Scene Stealer (3 page)

I confess. I misrepresented myself in order to obtain an interview with Robert Barton, the sponsor of the Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger commercials. He had been interviewed on
Good Morning America
and was obviously a publicity hound; why not play upon his desire to bask in the spotlight?

Before my retirement,
Scholastic Magazine
had published several articles I had penned and I rationalized my deception with the thought that I was not lying, merely fudging the truth a bit when I flashed my laminated library card at Barton's secretary and she mistakenly accepted it as a press credential.

I crossed a plain of gold-colored carpet, my oxfords sinking into the deep, plush pile that covered the vast expanse that led from the burnished mahogany door to Barton's huge semicircular glass-topped desk. He perused a sheet of paper, head down, eyes scanning the sheet. My presence went unacknowledged.

I used his pretense to glance at the studies of cartoon characters grouped on one wall. Kevin's picture, dressed as Cowboy Bob, was in center place. On the left was a sketch of the dancing French fries executing a hoedown. On the right, a framed drawing of Frederick the Fresh Fish, blowing bubbles. Another sketch, as yet unmounted, rested against a corner of the desk—a trio of luscious brownies dressed in cowgirl outfits. Photographs of the sponsor with celebrities and political personalities, including New York's mayor and both senators, filled in the rest of the wall. I reached the desk and cleared my throat.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hello! I'm Robert Barton.” Springing to his feet, he circled to the front of his desk, extended his hand and pumped mine with unwarranted enthusiasm. The same smirk he had worn during the television interview flashed across his face for an instant, to be replaced by open-mouthed recognition.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

“My word! Little Bertie Barton!”

We stared at each other in disbelief. I was the first to recover.

“Well, Bertram, you certainly have made something of yourself.”

“I'm sure you can take some credit for that, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Most gracious of you, Bertram.”

Silence. We eyed each other; insincere grins stretched our mouths into something similar to those carved on pumpkins. I mentally totted up the years that had passed since his elementary school graduation.

The scent of expensive aftershave perfumed the office air. The scent triggered memories of Bertram as an impeccably clean, well-groomed child; a sign of the man to come. His thick, dark brown hair was now touched with silver at the temples, but his complexion, smooth and clear, appeared untouched by time. He wore a fine, custom tailored suit and a conservative, red-and-blue striped tie. The tie was decorated with a whimsical gold stickpin shaped like a dancing French fry. Bertram had grown taller than I would have expected—unless he was wearing elevator shoes. He certainly wasn't the roughneck I had seen with Kevin.

I was a trifle disconcerted. Bertram never paid proper attention in class but managed to achieve the highest marks in tests. Though his grades were consistent, I had sensed something lacking in the youngster. He was a mental butterfly touching lightly on every subject before flitting off. I never found any definitive proof but I had thought of him as a sly-boots who would not be averse to cheating.

“Please, Miss Weidenmaier, have a seat. I've thought of you often. School days, school days, dear old golden rule days. You're a writer now, Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Freelance, Bertram. Newspapers. Magazines. Something to occupy my idle hours. If I may ask you a few questions?”

He walked to a bar stocked with sodas of every flavor and chose a diet cola, popped the tab and drank from the can while eyeing me over its rim. “May I offer you a soft drink?”

“No, thank you, Bertram.”

“The name is Robert now, Miss Weidenmaier.” His manicured hands smoothed his perfectly styled hair. “What a shame, if you had bothered to call ahead, one of my assistants would have set up an interview at a more convenient time.” He made quite a show out of checking his watch. “I do have five minutes before my next scheduled appointment.”

Bertram, now Robert, opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a printed fact sheet. “You know, of course, about my early education. This should fill you in on my business background. What else would you like to know?”

I glanced at the biographical profile. It listed his higher education, accomplishments in the fast-food field and the names of several prestigious charities with which he was associated.

“Most impressive. But I would appreciate a different slant, Bertram. Uhh…mm…Robert.” His new name did not fit the boy I once knew.

“Slant, Miss Weidenmaier?” He smiled an ever-wider smile; the boy surely had more than the requisite number of teeth. Was that a glimmer of amusement I saw in Bertram's eyes? If so, I intended to ignore it.

“What about your relationship with Kevin Corcoran? Kevin is your Cowboy Bob, you must certainly be concerned. Have you received a ransom note or a telephone call? Any word from Kevin's kidnapper? Do you have any idea who or why anyone would execute such a dastardly deed?”

