1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (4 page)

None of my coworkers seemed surprised to see me Monday
morning. Publishing deadlines wait for no one. Our motto is
much the same as the mail carriers': Neither rain, nor sleet, nor
snow, nor hail-or in my case, recent widowhood-will keep us
from getting our issues out on time.

Besides, thanks to Trimedia's Simon Legree-like benefits package, I'd already used up my yearly allotment of personal leave days.
And it was only the end of January.

After dumping my coat in my cubicle office, I grabbed my
notes and headed for the conference room. The last Monday of
each month was the day we planned the issue five months down
the road and gave status reports on the progress of the other issues
in the works.

I arrived to find all the usual suspects, minus Marlys, already
gathered around the battered and chipped walnut conference room table. Our building might be spanking brand new, but
Trimedia's bean counters had saved a bundle by moving all our
crappy old furnishings from lower Manhattan to the cornfield.

Marlys Vandenburg was our fashion editor and resident Prima
Donna. Rumor had it, she got her job, not because of her experience in fashion but from her gold medal performance in bed-the
bed of our former owner, Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. Marlys kept her
own hours and got away with it because, according to another
rumor, now that Hugo had lost control of the company, she was
performing her bedroom gymnastics for the chairman of the
Trimedia Board of Directors.

I poured myself a cup of brewed high test and took my seat on
the Bottom Feeders side of the table. The food and health editors
were to my left. The travel and finance editors, plus the one editorial assistant the five of us shared, were to my right.

Across the table sat the decorating and beauty editors, their individual editorial assistants, and Marlys's assistant. Naomi Dreyfus, our editor-in-chief, sat at one end of the table. Hugo, who still
attended editorial meetings, commanded the chair at the opposite
end.

"I suppose we might as well get started," said Naomi, scowling
at the empty butternut faux-leather upholstered chair usually occupied by Marlys. "You'd think she'd make an effort to show up on
time at least once a month." She directed this last comment, along
with a bitter purse of her lips, toward Hugo.

Naomi and Hugo had been an item for years until Marlys came
along. Now they barely spoke to one another. Another rumor flying around the office suggested Marlys had recently set her sights
on Naomi's job.

Hugo lowered his thinning gray head to avoid eye contact with
Naomi. He had aged considerably since losing the company and
had lost the dapper patina that had attracted beautiful women for
most of his sixty-plus years. His hair needed a trim, his suit a good
pressing. A series of small stains marred his custom-made shirt
and striped silk tie, as though he had dribbled his morning coffee
and either hadn't noticed or no longer cared.

Now that Marlys had given him the boot, I suspected he regretted walking out on Naomi. The statuesque Naomi, with her wellbred patrician features, cultured tones, Swiss boarding school education, and trademark silver chignon, exuded class. Without the
aid of any plastic surgeon, she looked years younger than her actual age of fifty-nine. Naomi was a true silk purse. Next to her, the
twenty-five years younger Marlys, for all her designer duds and
hours spent at the most chic Manhattan spas, came across as a
sows ear.

The rest of us certainly regretted the day Hugo hired Marlys,
especially Erica Milano. Erica was Marlys's personal slave, although technically her title was assistant fashion editor.

"I have everything covered," Erica said, her voice little more
than a whisper directed at the shocking pink folder on the table in
front of her. One of her hands fidgeted with a corner of the folder.
The thumb and index finger of her other hand picked at the rubber end of a pencil stub.

Erica put in sixteen-hour days, doing all of Marlys's work while
Marlys took three-hour, four-Cosmopolitan lunches and all the
credit. Unfortunately, Erica was a doormat, and Marlys, who
owned a closet full of Christian Louboutin boots, took extreme
pleasure in tramping their trademark red soles all over Erica. Marlys had even bullied her milquetoast assistant into running
personal errands for her during her lunch hour.

Naomi forced a smile. "Of course you do, Erica. You always do.
And we appreciate your dedication to your job. I have to wonder
why we even bother to pay Marlys a salary." Again, she leveled an
icy green glare at Hugo.

Around the table, the others traded surreptitious glances. Erica
was fashion editor in all but name, Marlys in name only. Too bad
Erica lacked the backbone-and the looks-to steal the job away
from her bitch of a boss. Poor Erica. As long as she carried around
an extra thirty pounds and refused to apply to her own body the
same design sense and style she used in the pages of American
Woman, she'd stay hidden away in a Trimedia cubicle.

The magazine couldn't risk the ridicule of the press. A fashion
editor had to look the part. And if nothing else, Marlys looked the
part.

One by one, each of us gave our status reports for the issues in
progress, pinning copies of layouts and photos up on the corkcovered wall behind me. The Holy Trinity got a bird's-eye view. We
Bottom Feeders needed to twist in our seats. When we had covered
each department, we moved on to planning the July issue.

"I'd like to do a Lazy Days of Summer theme," said Naomi, "focusing on a patriotic color scheme."

Her half-Chinese, half-Irish assistant Kim O'Hara, pushed a
lock of straight auburn hair behind her ear and rose to pin some
swatches and photos to the wall in the space allocated for the next
issue.

"Any ideas?" asked Naomi.

"Denim and bandanas are making a comeback," said Jeanie
Sims, our decorating editor. She rifled through one of the file folders in front of her and extracted several catalogue sheets which she
handed Kim to add to the wall.

"Furniture manufacturers are showing denim upholstered
sofas and chairs. We could accent with red and white bandana
throw pillows?" She glanced my way.

