Drop Dead Gorgeous (24 page)

Dumping her purse on the counter, she checked the garbage disposal first. On, off, water running. The device whirred with a beautiful high-pitched wail. She fed it a crusty old piece of bread she found hiding in the fridge. It took it like a dog devouring a bone. The bottle of champagne had miraculously disappeared, replaced by a smiley-face note. But no key.

Nor was the key on the coffee table. The miserable cur threw out her rose. Darn. In all her gloom and life contemplation, she'd forgotten to thank her mother for yesterday's cleanup and the beautiful rosebuds.

Unfastening her sweater, she threw it across the sofa. Undoing the button and zip of her skirt along the way, she ambled down the short hall to her bedroom. The skirt caressed her legs as she slipped it off her hips, reminding her of T. Larry's hands. She flipped on the light and stopped, arm in a midair toss.

The closet door stood ajar, her clothes strewn across the floor and bed in a jumble of color. Rose petals had been crumbled and thrown atop the mess, their scent pungent and overpowering.

Her skirt fell to the floor from her numb fingers. Needles shot through the flesh as if her hand had fallen asleep. She stared at her ruined clothing, the slashed material.

The six-dollar fully lined, Evan Picone black dress with the princess neckline from the church thrift. The black-and-white silk Ann Taylor blouse her mother had uncovered for fifty cents. Two sizes too small, that had never mattered since Madison loved tight and the feel of silk against her. The fitted velvet jacket BeeBee had given her when she was cleaning out her closet last year. The blue leather skirt from the same clean out. They were priceless, irreplaceable. Money had nothing to do with it. Stories went along with each piece. Comforting scents of the previous wearer never really faded away.

She bent for a favorite Liz Claiborne sweater, holding it to her nose. Years of collecting, hours spent with friends and family picking through thrift shop racks and garage sale tables. Each garment had a beautiful memory attached to it like a broach or a pin. Some people had photos. Madison kept clothes.

Thank God she'd taken some pieces to the cleaners the other day. She couldn't remember quite what, but some had been saved.

She stood in the middle of her bedroom in her high heels, panties, garter and bra, the lights on, the shade not pulled. Kinda stupid. She shut off the overhead light, the shade rasped on its roller, then she fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp. Rummaging through the carnage on the floor, she found the pink robe her friend Barbie Doll had brought back from the Royal Hawaiian last year.

When she stuck her hand in the pocket, her fingers fell through a hole to her thigh.

She sniffed but didn't cry. Scooping an armload from the floor, she tossed them to join those on the bed. Turning to her violated closet, she swiped at her cheeks.

Who would want to hurt her like this?

The flowing black wrinkle skirt she'd worn on Monday hung from the rack. Survived. Unblemished. Still on its hanger. It was not short. It was not tight.

The length of it brought to mind only one person.

But Harriet couldn't have done this. She didn't even know where Madison lived. Or did she? The key was missing. Harriet had been so angry. She hated short skirts and tight sweaters. She'd specifically named Madison in her suit.

This went beyond anger. It entered the realm of hate.

Her shoes flashed from the floor of the cupboard. Neatly lined up, colors coordinated, she had two pairs of each of the basics. By no means Imelda Marcos, she still loved her shoes. She saw Richard watching women's shoes clicking across the marble lobby. Her shoes hadn't been touched.

She'd just dumped him, ugly word but true. If angry, would he destroy shoes, leave them alone, or take a pair for a trophy?

But he didn't know where her apartment was. Harriet could have sneaked the address from personnel files, but Richard wouldn't have a clue. Reverse directory from her phone number? She was sure you had to be listed for that, and her brothers had
insisted
she be unlisted almost as a condition of letting her move out of Ma's house.

Had she done something to piss off one of her friends?

Oh my goodness God, none of her friends would do something like this. Neither would Richard or Harriet. Nobody could hate her like this. Nobody. She hadn't hurt anyone enough to deserve something like this. Had she?

She ran back down the hallway, made sure the front door was locked and propped a chair beneath the knob. Oh my God. What about the animals Ma knit? Miraculously, they were fine, nestled against the couch cushions. Oh, oh, if they'd been harmed…that would have been the worst. She checked the windows in the living room, then gathered the pink pig, the cowardly lion and the white rabbit in her arms and carried them all to her bedroom. She'd sleep with them. Finally she snapped the latch on her bedroom window, too. All locked up tight now. When it was too late.

Robe cinched around her, she crawled into her bed, the pile of clothes heavy on top of her, the stuffed animals comforting on her pillow, and picked up the phone.

She should have dialed 911. Instead her fingers picked out T. Larry's number. She knew the office number, his cell phone, his home phone, even the number for his favorite restaurant three blocks from his house. She'd call them all if she had to, but he answered at home just before the message machine picked up.

“T. Larry?”