“Are you a crime writer, Miss Weidenmaier? Shouldn't a retired school-marm write poetry and paint watercolors?” Barton wasn't amused anymore.

“We never know where fate will lead us. Who would have thought little Bertie Barton would grow up to be Robert Barton? Now, young man, have you heard from Kevin's kidnapper?”

“Not a word, Miss Weidenmaier,” he said. “A terrible thing to happen to the youngster. Terrible. Upsetting. Kevin is like a son to me.” Concern passed his lips but never reached his eyes. He pressed a button on his desk. “We are cooperating with the police, of course and…”

His secretary opened the door then knocked.

“Your staff is here, sir. Time for your meeting.”

“Ahh, yes. Of course. Come in, gentlemen.” Bertram ushered me to the door as a group of men identically dressed in dark blue, pinstriped suits filed in.

“Thank you for dropping by, Miss Weidenmaier. A pleasure to see you again.” He pressed something into my hand. “Please, be my guest.”

I found myself standing outside the door holding a glossy booklet of coupons. They entitled me to a free burger, fries, shake and a Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Brownie Bonanza at any of Cowboy Bob's fast-food restaurants.

Bertram's voice carried through the door; modern skyscrapers do not offer privacy. I could hear him issuing orders to his subordinates.

“All right, boys, it's time to move,” he said, sounding more like the sly child I remembered. “Number one. The kid's disappearance is great publicity. Let's get the lead out and use it to the max. Number two. Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are making their debut today and they're going to push our chain from the number two spot in the fast-food market to number one. Got me? Cousin Cora's Cakewalks have met their match. We have the dessert no one can resist. Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Brownie Bonanzas are selling out in every test market. The reaction has been phenomenal and that's before advertising. Now I want to see the city blanketed with flyers and coupons. The new commercial will be on all the major networks and the Sunday papers will be carrying full-page ads. I have fifteen delectable models coming in and starting today, they'll be handing out samples on every street corner. No more first place for Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps. Her chickens are going to lay one big egg.”

My word! Where had Bertram learned all those unfortunate expressions? He certainly did not learn them in my class. He harbored a good deal of ill will toward Cousin Cora, a string of restaurants that specialized in chicken. I decided to add someone from Cousin Cora to my list of people to be interviewed. Little Bertie had never been a good loser—was he capable of being the brains behind a plot to kidnap Kevin? The publicity generated could create enough new business to move his burger to the top of the fast-food market.

Bertram's secretary, an attractive but lacquered woman, cradled her telephone between ear and chin. The woman's officious manner with the party on the other end of the line suggested a misguided sense of her own importance.

“Next week, Mr. Barton wishes to audition all-American, apple-pie type girls. Kids who can learn lines fast and no one over ten. Got that? Mr. Barton insists. Think young. Understand?”

She listened for a moment. “I don't question Mr. Barton. Maybe he just wants to add a new face. Maybe he thinks the Corcoran kid is never coming back. Maybe he just likes to audition. Me, I don't ask. I just do my job and I suggest you do the same. Call me back or fax me a list of the girls you're sending over.”

Bertram's secretary eyed me and abruptly ended the phone conversation. “Anything I can do for you? The bank of elevators is to your right.”

“Yes, dear. I know.” I smiled sweetly, though with some difficulty, at the woman and adjusted my jacket and hat at as slow a pace as I could manage. “I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Is Mr. Barton auditioning for a child to replace Kevin Corcoran?”

“Oh, Mr. Barton is known for his auditions. Holds general auditions every couple of months, likes to give new talent a break. Excuse me, I have a lot of letters to type.” She swiveled her chair toward the desktop computer then back toward me. “Can I help you with something?”

“May I, dear.” I could not resist correcting the woman. “
Can
means ‘am able.' Do not confuse the word as a substitute for
may.
I would suggest the purchase of a book titled
The Elements of Style.
An invaluable purchase for a person in your position.”

“Yeah? Yes.” She looked confused. “I'll do that.”

A giggling band of extremely attractive, wholesome-looking girls costumed in mini-skirts, leather boots and Stetson hats stepped off the elevator and entered the reception area. Not one looked over fifteen. All were bright-eyed, clear-skinned and filled to the brim with youthful energy.

Bertram's secretary called his office. “Mr. Barton, the models are here to hand out the flyers, shall I bring them in?” The answer was affirmative, she escorted them into his office.

