Kill the Competition (11 page)

"I have to go. Thank you again for... this." She held up the crumpled bag, then turned and fled.

Chapter 8

"I've got one," Carole said from the backseat. "DO be concerned when he wants to talk."

"Good one," Libby said, then brushed doughnut sugar off the legal pad before scribbling down the line.

"I have a feeling this DO comes with a story," Rosemary said with a sigh.

Belinda hoped so—conversation took the pressure off her to come up with a "rule" to contribute to the manuscript. Concentrating on the rabid morning traffic was taxing enough, although the upshot of driving a car with a few dents was that other commuters assumed you were a bad driver and gave you breathing room.

"It's Gustav," Carole said. "He's trying to talk me into sleeping with him."

"Too much information," Rosemary said, waving her hands.

Libby turned around. "Good gravy, I figured you'd already slept with him—his feet are the size of breadboxes."

Carole sucked at her braces. "I've seen him in the shower—that whole feet-penis size thing is a total myth."

"Really?" Libby asked. "How about hands? I always heard a man's hands were a good indication of the size of his manhood."

"I heard thumbs," Carole added.

Rosemary coughed. "I always regarded a man's nose as a good indication."

They all stared.

"Miss Priss speaks," Libby said. "See, Rosemary, I knew you'd be able to contribute to this book."

Rosemary glared. "Don't you dare write that down."

Belinda caught Carole's eye in the rearview mirror. "I thought that consummating the relationship was required for a green card."

Carole shrugged. "We've developed a system to keep our lies straight. And we put on a good show—share the same bed and same bathroom. The INS people ask you all kinds of personal information."

Libby licked glaze off her thumb. "Aren't you physically attracted to Gustav?"

"He's okay, I guess."

"So, how do you all share a bed and not fool around?"

"We put one of those full-body pillows between us," Carole said matter-of-factly. "You know, the pillows for women who sleep alone."

Belinda opened her mouth to ask where she could buy one.

Rosemary scoffed. "Another example of society trying to convince women that their beds should never be empty."

Belinda changed her mind.

Libby clicked the end of her ink pen. "Carole, what was that you said about keeping your lies straight?"

"I said we've developed a system."

"That's it." Libby wrote furiously. "Another good one. 'DO develop a system for keeping your lies straight.'"

"There's no room in relationships for lies," Rosemary declared.

Libby harrumphed. "Are you kidding? Lies are the glue that holds relationships together. We lie to our spouses, to our kids, to our ministers, and to ourselves. It keeps the peace. What do you think, Belinda?"

She thought the conversation was cutting a little close to the bone, that's what she thought. She'd spent a sleepless night with her one skimpy pillow thinking about the fibs she'd told since arriving in Atlanta—about Vince, about Payton Manufacturing. "I suppose avoiding the truth is okay as long as no one gets hurt."

Rosemary winced and shifted the lumbar cushion at her back. Perhaps that explained her surly mood. "Someone always gets hurt, even if you aren't aware. You should always be honest, because sooner or later, your past will catch up with you."

Libby raised her eyebrows. "Okay, to balance out the DO about lying, I'll add a DO about being honest. Happy?"

"Not today," Rosemary murmured.

Libby shot a quizzical look at Belinda, then set aside the pad to work on her hair. "So, Carole, are you going to nail Gustav or not?"

"I'm going to talk to my psychic about it."

"Christ, I'm out of this conversation," Rosemary said, twisting lower in the seat.

Carole shot a frown at the older woman, then stuck her head between the front seats. "The truth is, Gustav just isn't my type."

"Now there's a question," Libby said, unrolling her curlers. "Why does everyone believe they have a 'type'?"

"I don't know if it's so much a type, as it is holding out for that connection that you feel when you find Mr. Right." Carole sighed. "You know what I'm talking about?"

"No," Libby said flatly. "I don't have a type, and the only man I ever felt connected to is the doorman at Bloomingdale's. How about you, Belinda? Do you have a type?"

"Tall, dark, and uniformed," Carole teased. "I think that cop has a thing for you."

Belinda rolled her eyes. "I told you he came by yesterday only to return something I left in his car."

"He could have mailed it."

"It was... personal. But unimportant," she added. Belinda chewed on her thumbnail, rethinking her decision not to tell the girls about the "other" man at the risk of bringing up the sensitive subject of their coworker. She was suddenly overcome by the unfamiliar urge to share. "By the way, yesterday at the food court I ran into a guy named Julian Hardeman. Do you know him?"

Libby's eyes were shrouded with banana curls, but she shook her head. "Carole?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Is he cute?"

Belinda squirmed. "I suppose so." Panic blipped that she'd be barraged with girly questions she wouldn't know how to answer, so she blurted, "He said he knew Jeanie Lawford."

They were silent for a few seconds, then Carole murmured, "I believe she was seeing someone, but Jeanie was so closemouthed about everything, I couldn't be sure."

"Closemouthed?" Libby snorted. "Try paranoid."

"Yeah, she was a little weird about her privacy and security stuff. Always locking things up and looking over her shoulder."

"Was she afraid of something? Is that why she took the self-defense class?" Belinda asked.

Libby shrugged. "Not that I know of."

"If you ask me," Carole said, "she was a little loopy there toward the end."

