Gone With the Woof (18 page)

“I'm Rose Mooney, Mr. McEvoy's assistant,” she said. “I'm afraid he's busy right now. But if you'd like to come to my office, maybe I can help you.”

I introduced myself; then Rose and I took the elevator to the upper floor in silence. Once there we walked past a glass-walled conference room and several other offices, whose doors were all closed, before reaching Rose's work space at the end of the hall.

Her desktop was immaculate; her shelves were organized by function. The only decoration on the walls was a single March Homes poster headlined with the slogan
BUY WITH CONFIDENCE
! and displaying a picture of a presumably happy family underneath. Blinds over a small double window had been angled to cut the glare from the early afternoon sun. There was a low couch along one side wall of the room, and Rose steered me that way.

“Let's sit down,” she said. “I'm sorry Mr. McEvoy isn't able to see you, but hopefully, I can answer any questions you might have. As you probably know, March Homes is the most highly respected builder of custom residences in Connecticut.”

“So I've heard,” I told her.

“Excellent.” Rose cupped her hands around her hips, then slid them downward as she sat, smoothing her skirt into position. She crossed her legs demurely at the ankle. “Maybe you have a friend who's used our services?”

“I'm afraid not. And I'm not looking to do so, either.”

“Oh.” Rose managed to imbue the single word with a wealth of disappointment. “Then how may I help you?”

“I'd like to learn more about your company,” I said. “Your COO died recently under suspicious circumstances—”

“You're a reporter,” Rose said flatly. “You should have started with that information. David would have stopped you at the door, and I wouldn't have wasted my time.”

“I'm not a reporter,” I said. “And I can promise you that nothing you tell me will be made public.”

Rose tipped her head to one side, studying me intently through her thick lenses. “Who sent you here?”

“Edward March. He's asked me to gather some information for him.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I know Mr. March. If he needed information, he'd have gone to Mr. McEvoy directly.”

“Not if he's under the impression that McEvoy is telling him only what he thinks he wants to hear. And that perhaps Andrew had been doing the same thing for some time. Mr. March has every intention of finding out what was going on here prior to his son's death. I'm hoping you can help me with that.”

“You think I'm going to report on my boss behind his back?”

“You're the one who volunteered to answer all my questions.”

“Not questions like these. I thought you'd want to know about construction costs or scheduling or choosing tile for the bathroom.”

Rose stood up, walked over to her desk, and sat down behind it. Even an amateur psychologist could read that body language. She was placing a big solid barrier between us.

“Lawsuits,” I said.

This time I'd done my homework. Three had been settled by March Homes over the past two years, including the case Alice's firm had been involved in. Another had recently been initiated.

“What about them?”

“It looks like there's been an increase in the amount of litigation the company has been dealing with.”

Rose's answer mirrored the one March had given me the day before. “That's just the cost of being in the construction business. When people design a home, they make choices based on blueprints and pictures. And then inevitably, in the middle of the process, when things begin to take shape, they change their minds. They thought two bathrooms were going to be enough, but now they want two and a half. The cheaper flooring was going to be fine in the kitchen, but now they want to upgrade.

“And somehow customers never seem to understand that when they ask for more expensive materials, the price is going to go up. Or that when they change a floor plan mid-construction, that costs us time and money. And unfortunately, there's an unemployed lawyer on every street corner who's willing to tell them that the extra charges aren't their fault and that they shouldn't have to pay.”

“One of the lawsuits alleged that the quality of the workmanship done by March Homes was subpar,” I said. “That Andrew had made promises about quality that weren't kept.”

“People can allege anything they want,” Rose pointed out.

“Yes, but when a company repeatedly settles claims, it makes it look as though the allegations most likely had merit. I know the economy has taken a toll on the construction business. Was Andrew cutting corners to cut costs? Was he making poor decisions that impacted the company's bottom line?”

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” Rose said sharply.

She hadn't been happy to answer my questions in the first place. Now her patience was wearing thin, and I was clearly running out of time.