I pressed the elevator button, and then almost missed it when it finally arrived; my thoughts were so focused on Barton. Was he preparing to replace Kevin? If the man was having auditions to replace the boy this soon, he must know something. Although Bertram bore no resemblance to the rough, uncouth fellow I had seen on the train with Kevin, he might have hired a thug to carry out his dirty work. Could he be the mastermind behind a devious plot? I believed, but had never proved, that Bertram encouraged other children to do mischief. I had once caught him selling cans of spray paint to his classmates. Soon after, mustaches appeared on the school mural of Clara Barton, Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale. If Bertie Barton was the instigator of that desecration, could he, as an adult, have engineered the kidnapping? The man was a suspect, a definite suspect in my mind.

I glanced at my watch; the library would be open until 9:00 tonight, enough time for research. Cousin Cora's fast-food restaurants would be first on my list, but I would study anything that had a possible connection to Kevin Corcoran.

I managed to schedule an interview with Felicity Silk, the director of Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps, for 12:00 noon the following day, and decided to have an early lunch at a nearby restaurant in the chain. Much as I disliked the restaurant (I had found the food inedible when I lunched with a friend who swore by the menu), it was convenient, and added to my research. As I entered Cousin Cora's I noticed, not for the first time, that they all looked alike. Chintz curtains bordered picture windows, and artificial philodendron, planted in copper pots, descended from beamed oak ceilings. Chubby, plush bears, dressed in frilly pinafores sat on shelves next to carved wood trains and pseudo-antique bric-a-brac. Embroidered proverbs and maxims were framed and displayed on the floral papered walls. Children's games like tic-tac-toe and connect the dots were printed on paper placemats placed on oak laminate tables.

The public image of Cousin Cora's chain of family-style restaurants was warm and motherly. The restaurant's motto, Chicken for the Pickin, invited patrons to use their fingers; no utensils were offered, you had to ask for them. Social conventions had certainly changed since I was a girl. Books of etiquette are rarely seen on
The New York Time
s bestseller list these days.

Cheerful senior citizens, exuding warmth and good nature, serviced the restaurants. Tendrils of gray peeped from poke bonnets worn by counter ladies dressed in gingham skirts and crisply starched white blouses. The “boys” who cleared the tables and mopped spills were retirees with too much time on, and not enough money in, their hands.

The restaurant chain was as well known in Western Europe as the United States. A Cousin Cora's had recently opened in London. Le Poulet de Cousine Cora would soon make its Parisian debut, and
Forbes
magazine hinted at negotiations with up-and-coming Russian capitalists.

One of the “boys” carried my tray to a small booth near the front of the restaurant. “Help yourself to the salad,” he said. “A green a day keeps the doctor away.”

I tried not to wince.

Every Cousin Cora's featured a salad bar placed in the exact center of the room. The bar was constantly refilled with vegetables and fruit so fresh-looking they appeared waxed. Tasted that way too. The Chicken Crisps were all crisp and not enough chicken. Poor scrawny birds. I picked up my requested plastic knife and fork and tried, without success, to cut a piece of the chicken; the result was mutilation. Cousin Cora's food except for the brownies, named Cakewalks, which I enjoyed, had an artificial taste. My taste buds were in the minority; Cousin Cora's restaurants were busy from breakfast through closing. The company was accorded a number-one rating by
Barron's
business magazine, but in an ugly competition for top spot in the fast-food market, Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger was snapping at Cousin Cora's tail feathers. If Cousin Cora thought Cowboy Bob would push her out of first place, the woman might be desperate enough to resort to criminal exploits.

I studied the box in which the food was placed. The box bore the image of a stout, apple-cheeked, elderly woman holding a tray of chicken and Cakewalks, and a large pitcher of iced tea. The containers could be found, discarded, in trash baskets all over the world.

In the course of researching the company, I had learned there was in fact no Cousin Cora. The face, used in photographs reproduced on the bags and boxes, belonged to the deceased grandmother of the chief executive officer of the conglomerate that included the fast-food chain among its diversified holdings. In addition to Cousin Cora's, the conglomerate owned a group of low-priced department stores, rental cars, toy shops, a cable television shopping network, romance magazines, chewy vitamins for tots and gourmet dog food.