“It's past my bedtime, Madison.” No inflection, no hint of the erotic, just T. Larry her boss.

Her tummy tumbled over. To him, this afternoon had been nothing more than an irate mistake. Madison, however, didn't ask for verification on that. “It's only ten o'clock.”

“I retire at nine-thirty.”

“T. Larry—”

“How was your date tonight?”

“Short.”

“How short?”

“Less than ten minutes.”

A lengthy pause, then, “Why?”

“I'm not in the mood for twenty questions, T. Larry.”

“Then tell me all at once instead of piecemeal. Did you tell him you're not seeing him anymore?”

“Of course that's what I told him. What else would I have done after what happened this afternoon?” Even if the experience hadn't changed things for T. Larry, it certainly had for her.

T. Larry paused as if she'd taken his breath away with the list of things she'd now want from
him.
Then, “I don't think we should talk about that.”

She wondered if her words to Richard had hurt him as badly as T. Larry's hurt her. “That's not why I called.”

“Then why'd you call?”

She couldn't lie, not in the security of her bed, with her ruined clothes like blankets on top of her. “To hear your voice.”

“This is getting too serious.”

She wouldn't cry. She would
not.
“Just wanting to hear your voice is too serious?”

“Yes. It's a sign of attachment and the need for comfort.”

She needed his comfort, and not for what happened today but for what she'd found in her apartment tonight. “Didn't you say you wanted me to fall in love with you?”

“I've changed my mind.”

Her fears confirmed, she sighed and climbed from the bed, the portable phone still at her ear.

“You're breathing heavy. What are you doing?”

She twisted her lips. “I'm going to the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm upset.”

“Because of what happened between us today.” Not a question, a statement.

She couldn't bear to hear another word on the subject. “I'm going to cook.”

“Why?”

“I always cook when I'm upset.” She reached into the cupboard for her selection of gourmet ice cube trays.

“What are you making?”

“Jell-O Jigglers.”

“That's not cooking. It's heating up water.”

“Yes, but it doesn't need a recipe. That makes it inventive cooking. Do you want raspberry or blueberry?”

“Raspberry.”

She held up two ice trays to inspect. “Do you want creepy crawlers or body parts.”

“Don't you have anything ordinary, like balls or cubes?”

“I'm not ordinary, T. Larry.”

“I know.” She thought she heard him groan. “I'll talk about what happened if you need me to, Madison.”

She put a kettle on the stove to boil for the Jigglers, then pulled out a box of raspberry Jell-O. “I've changed my mind. I don't need to talk anymore.” She'd die
before
her birthday if she had to listen to him call what they'd done a horrible mistake. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Madison—”

She pushed the off button in the middle of his voice. She wouldn't tell him about the clothes. She wouldn't tell him about the missing key, the lost hairbrush, the hang ups, the rose buds or her clean house. Her mother had nothing to do with that.

T. Larry would say it was Richard. Madison feared it was Harriet. She simply could not call the police. In good conscience, she had to talk to Harriet first before she released the bloodhounds on her.

For now, she called her brother and told him she needed new locks since he'd lost the key she'd left him. Sean had very big shoulders. He handled the guilt trip quite well.

She gave in to her tears when she was again nestled in her bed, the Cowardly Lion pressed to her cheek and her closet full of ruined memories.

 

L
AURENCE SAT ON HIS COUCH
, lights off, phone clutched to his chest, a glass of whiskey resting on the sofa arm.

Though he kept a stocked liquor cabinet for entertaining, he didn't usually drink. He drank tonight to blot out the feel of Madison in his arms. It hadn't worked. Her call made it worse.

If he touched her again, he was doomed.

M
ADISON WOKE
Thursday morning with a plan, two plans, in fact—goodness, she sounded like T. Larry. What a wonderful thing sleep was, bringing about a complete attitude adjustment as if by a miracle. On the way to the train, Sean once again promised to change her locks out that day as she handed him her only remaining apartment key. She was positive he wouldn't look in her bedroom closet. The lock crisis settled, a great weight off her mind, she made the commute into work with accomplishment on her mind. First, Harriet, guilty or not guilty. It would take digging to figure it out. Then T. Larry. Talk wouldn't do. He required action. In his office. Despite his rules. Only eight days until her birthday, she wouldn't take no for an answer.

She stowed her purse in her desk drawer, then, trays of Jigglers in her hand, rounded her desk en route to the coffee machine. Just as she stepped into the hall, the reception door opened to admit Richard's charming visage. So good-looking. But she'd made her decision. He needed to respect that.

“Richard, what are you doing here?” She set the Jigglers on the desk beside her.

The flowers in a plain brown paper bag said it all. He shouldn't be bringing her flowers. He shouldn't be here, period.

“I brought you these.” He jostled the bag at her.

She tried to ignore the flowers. “Rhonda shouldn't have let you in unescorted.”