I stood up. “You know that Andrew's death wasn't an accident,” I said.

Rose's head dipped in a brief nod.

“He must have made someone very angry. Maybe an unhappy client who didn't want to resolve things in court? Or a disgruntled employee? As Mr. McEvoy's assistant, you must have seen things and heard things. . . .”

I let the thought dangle, but Rose didn't take the bait.

“If you're looking for someone willing to tell tales, you've got the wrong person,” she said firmly.

“Your boss is lucky to have such a loyal assistant.”

“Mr. McEvoy is a good man and an excellent executive. And Edward March is the one who's lucky to have someone of Walt's caliber in place and ready to take over management of the company. After five years of baby-sitting Andrew, he certainly deserves the top spot.”

Baby-sitting?
I blinked in surprise, wondering if I'd heard right.

And in that moment of hesitation, I lost my chance to find out.

Rose quickly stood up and stepped out from behind her desk. Her lips were pursed shut; her arms crossed over her chest. She had the look of a woman who thought she'd said too much already.

“That's all the time I can possibly spare,” she said. “Let me show you out.”

I
t wasn't as if I was being given a choice. Rose waited until I'd preceded her through the doorway. Then she closed the office door behind us and escorted me down the hallway.

“I can find my own way,” I said.

“No problem. I'll walk you to the elevator.”

No problem indeed. I felt like a prisoner being conducted out of a cell block. This level of surveillance within the company headquarters was curious, especially since Rose knew that March himself had sent me there. What was she afraid I might see?

With that in mind, I used the stroll down the corridor to have a good look around. The conference room was still empty. But the door to one of the offices we'd passed earlier was now ajar, revealing a big, beautifully appointed room complete with an oriental rug and a polished cherry-wood desk.

As we walked past the open doorway, I caught a brief glimpse of someone inside. A woman was standing with her back to the door, pulling books off a high shelf and loading them into a cardboard box. Immersed in her task, she didn't look around as we went by.

“Whose office is that?” I asked.

“It was Andrew March's.”

Rose's clipped tone was clearly meant to discourage further discussion. Which did nothing to stop me from speculating on my own. Rose reached out and pushed the elevator button. The doors slid open.

“Thank you for your time,” I said pertly as I walked inside. “You've been very helpful.”

I sincerely hoped
that
gave her second thoughts.

Quietly, the doors slipped shut between us. The elevator ride was brief. Just long enough for me to make a plan.

When the doors opened on the floor below, I remained inside and hugged the corner near the button panel. From David's vantage point, the elevator would appear empty. After a brief pause, the doors closed again. I pressed the button to go back up.

Returned to the second floor, I saw that luck was with me. Rose had disappeared. Hopefully, she'd gone back to her office. The corridor in front of me was now empty.

I scampered out of the elevator and made my way quickly down the hall. Silently, I slipped into Andrew's office and closed the door behind me. The woman inside glanced up at the sound of the small click. She was older than I'd thought at first, probably approaching retirement age. With her plump cheeks and kindly eyes, she looked like someone's favorite granny.

She wedged the books she was holding into an empty space at the top of the box and said, “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I replied. “My name is Melanie Travis. I'm a friend of Edward March's. He sent me here to ask some questions.”

“What about?”

“He wants to get reacquainted with his company.”

“As well he should, under the circumstances.” The woman leveled me a look. “I thought Walt McEvoy was in charge of that.”

“Mr. March is open to hearing other opinions, as well.”

“I can get Rose for you. She's Walt's assistant.”

“I've already spoken with Rose.”

The woman's gaze turned speculative. “You didn't get the answers you wanted?”

“No. Mostly, I just got the party line.”

“I can't say I'm surprised by that. I'm Bonnie Raye. Maybe I can help you. What kind of information are you looking for?”

I liked Bonnie. She looked like the kind of woman who would appreciate an honest approach.

“To put it bluntly,” I said, “I want the dirt.”

She nodded, waiting for me to continue.

“What's your position here?” I asked.