 

There was just enough time to enjoy my Cakewalk and a cup of tea before meeting with Felicity Silk. I bit into the rich chocolate then studied the advertisement I had found in the business section of
The New York Times.
The ad placed by Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps sought franchisees who were highly motivated. In return, Cousin Cora promised training, support and prime unit locations. When I spoke with Silk's secretary I posed as a wealthy spinster seeking a sound investment; interested in a franchise but returning home to Florida the following day to take care of another company. A meeting with Miss Silk, at a suitable time, was arranged to accommodate me.

There was very little written about Felicity Silk. The information I did find stated that she was young—early thirties—and had moved up the corporate ladder with quick, sure steps. There was no information available regarding her personal life and the only photograph I could find, after hours of research in the Central Library, appeared in a society column. A picture of her at a charity dinner with, of all people, little Bertie Barton. The camera caught them nibbling canapés and gazing fondly at each other, apparently unaware of the photographer.

 

Five minutes and a short walk after my lunch brought me to Cousin Cora's building; their offices were located in a modern glass-and-steel structure composed of something resembling horizontal blocks of blue ice-cubes, laxative bottle blue. The blocks stretched skyward as though seeking to chill the sun. If this was the architect's purpose, he succeeded. Pedestrians walking past the building never saw the brightness of day. The building's reflections of similar looming towers were distorted and disturbing; they made me long for the comfort of a second cup of tea.

The elevators were caskets encased in glass. One look at the visible motors, platforms and cables being raised and lowered in their vertical shafts and my legs became as wobbly as a bowl of warm Jell-O. I reached the open door and stopped, unable for a moment to continue. Felicity Silk's office was on the 55th floor.

“Lady? Are you going up?” A group of passengers had bunched up in back of me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled and managed to force my unwilling feet into the glass receptacle.

“Fifty-five, please. Would someone press fifty-five for me?” Could my fellow riders detect the note of panic in my voice?

“That's my floor too. The button's been pressed.”

I reluctantly shifted my gaze from the back of a herringbone jacket to a petite brunette.

“That's my floor too,” the brunette repeated. “High isn't it?” Chirps of nervous laughter made her sound like a cricket. The elevator stopped at the 33rd floor. Our companions exited. The young lady and I were the only ones left in the car.

I closed my eyes, not daring to look down, trying to think of anything but the distance between our enclosure and the ground below. I failed miserably.

“Heights terrify me,” the brunette said. “I even took Dramamine this morning. It was the first time I came up this high, and now I've lost the bottle. Usually I've got my act together, never lose anything. Can you believe, my first day on the job and I lost the Dramamine, then a library book? It's this elevator. I hate this elevator but I better get used to it now that I've been promoted and I'm working on fifty-five instead of ten.”

“You must work for Cousin Cora,” I said. I opened my eyes and quickly regretted the act.

“Close enough. I'm Felicity Silk's new secretary. Do you work for the company?”

The door to the rear of the car opened. My companion stepped onto a steel-blue carpet and checked her watch. I followed. My legs regained some muscle tone and I walked toward the reception desk and gave my name.

“Cissy!” the receptionist called after the young lady. Cissy backtracked.

“Cissy, this is Miss Weidenmaier. She has an appointment with Miss Silk about a franchise.”

“Hello again, Miss Weidenmaier. I'm Cissy Love. Please follow me.”

We walked past a series of cubicles furnished with computer work centers. There were no doors, windows or privacy. Except for family photographs, an occasional potted plant and small vases of flowers, the stalls were interchangeable. The sterile surroundings did not make any contribution toward warmth or stimulation; however, as I passed the embrasures I could hear snippets of whispered but excited conversation. All the talk seemed to involve recipes. A contest sponsored by the company, to find a new dessert. Words like
apple, raisin, vanilla, sugar, lemon, custard, icing
and—the most popular word of all—
chocolate,
floated through the corridors leading to Felicity Silk's office.

“Hi, Cissy.” A short, fat girl stepped into our path. “How are you making out with the icicle? Think you'll last the week?”

Cissy rolled her eyes. We kept walking.

“There's a big turnover in secretaries for Miss Silk,” Cissy explained. “The last secretary was out the door so fast I began the job this morning and didn't receive any training.”

“Wasn't the woman given notice?”

“No. The rumors are flying. If even half of them are true…Wow! Here we are.”