He eased closer. She backed up to the cubicle opening.

“Don't blame Rhonda. I told her I wanted to surprise you.”

He was too sweet, too eager to please, too unsure. Guilt tied her stomach in knots. She'd sensed he was fragile during their first date, and she never should have continued. Still, she had to end it. “Richard, I thought you understood last night.”

He pushed at that endearing lock of hair falling over his forehead. “I was hoping you'd changed your mind.”

She really disliked uncomfortable situations. “I'm sorry.”

His mouth drooped at the corners, then just as quickly he smiled again. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Madison tried to keep the relief off her face, but she wasn't good at hiding things.

Richard read her thoughts. “It's all right. Our timing was off. I do understand.”

Or T. Larry's timing was right on. “I really am sorry.”

He sighed heavily. “Will you promise me one thing?”

“If I can.” Which left her an out once she heard what he wanted.

“If you figure out he's not the right one for you, call me?”

She'd never confirmed T. Larry was the “he” she'd chosen over Richard, but there was a tension in the air that said he knew. But what was the point in denying it? “I can promise that.” She dipped her head. “Do I still get the flowers?”

That was a bit rude. It was equally rude to refuse them.

Richard smiled, and the smile dazzled. It just didn't make her tingle the way T. Larry did.

“They're yours. Do you have a vase to put them in? I'm sorry I didn't have time to get one.”

“A vase?” She looked around her office awash in file folders and correspondence.

“How about your coffee room? Maybe someone left one behind.”

He was amazingly sure of himself, suggesting, leading, not quite the Richard of Friday or Monday night. Or even a few moments ago. “I'll look.”

Madison sidled by him and headed down the hall to the copy-coffee room where she was sure she'd seen a vase in the cupboard under the sink. Glancing at her watch to find it almost eight o'clock, she realized T. Larry would be up from his workout any minute. Best to get rid of Richard
ASAP.
She ran water in the green glass vase and hurried back to her cube.

Richard had set the bag on her desk and was busy removing the wrapping from the flowers, a profusion of pink, blue and red carnations. Their sweet fragrance overwhelmed the cubicle, a little too sweet, almost sickly. The reception door opened. Madison held her breath, but the footsteps, muffled by carpeting, headed in the other direction.

Richard handed her the plastic wrapping. She dropped it.

“Are you all right, Madison?”

She was terribly nervous about T. Larry's reaction. Which was silly because he'd never made her nervous before. But then he'd never touched her that way before, either. “I'm fine. But I'm running a little late this morning.”

“I'm sorry.” A little boy's hurt crept into Richard's voice.

“I'm not rushing you or anything—”

“But you don't want
him
to walk in and find me here.”

Her fingers arranging the flowers, she looked up to find his smile gone and his lips tense. She went for honesty since anything else might give Richard the idea he still had a chance. “It does make me a tad uncomfortable.”

He contemplated his feet. “Yeah. Sure. I better go.”

“I'll walk you out.”

“You better not. Wouldn't want
him
to see us together.” He folded the paper bag and tucked it beneath his arm instead of throwing it away in her trash can.

The door opened again. She knew T. Larry by the sound of his footfall, heavy on the heel, a determined step, unfaltering. Then he was in the doorway of her office.

His nostrils flared and his gray eyes smoked, the only signs of emotion. He stared at Richard. Richard stared back at him. Like two gunslingers. Then without a word, T. Larry went into his own office and shut the door. Extra quietly.

Still staring at T. Larry's closed door, the slight disturbance of air currents warned her Richard had moved around her. He stood at her cubicle entrance, his face impassive and unreadable. “Goodbye, Madison.”

“Thank you, Richard.” She didn't walk him out, just watched him disappear into the lobby, sure she'd missed something in the little episode.

 

L
AURENCE COULD HAVE
beaten the younger man to a pulp. Then he could have dragged Madison into his office.

Thank God he had more control. All he had to do was keep his door closed and tell himself he didn't care what was going on outside.

It was a good thing he was already bald; he didn't have any hair to tear out.

 

B
ILL TAPPED HER DESK
. “Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey, handsome.” She didn't look up from the pile of yesterday's correspondence she was editing.

Bill didn't move on as he usually did. “Where'd you get the flowers?”

“Secret admirer,” she quipped, still without looking up.

Bill made a noise, perhaps a snort, sniffed once, then three more times in rapid succession.

“Yes, the coffee's ready,” she told him.

“What's that smell?”

“What smell?” She sniffed, too. Something sweet, yet laced with a hint of…meat slightly off? Could it be her meat loaf sandwich? Nah, that had been less than a week old. She'd noticed the smell when Richard brought his flowers. She hated the thought of throwing them out. “Maybe it's the Jell-O Jigglers I left on the counter in the copy room.”

“Jigglers?”