“Until very recently, I was Andrew March's assistant. He was the COO,” she added helpfully, in case I didn't know.

“And now?”

“Now it looks as though I've been made redundant. Demoted back downstairs to the bull pen, where I started twenty years ago, answering phones and taking orders. Apparently, the company's moving in a younger direction.”

“I'm very sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.” Bonnie studied me for a minute. “Maybe you could buy me a cup of coffee.”

“Sure. I'd be happy to.”

“Not here. There's a Starbucks just up the road. I could meet you there in, say, twenty minutes?”

“That sounds great. Are you sure you can get away?”

Bonnie chuckled as she slapped the carton shut and unspooled a roll of tape across the top. “I can get away, all right. What are they going to do if they don't like it? Fire me?”

 

Half an hour later, Bonnie and I were settled at a corner table. Mid-afternoon the Starbucks was mostly empty. Aside from the two of us, the only other occupants were a teenager, who was thoroughly engrossed in his laptop, and a ladies' tennis group from the nearby indoor facility.

Bonnie chose a caramel macchiato, and I had a mocha latte. Between the two beverages, we were probably about to consume an entire day's worth of calories. I took a sip, licked the foam off my upper lip, and decided it was worth it.

“First off,” said Bonnie, “how is Mr. March doing?”

“His health isn't great,” I told her. “I assume you know that.”

She nodded.

“And, of course, he's very upset about what happened to his son. He told me he's been going in to work a couple of times a week. You haven't seen him?”

“Seen him, sure.” Bonnie used her spoon to scoop up a drizzle of caramel. “Talked to him, no. His time is monopolized by the powers-that-be from the moment he gets out of his car.”

“But you were Andrew's assistant,” I said, puzzled by that revelation. “You must have been on top of everything that was happening prior to his death. March didn't want to meet with you?”

“As far as I can tell, no one's taken the time to stop and ask Mr. March what
he
wants. They've just channeled him in the direction they needed him to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I'm sure you can imagine, there's been a lot of upheaval at the headquarters recently. Maybe even what you might call a seismic shift. With Andrew out of the picture, that left a big hole at the top. Most of us, well . . . I guess we sat around and waited to see what would happen next.”

Bonnie stopped for a sip of coffee, and her gaze slid toward a tray of hazelnut tarts behind the glass-fronted counter. I'm not above using bribery to achieve my aims; I filed that thought away for future use.

“And the others?” I asked.

“The others were mainly Walt and Rose. The two of them saw an opening appear and
bam!
They were right on top of it. Not that Walt didn't deserve the promotion. He did—and I'm sure he'd have gotten it, anyway. But instead of waiting to find out what Mr. March's plans were, he just moved in and assumed control.”

“Maybe he thought someone had to,” I said.

“Or maybe he figured that the best way to rise to the top was to cut everybody else off at the knees. So no, I haven't spoken with Mr. March. Why else do you think I'm here?”

“Maybe because you like the hazelnut tarts?”

Bonnie chuckled and started to stand up. I pushed back my chair and beat her to it.

“It's on me. I'll be right back.”

“Better make it two,” said Bonnie. “They're not very big.”

I made it three, two for her and one for me, and tossed all thoughts of a nutritious diet out the window for the day. When both of us were chewing blissfully, I reopened the conversation.

“Rose seemed pretty dismissive of Andrew,” I said. “She referred to Walt as his baby-sitter.”

“That sounds like something she would say.”

“Is it the truth?”

“Not even close. Don't get me wrong. Andrew was no saint. He certainly had his faults. But when it came to March Homes, he'd worked his way up from the bottom, and he knew what he was doing. Not to say that all his decisions were the right ones. Andrew could be a little impetuous and maybe hotheaded at times. But he understood the business, inside and out.”

“Those impetuous decisions he made,” I said. “Could any of them have resulted in someone being angry enough to want to harm him?”

Bonnie finished the rest of her first tart before speaking again. Daintily, she licked the last of the sugar off her fingertips. Then she looked at me thoughtfully. “Are we off the record here, or what?”

