in the day.

"We don't know that for certain," I said. "Besides, Hugo has no
real power at Trimedia any more. He's nothing but a figurehead."

"What about that argument you overheard?"

I thought back to the angry voices coming from the other side
of Naomi's office door. The out-of-character behavior exhibited
by both Naomi and Hugo afterwards. Hugo's assurance that he'd
handle everything. "If Hugo were leveraging a buyback of the
company, Vittorio's lawsuit would put everything on hold."

"Or kill the deal if Trimedia lost the court battle," added Cloris.

"No Vittorio. No lawsuit. No problem."

"Bingo!"

"Now all I have to do is find out if Hugo was in negotiations
with Trimedia."

"Still think he and Naomi didn't have anything to do with
Marlys's murder?" asked Cloris.

"No, but I don't want to believe they did. Hugo maybe. He's got
the connections. But Naomi? I just don't buy it."

"Maybe she didn't know."

"That would make more sense."

"So what's your next move, Sherlock?"

"I think I'd better keep that to myself. If my plan backfires, I
don't want you getting hauled off to the slammer with me."

"You're planning something illegal?"

"Depends on your definition of illegal," I said.

"Forget my definition. How would Batswin and Robbins define
whatever it is you're planning?"

"I think it would fall under one of those murky areas of the
law."

"Be careful, okay?"

"I will."

What I planned was a search of Hugo's office. I wasn't certain
I'd find anything incriminating-part of me hoped I didn't-but a reconnoiter of the office was easier than finding a way into his
apartment.

The next day, after dropping Alex at the library and Nick at basketball practice, I headed for Trimedia. Even though I didn't expect
anyone else to show up at the office on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to park my car across the road in the train station parking
lot.

After letting myself into the building, I first headed for my office. I slipped out of my coat and hung it on the hook to the side of
the entrance. In case someone else did decide to catch up on work
today, I flipped on my computer and arranged my cubicle to make
it appear that I was working on a project.

To add to the illusion, I slipped on my work smock and stuffed
a few tools and supplies into the deep front pockets. In case the
boys called, I grabbed my cell phone before storing my purse in
the bottom drawer of my desk.

Hugo's office was situated on the fourth floor, the top story of
Trimedia. Although he shared the marble-tiled, mahogany-walled
floor with the other corporate stuffed shirts, the size and location
of his office-a windowless, out-of-the-way closet of a space-reflected his status as a corporate Bottom Feeder.

However, power or no power, Hugo kept his office locked. I
wasn't deterred. He shared a secretary with several lower level
managers. I headed for her desk.

In the top drawer I found a set of keys, each contained a DayGlo orange label with a letter of the alphabet hand-written in thick black marker. C, W, P, and H. Charles Zucker, Walter Montieth,
Paul Horner, and Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. I pocketed the keys and
headed back to Hugo's office.

For a man who had no real function at Trimedia, Hugo's desk
was extremely cluttered. Several mounds of manila file folders
covered the surface. Another precarious pile filled the visitor's
chair off to the side. Old issues of American Woman and various
other publications he had once directed lay on the carpet, stacked
neatly by year and title against the walls. The glossy columns of
long forgotten issues stood silent sentry to a deposed potentate.

I glanced around the cramped office with its meager furnishings. Trimedia hadn't seen fit to supply Hugo with so much as a
filing cabinet, let alone a computer. Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp had
once controlled a publishing empire. Now he was exiled to a dismal hovel like an unwanted and unloved Cinderfellow. Was such a
slap in the ego enough to make him turn to murder?

Clearing a space in the center of his desk, I settled into his chair
and began skimming the contents of the first stack of file folders.

After two hours I'd found nothing to indicate Hugo was in negotiations to buy back the company and nothing that incriminated him or Naomi in the murders of either Marlys or Vittorio.