“Thank God, you're back, Cissy.” A frazzled-looking woman snatched her purse from beneath the desk, stood up quickly and prepared to leave. “This is a hell of a job for a temp. I disconnected Miss Silk twice. Now I must have pressed the wrong button again, everyone can hear as well as see her.” She waved her hand at Silk's office. “Listen. She's tearing that guy apart.”

The temp had pressed the conference call button. Anyone standing in front of Cissy's desk could hear Felicity berate the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line.

“Get that crummy rag to issue a retraction,” Silk said. “Cousin Cora pays you big bucks to keep her name out of cheap supermarket tabloids. If you can't handle the job we can take our business to another public relations company.”

Felicity Silk's voice, in my opinion, assaulted the ear like the high-pitched ping of a spoon striking a bottle of mineral water.

I heard the man try to defend himself. Felicity overrode his interruption. “Quiet! When I'm talking, you just listen. Do we understand each other? Good. Send me a copy of the retraction.”

There was a pause.

“I'll take care of it,” the man said.

“I'm sure you will.” The call ended.

“I don't dare push anything else,” the temp said. “I'm lucky it's my last day. You better take over, Cissy. I'm going to hide.”

The smile Cissy gave me was a bit tentative. “Good luck. I'll tell Miss Silk you're here.”

Once I was ushered in, Miss Silk's index finger indicated a chair. I sat while she closed the drapes, according us privacy denied her staff.

“Miss Weidenmaier, how nice to meet you.” Silk, a tall, antenna-thin, silver-blonde woman who exuded authority, turned on a professional smile. The hand she offered was as cold and smooth as the enveloping glass.

Her eyes inventoried my good tweed suit, the leather handbag (a gift from the graduation class of '99) and the sturdy Rockport shoes (bought off-season and on-sale).

“I understand you are interested in a Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps franchise.”

“I have questions.” I took an immediate dislike to the woman. Unfair of me, I suppose.

“Of course.” There was that professional smile again. “We would certainly be willing to consider you for one of our prime locations in Florida.” She nodded, satisfied. “How does Boca Raton sound to you? Yes. Boca Raton might be suitable. Now shall we discuss your background? Relative experience?” Her long, tapered fingers, nails clipped straight across at the tips and polished with an iridescent pearl lacquer, played with a letter opener.

“Competition in the marketplace,” I said. “I would like to discuss competition in the marketplace.”

“We have no competition,” Felicity Silk said. “Cousin Cora is number one. Cousin Cora exercises strict control over her franchises and her franchisees.”

“Before I invest my money, Miss Silk, I need a few answers.”

“If you invest your money,” Felicity countered. “Cousin Cora is most particular about the people who run her units. She does not grant a license to just anyone, in fact Miss Weidenmaier, my ex-secretary should never have scheduled an interview before your background had been thoroughly checked.”

“I'm sure you'll find my credentials satisfactory. Now about the competition? For instance, I understand Kevin Corcoran's commercials for Cowboy Bob's Big, Bad Burger made the stock price of the company rise to new heights.”

“Their value hasn't caught up with ours,” Felicity Silk said. “Cowboy Bob doesn't appeal to the same market. We cater to families by serving wholesome all-American meals. Big, Bad Burgers are nothing but junk food.”

“Still, I hardly think someone would kidnap the poor child because they disapproved of Cowboy Bob's hamburgers. Who would do such a thing?”

“I doubt the child's been kidnapped, Miss Weidenmaier. It's a fake, like Cowboy Bob's greasy burgers. Robert Barton is capable of pulling any kind of stunt to get publicity. It wouldn't surprise me to hear he's engineered the whole scummy business. Under that smooth veneer, Barton is pure unadulterated sleaze.” Felicity Silk stopped, suddenly aware of her outburst. Flustered, she poured herself a glass of ice water, took several sips and regained her composure.

“Now, Miss Weidenmaier, we are going to discuss you and what you can contribute to Cousin Cora's image.”

The intercom buzzed: a harsh sound like that of an insect trapped in a Mason jar.

“Yes,” Felicity said in response, stabbing at the button.

“The print-out is here, Miss Silk.”

“About time. Bring it in.” She turned toward me. “New secretary. A bore to train them. One is more inept than another.”

Cissy brought the sheets in, and escaped. Felicity studied the sheets. “Who are you? One of Barton's bargain basement spies?”

“I'm here to investigate a franchise.”

“You are a retired schoolteacher with a limited income. You can barely afford to buy a soda to go with your crisps. No way could you afford the fee and start-up costs for one of our units.”