“In the shape of body parts. And creepy crawlers. When you move the wax paper they're sitting on, they jiggle,” she said with a smile.

“Has anyone ever told you that even as cute as you are, you're a very scary person?”

“Just you, Bill.” And her brothers. Her mother. T. Larry. Just about everyone.

He laughed and headed for the coffee, his voice floating back to her. “I like scary.”

She didn't want to know what Bill liked. T. Larry had kept his office door closed against her and hadn't asked her for a single explanation about Richard or the flowers.
Well, we'll see about that, Mr. T. Laurence Hobbs.
But first, there was Harriet.

She beeped Rhonda. “Have you seen Harriet?”

“She came in half an hour ago.”

Madison went prowling the cubicles. There weren't enough to go round and no assigned work spaces, partners and managers excluded, primarily due to the fact that many days the accountants themselves were out at the clients. When in the office, he or she took what she could get.

Harriet had secured the corner cube, outside Ryman's office, on the opposite side from Madison and T. Larry. Her fingers flying over the calculator, she didn't hear Madison's approach.

“Harriet, can I talk to you?”

She finished adding the column of numbers twice before turning. She'd been crying recently, evidenced by puffy eyes and too much makeup to cover them. “No.”

She'd replied. That was a good sign. Well, not exactly good, but a step above hopeless. Madison persevered. “I really, truly want to apologize for whatever I did that offended you.”

With little emotion, Harriet's gaze flicked over Madison's long black skirt and turtleneck. Thank God for air-conditioning or she just might boil over on another warm June day, the long-sleeved turtleneck was one of the few things she had left.

Lips thinning, Harriet muttered, “Apology accepted,” and returned to her numbers.

Now
that
was good, even though Madison didn't believe it. She needed more if she was to be sure Harriet hadn't been in her apartment with a knife. “Will you tell me what I did wrong? I'm still not clear on that.”

“You were born.”

Okay. That definitely fell on the not-good side. Madison took the direct approach. “Do you hate me?”

Harriet swiveled on her chair, venom in her eyes, her nostrils flared and her lips parted.

Madison smelled Bill's coffee before she saw him. Darn. He stopped beside her in the cubicle opening. “Slumming, Madison?”

Knowing precisely who the cutting remark was aimed at and that it didn't fall under T. Larry's office protocol, Harriet's face flushed.

Bill really was an ass.

Madison leaned over to look in his coffee cup. Very white, a lot of cream. “Is that really hot?”

He gulped, looking at her the whole time. “No.” Then he smiled, all slimy and sexual. “But not due to a lack of effort on your part.”

“Good.” She elbowed him out of Harriet's cube, hitting his hand holding the foam cup and sending coffee flying across the front of his white shirt.

She cupped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, look what I've done.”

He backed up, holding both arms out to survey the damage. His already swarthy complexion turned beetish. “You did that on purpose.”

Harriet stared, her mouth open.

Madison smiled, clasped her hands beneath her chin and said sweetly. “Why yes, I think I did.” She batted her eyelashes. “And if you apologize to Harriet, I'll apologize to you.”

Wide-eyed, he sputtered, “Apologize to her for what?”

“That ‘slumming' remark.”

“I didn't mean anything by it.” His head shook as he spoke.

Madison tipped her nose. “Yes, you did.”

His chin went down. A line formed between his brows. “I was just kidding around.”

“We didn't think it was funny.”

His gaze flipped from Madison to Harriet and back. “I…well, I guess I'm sorry then.”

Madison looked to Harriet, whose answer was merely a tight nod of acceptance.

“I'm sorry I dumped your coffee all over you. I was just kidding around, too. Do you want me to wash your shirt out?”

He held his hands up, empty coffee cup in his right. “No, no, don't touch me.” He left down the center hall, hands still surrendering in the air.

Harriet sat in silence.

“Now what were we saying?” Madison prompted.

“You asked if I hated you.”

“Yeah.” Madison nodded. “Do you?”

Harriet stared for the longest time, head tilting left, right, then she gave a slight shake. “I don't know.”

 

W
ELL, THAT WAS SUCCESSFUL
. At least Madison
thought
it was. Harriet hadn't reacted with glee, or even a smug knowing smile, when she saw Madison's skirt and turtleneck. By the end, she'd seemed stunned. Madison knew body language, and Harriet's wasn't that of someone who'd just torn through a closet full of clothes.

Nope, Harriet hadn't done it. Madison held her I'd Rather Be Skydiving coffee mug in her hands for warmth against the sudden chill. So who had? Maybe it was time to call the police. Except that they'd scream and yell because Madison had shoved all the clothes into the bottom of her closet, touched practically every doorknob and almost certainly destroyed any fingerprints that might have been there.

For now, she was safe at work. She'd worry about the rest when it was time to go home. “Procrastination is my middle name,” she chimed under her breath. Besides, she had to brave T. Larry in his office.