What I did find filled me with profound sadness. Hugo spent
his days at Trimedia surrounded by the minutia of days long past.
The files contained all the meeting notes, all the hard copy, all the
blue lines, all the artwork, and all the financial statements from
each of the magazines lined up against his wall. Over thirty years
of the history of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company, from
the day the first issues rolled off the presses. Nothing more.

Hugo was no murderer. He was nothing but an unhappy old
man living in the past. Whatever his argument with Naomi had
been about, it certainly wasn't anything that involved murder and
mayhem. Or even the overthrow of the existing regime. Hugo had
lost his publishing empire in a hostile takeover. He had neither the
acumen nor the capital to reclaim his title and realm.

I mulled over what I remembered of Naomi's and Hugo's angry
conversation.

"Don't be stupid. Everything will work out. I made a mistake.
There. I admit it. Satisfied?"

"A mistake?"

"Yes, a mistake. Nothing more. It's over. Forget about it."

The mistake Hugo referred to was probably his affair with
Marlys. It was over because Marlys had dumped him for someone
with more power and deeper pockets. Not to mention the fact that
Marlys was dead.

"Over? We're smack in the middle of a gargantuan dung heap."

"Not if we play our hand right."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That you let me handle things. Okay? We have a chance to set
things back on track."

"Not with this new situation."

"A minor wrinkle. Trust me."

I filled in the blanks based on the clues spread out before me.
Hugo had probably wheedled his way back into Naomi's good
graces by convincing her he planned a buyback of the company.
Naomi believed him because she needed to believe him. She hated the new ownership and feared Marlys had planned to sleep her
way into Naomi's job. The dung heap and new situation referred to
Marlys's death which Naomi feared would stall or obstruct Hugo's
buyback plans. Naomi had no clue that those plans were a mere
pipe dream.

I left the office the way I found it, locked the door, and returned the set of keys to the secretary's desk. Shunning the elevator in hopes of shaving off a few of the donuts and brownies that
had affixed themselves to my hips recently, I headed down the
stairs.

As I opened the fire door leading onto the floor American
Woman shared with several other publications, I heard voices
coming from the direction of the Models Room.

The Models Room was actually a large walk-in closet at the
northwest corner of the floor. We used it to store props and samples for past, current, and future issues. Since it's next to impossible to find plastic Jack-o-lanterns in April or ceramic leprechauns
in September, we keep on hand a large supply of seasonal doodads
and decorations for photo shoots. I also used the closet to store the
various new products samples craft manufacturers constantly send
me. Cloris gets samples of foie gras and Chambord-soaked pound
cake; I get faux-fur felt squares and chenille stems.

But why would anyone be in the Models Room on a Sunday
afternoon?

I crept closer.

"There's nothing but junk in here, Dicky. I don't know what
you find so fascinating."

"Hey, one man's junk, yada-yada-yada."

"I thought you wanted to see my new office"

"I do, Sweet Cheeks. You're gonna give me the ten-dollar tour.
Top to bottom. Every office."

Sweet Cheeks? I froze. Only one other person I knew had a
fondness for that particular appellation. Ricardo. An iceberg twice
the size of the Titanic killer broadsided me. A shiver coursed from
my in-desperate-need-of-a-touch-up roots down to my in-desperate-need-of-a-pedicure toes. Could Erica's new boyfriend and Ricardo be the same person?

Dicky.

Ricardo.

The jigsaw pieces began to fit together. The resulting picture
didn't paint Erica in such a sweet and innocent light. So much for
following in the footsteps of Jessica Fletcher. Cloris had raised suspicions of Erica all along, but I'd pooh-poohed her.

"What's in these boxes?" asked Dicky. I heard scraping, as if he
were pulling down one of the cartons stored on the top of the
metal shelving. It hit the floor with a thud.

Erica winced. "Careful! You'll break something." The sound of
tape ripping off cardboard echoed out into the hall. "Dicky, please.
Don't open that. We shouldn't even be here. What if someone
finds us?"