"Envelope pillows," I suggested, "along with a few patchwork
pillows using both denim and bandanas."

"Good," said Naomi. "What else?"

I thought for a moment. "We could bring the theme outdoors
onto a patio for placemats, napkins, a tray. Maybe a denim hostess
apron?"

"Denim hostess apron?"

Everyone turned as Marlys Vandenburg breezed into the room
and made a production of settling herself into the chair next to
Erica. Her derision sounded in her voice and showed on her face.

She wore a calf-length handkerchief dress of vermillioncolored raw silk. A plunging neckline showcased an enormous
tear-drop shaped diamond nestled between her breasts. Somewhat
smaller matching diamonds hung from each ear. A diamond clip
pulled back her chin-length platinum layered haircut on one side
of her face.

I glanced at Hugo. Was that drool I noticed on the corner of his
mouth?

Naomi didn't bother to conceal her annoyance. "Nice of you to
join us, Marlys, even if you are three hours late. And a bit overdressed."

"As I'm sure you're well aware, previews for Fashion Week
began today. I had an interview at Cartier first thing this morning.
Didn't Erica mention that?" She glared at her assistant.

Erica's eyes grew wide, her voice squeaked in protest. "But I
didn't know."

Marlys, who stood nearly six feet in three-inch stilettos, literally looked down her nose as she graced Erica with a sneer. "You
would if you did your job properly."

Her lips turned up into a too-saccharine sweet smile as she fingered the expensive bauble between her breasts. "Beautiful, isn't
it?" she asked no one in particular. "The diamonds are from Cartier's newest collection. On loan to me for a late dinner with Emil
Pachette this evening. He's agreed to give me an exclusive."

"An exclusive what?" I asked, unable to resist. Titters sounded
around the room.

Cloris McWerther, our Food editor, elbowed me in the ribs.
"Naughty Anastasia," she whispered.

"You're just jealous I beat you to the punch," I whispered back.

"An exclusive interview," snapped Marlys. "I don't suppose
someone like you has ever heard of Emil Pachette, but he's the
brightest new star to hit the fashion scene in a decade. By this time
next year everyone will be wearing couture from the House of Pachette."

She turned to Naomi. "And if we weren't exiled to this godforsaken no-man's-land, I'd have time to return home to change before my dinner date. Or perhaps you expect me to show up wearing denim?"

Not that Marlys had ever shown up for work on time when we
were located in Manhattan, but Naomi chose not to mention that
fact. "Let's get back to the issue," she said.

"Just a minute," said Marlys. "What's this about tacky hostess
aprons? That's so seventies. What's next? Palazzo pants? Do it yourself disco balls?" This time I was the recipient of one of her sneers.

Marlys considered my monthly contributions to the magazine
a waste of editorial space. In her effort to grab more pages for herself, she'd launched a campaign to eliminate my department.
Luckily, Hugo and Naomi had fought for me and the value of the
craft section to our readers. However, I had no reason to believe
she'd given up her quest now that we had new owners. Especially if
the rumors about her current bed partner were true.

Given my dire financial situation, I should have restrained my
sarcastic tongue. I couldn't afford to lose my job. Too bad I hadn't
thought of that before I gave Marlys one more reason to hate me.

Naomi gave her a brief recap of our plans for the July issue.

Marlys's voice rose two octaves. Her face suffused with a color
akin to her dress. "Denim and bandanas? Over my dead body!
Where do you suggest we hold the fashion shoot? Dogpatch?"

She slapped her hand onto the table. "We are not featuring
denim and bandanas. I won't allow it."

Naomi sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers under her
chin. Somehow she managed to keep her voice calm and controlled as she spoke, but I'm sure the effort nearly killed her. "I
happen to be the editor-in-chief of this magazine, Marlys. I make
the decisions, not you."

"We'll see about that." Marlys rose from her chair and stormed
out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her.

As the rest of us squirmed nervously in our chairs, Naomi
snapped at Hugo. "I want to thank you from the bottom of my
heart, Dr. Frankenstein."

Hugo grimaced. "I'll see if I can talk some sense into her"

"And if you can't?"

He cleared his throat, straightened his skewed tie, and pushed
away from the table. "I'll think of something."

AFTER HUGO LEFT THE meeting, we continued planning the July
issue, everyone ignoring Marlys's objection to denim and bandanas. Hugo never returned, but lunch arrived about half an hour
later. We continued to work as we nibbled on club sandwiches, a
monthly company perk that we all expected to lose once the bean
counters discovered that Naomi tapped into miscellaneous expenditures to pay the deli each month. The meeting finally broke up
shortly before two-thirty.

Once back in my cubicle, my cell phone rang before I even had
a chance to flip on my computer. I didn't recognize the number on
the display. "Hello?"

"Hello" Something about the way those two syllables rolled off
the guy's tongue sent a flooding warmth through me. Or maybe
I'd just experienced my first hot flash. Two plausible possibilities
(although I certainly hoped I was too young for the latter). Whichever the culprit, though, the thought of either sent a chill down my
spine that immediately readjusted my estrogen levels.

"I'm calling about the apartment you have for rent," he continued.

Aside from having to replace my semi-luxurious sedan with an
aging clunker, the second casualty of getting booted off Mount
Upper Middle-class was the realization that I'd need to supplement my income. Sharing a house with Lucille was bad enough.
Sharing a cardboard box with her and two teenage boys was far
worse. That meant giving up my home crafts studio over our detached garage.