“I'll do my best to keep anything you tell me confidential,” I told her. “And if that's not possible, you have my promise that I won't reveal where the information came from.”

“Fair enough,” said Bonnie. “How well do you know Edward March?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“Then you know he has a way with women.”

I laughed at that. “So I've heard. In fact, he's writing a book about it.”

Bonnie's eyes grew wide. “No!”

“I'm not kidding. Although he's put his literary ambitions on hold for the time being, until he gets the company sorted out.”

“I should hope so.” Bonnie snorted. “Writing a book, indeed. What is that old fool thinking?”

There was no way to answer that. I didn't even try.

“Back to Andrew,” said Bonnie. “The first thing you need to know is that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. He had quite an eye for the ladies himself. And not a lot of willpower. That could be a dangerous combination, if you know what I mean.”

“He got involved with someone at March Homes,” I guessed.

“More than once,” Bonnie confirmed. “It seemed like he thought of the bull pen as his own personal happy hunting ground. Usually, he didn't get in too much trouble. That boy had charm to spare when he needed it. But once or twice that kind of risky business came back and bit him in the butt.”

“How?” I asked. “Who are we talking about?”

Bonnie lowered her voice, even though there was no one within earshot. I leaned in closer across the small table to hear.

“Melissa McEvoy, for one.”

“As in
Walt McEvoy
?”

Bonnie nodded. “She's his wife. Now, let me be clear. This is past history I'm talking about. Three or four years, at least. That boy, I don't know what he was thinking. It's one thing to dip your pen in the company inkwell, but to go after another senior officer's wife? That's just way out of bounds.”

“Then what happened?”

“Somehow Walt found out. I don't even know how it all blew up, but when it did, it got ugly fast. Next thing, Andrew and Walt were threatening to come to blows in the conference room. A couple of the other guys had to pull them apart. And suddenly something that should have been a private matter had everybody in the whole building talking about it.”

“But they continued to work together?” I asked incredulously.

“Not easily. And not happily, either. Mr. March had to get himself back in the office and smooth things over personally. He told Walt he'd be foolish to throw away a career opportunity like the one he had here over something as meaningless as an affair.”

“That must have gone over well,” I said drily.

“Probably not, but it didn't matter. One way or another, Mr. March got the job done. Eventually, Andrew and Walt shook hands and made up. At least publicly, anyway.”

“And in private?”

“If I had to guess, I'd say that there are still some bitter feelings there and they've been festering for a long time.”

Amazing, I thought, that March hadn't deemed this fracas important enough to mention when he'd spoken so fondly of his son's handpicked successor.

“You said there'd been a couple of times.... What else?”

“George,” said Bonnie. “Has anyone told you about him?”

“No. Who is he?”

“George Weiner. He worked for March Homes for five years. Then he was passed over for a promotion, which he thought he should have gotten. He quit his job and sued.”

“For what?”

“Sexual discrimination.”

“Did he have a valid complaint?”

“George thought so.”

“Did anybody else?”

Bonnie smiled. “You mean, besides his lawyer?”

“It sounds like you weren't entirely convinced.”

“You got it.”

She picked up her second tart and bit into the flaky crust. It looked so good that I considered going back for seconds myself. Then I thought about the size of my pants versus that of my hips and asked another question instead.

“When did this take place?”

“George quit the company last fall. We got notice of the lawsuit right before Christmas. As far as I know, the legal department's still deciding which way to go with it. But Andrew was adamant. He wasn't going to settle under any circumstances. He wanted to take the case to court.”

That seemed like an unexpected position for him to take. Based on what I'd learned so far, Andrew's decision would have been directly opposed to company policy.

“Do you know why he felt that way?” I asked.

“He said the suit had no merit, and he was sure that a judge would agree.”

“What do you think?”

Bonnie's shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. George's claim is that Andrew favored women when it came time to make promotions—and that he especially favored women who were willing to trade sexual favors for advancement. George contended that, as a man and through no fault of his own, he had no possibility of fair treatment at March Homes.”