"She did seem preoccupied," Libby muttered behind a wall of hair. "But I chalked it up to getting a lot dumped into her lap when Jim Newberry was let go."

"How long did Jeanie work for Archer?"

Libby peeked through her hair and squinted. "Eight months?"

"Sounds right," Carole said.

"And what did she do?"

"Computer nerd," Libby said. "She came in as manager of the technology group. When Jim left, Jeanie was promoted to chief information officer."

Belinda mulled the similarities between herself and Jeanie—both had worked for Archer for a short period of time and both had benefited from someone else's misfortune. If she were the superstitious type, she might be... concerned.

"How did the accident happen?"

Libby shrugged. "Nobody knows. That elevator had been acting up, stopping on floors with the car a couple of feet too high or too low. It was a big joke around the office, people saying who they did and didn't want to get stuck on the elevator with."

"A few people were stuck once, weren't they?" Carole asked.

Libby nodded. "Jeanie was in that group, with Martin Derlinger and Clancy."

Carole made a face. "Yuck and yuckier."

"I think Clancy's nice," Belinda said with a laugh.

"He and Carole have mail control issues," Libby said out of the side of her mouth.

"Clancy's issues are way deeper than my mail bag," Carol insisted. "I walked into his cube last week and he was looking at porn on his computer screen."

Libby gasped. "Gay porn?"

"He zapped it before I could get a good look."

"Margo would have his head—she's the only person allowed to download porn at work."

The girls laughed, and Belinda joined in halfheartedly, once again torn by the desire to blend with her coworkers, and loyalty toward Margo. Maybe the woman wasn't a candidate for boss of the year, but she hadn't reached the position of chief operations officer by waging a popularity contest.

Libby sighed. "That reminds me. Performance evaluations start Friday."

"Oh, God," Carole said. "Already?"

Libby turned her head. "Margo was going to wait until she got back from Hawaii, but since her trip was postponed, she decided to do them now."

"Let the sucking up begin," Rosemary offered from the back.

"Have you rejoined the conversation?" Carole asked dryly.

"Does Margo have final approval on everyone's evaluation?" Belinda asked to divert an argument.

Rosemary nodded. "Juneau used to. But he handed that responsibility over to Margo as well."

"She's in her glory when she's putting people down," Carole said. "I dread it."

"Me, too," Libby said. "A performance evaluation with Margo is a one-hour spanking." She twisted her mouth to mimic the woman. "You make
too
many phone calls, you take lunch
every
day, and you wear too much
pink."

Belinda laughed.

"I'm not exaggerating—I got cited for pink last year."

"Me, too," Carole said.

Belinda stopped laughing, incredulous.

"You want to kill her," Libby said. "But you sit there and take it because you know you have to."

"One of these days," Rosemary said, "Margo's going to go too far."

"Yeah, why couldn't she have been the one to fall down the elevator shaft?" Carole asked.

"Right."

"You said it."

Belinda swallowed at the vicious turn of the conversation. A little resentment toward one's boss was one thing, but to want her dead?
Yilk.

Her dismay must have shown, because Libby laughed. "Talk to me after your crucifixion." Then she angled her head. "Unless you're expecting a big raise?"

Belinda's pulse picked up, but she affected a careless smile. "I'd just like to be able to buy a new couch and television."

"They're offering the sofa beds that Payton sent over to employees at a discount," Rosemary said. "I've got my eye on that nice brown plaid sleeper. If you're interested, talk to Clancy."

"Thanks, I'll look into it."

"If
you get a big raise?" Carole asked with a smile.

Belinda conjured up a mild shrug. "No matter what, sooner or later I'm going to have to buy a couch. My mother is threatening to ship my aunt's seventies sofa that's sitting in my parents' garage."

"I need a raise for more dental work," Carole said, running her finger over her braces. "But I doubt if I get one, not in this economy."

"Well, I'd better get a good raise," Libby said. "Because it's the only way I'm going to get Glen off my back about my credit cards."

Belinda was distracted from Libby's grim expression by an Atlanta PD cruiser passing her Civic in the left lane. Strangely, her pulse quickened until she determined the occupant wasn't Lieutenant Alexander. She pressed her shoulders back, irritated with herself. Her skin still prickled with embarrassment when she imagined the moment he had pulled her hoaky little pillow from beneath the seat of his cruiser. So not only did he know her marriage hadn't broken any longevity records but he also probably thought she was clinging to the past. That pillow would have been long gone if not for her guilt over the hours her Aunt Edie had spent making those tiny stitches. And as far as other mementos of her relationship with Vince—well, she'd left Cincinnati so abruptly that it had seemed easier to pack everything to sort later.

She bit into her lip, reminding herself she shouldn't care what Lt. Alexander thought of her. Or what he thought of Julian Hardeman, for that matter. The tension she'd sensed between the two men could probably be traced back to some classic scenario of the press and the cops being on opposite sides of a story.

Fortunately, the telltale intro to a radio traffic report halted her train of thought.

"Traffic is movin' fine on the Top End and all around The Perimeter. Once you pass Spaghetti Junction, you're lookin' at a speed limit ride to the connector and into downtown. But you folks headin' into the city on I-20, you're in stop-and-go traffic because of a burst water main around the Villa Rica exit. Roll down your window and get those tempers cooled off when you drive by, you hear? This is Talkin' Tom Trainer for MIXX 100 FM traffic."