Takeover (13 page)

Today, I helped Mr. Waite plan a strategy for dealing with my brother’s company. Apparently, there’s some dissention over at Benson, Quaid & McFadden over the restructuring that’s just taken place. Irene Jones was confirmed as the CEO, but a few of the higher ups quit and their stock price isn’t getting the bump that we’ve gotten.

The reason I’m so certain about the level of discord over there is that I just received a phone call from Mark, promising me a better job at his company if I can convince my boss to just let the company go back to the way it was. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him that my boss doesn’t have anything to do with their company anymore. It’s when he makes his offer again and I tell him my present salary, he calls me a bitch and hangs up. I guess that means they’re stuck. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t get a bit of a thrill making life a bit more difficult for that particular sibling of mine.

There are about fifteen minutes before my shift is over, and I’m already out of work to do. For the very first time, I feel comfortable taking my final few minutes to catch up on some knitting.

I’m about four rows in my newest scarf when Mr. Fyurek, the board member who was cuckolded by my former boss, approaches my desk.

“How are you doing today, sweetheart?” he asks, his eyes full of what I can only assume is wishful thinking. I can’t imagine the man could make a dent without a handful of blue pills in his system.

“Doing fine, Mr. Fyurek,” I respond. “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you had that new proposal for the deal with Sheath-Burton. I missed the meeting this afternoon, and I really need to get my signature on it before I head home for the day.”

“I’m sure it could wait until tomorrow,” I say, “but I’ll pull that out for you.”

As I’m going through the stack of papers on my desk, Mr. Fyurek decides to fill the void with conversation. “I’m sure it’d be fine,” he says, “but I want to make sure that I’m kept in the loop on this one. We’re in a pretty volatile position at the moment, and I don’t want anyone to forget that I was a big part of pulling our testicles out of the fire.”

Now that’s lovely. I find the paper and set it in front of him. “Here you go,” I say. “It looks like it’s a good thing that you came by when you did after all. This is set to go out tonight.”

“Perfect,” he says and pulls out a maroon fountain-tip pen.

I love fountain pens, but they’re usually either way too expensive or way too cheap. By cheap, I mean poorly made and have a tendency to explode ink over important documents. That happened with my last fountain pen, and Mr. McDaniel nearly had my head for it.

This one looks expensive though, and if I play my cards right, I might be able to swindle Mr. Fyurek out of it. “When you’re done with that pen, would you mind if I take a look at it?”

He looks up at me with evidence of the wrong impression in his eyes. “Sweetheart, after I finish signing this, I’ll let you take a look at anything you want.”

I chuckle. To be honest, Mr. Fyurek’s flirting and occasional offensive remark is a breath of fresh air after working for Mr. McDaniel. “I think the pen will suffice.”

He finishes signing his name to the document off in the margin where it’s sure to be noticed. “Here you go, sweetheart,” he says, handing me the pen.

The pen is beautiful. It looks like there was writing on it at some point, but it’s long worn off, leaving only the lovely maroon underneath. “May I?” I ask, holding the pen over the top page in a stack of the stationery that still has Mr. McDaniel’s name on it. Fyurek nods, and I use a light touch, letting the pen do the real work, and it’s so smooth it gives me a bit of a chill. Okay, I’m a dork, but I love this pen. The thing is in perfect form.

“Where did you get it?” I ask.

“Fundraiser,” he says, “a few years ago. Twenty-five hundred dollars per plate and all that they gave us was a pen—well, that and dinner.”

“I see,” I say.

“Trust me,” he says. “It’s not worth twenty-five hundred.”

“Who all went to this fundraiser?” I ask. On the off-chance that he doesn’t just give me the thing, I want to at least weasel some more time with it.

“Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I couldn’t possibly remember. It was so long ago. I do remember that Rory was there, but that’s just because he got roaring drunk and called our waitress a whore.”

That’s my old boss.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say. “I just thought it looked pretty.” Here we go. He’s either going to offer me the pen or not. This is the moment of truth, and I definitely need to find myself a hobby.

He smiles at me, making no effort to hide the fact that he’s looking at this as an opportunity to get into Penthouse Forum. “Well, how about you keep it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I say, handing the pen back to him and thereby sealing the deal.

“Please,” he responds, holding the pen out to me. “The only memory this pen holds is that I paid twenty-five hundred dollars for a plate of undercooked sea bass.”

I smile and take the pen from him. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s been a long time since I was given such a pleasant gift.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says. “You do great work around here, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’ve always considered you an asset to our company.” It almost sounds like a genuine compliment, but the wink he’s giving me now effectively shoots down that theory.

He walks away, and I look over the pen. It’s so finely crafted. The nib is exposed, so I go to pull the cap off of the back, but it’s screwed on. The cap now unscrewed, I replace it over the nib and set it on my desk.

The door behind me opens, and Mr. Waite asks, “Are you still here, Miss Pearson?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” he says, waving me off. “I think we’re about done here for the day. I just have that meeting with your brother this evening, so unless there are any more suggestions that you have in regard to dealing with him, I think you can head on home.”

“All right,” I say, brandishing my new pen. “Look at what Mr. Fyurek gave me.”

“Wow,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s surprised or just really unimpressed. “That’s one of the pens from the fundraiser for ALS a couple of years back, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. He said it was for a fundraiser, but he didn’t say what it was for.”

“That’s the one,” he responds, tapping the door. “I got one too. You’d think for as much money as they were charging for each plate that they would have bothered to cook the sea bass properly.”

I chuckle nervously. I’m out of my mind on this one, I know it, but I can’t seem to help myself. “So, I’m assuming that you got one of these too.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Damn thing broke though. To be honest, I think they’re pretty cheaply made.” He holds up his hands, and the bandage catches my eye. “I don’t mean to impugn your gift,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” I say. “You can probably remove that bandage. I’m sure your cut has healed by now.” I tap the pen against my bottom lip, and I can’t stop staring at that bandage. “How did you break yours?”

He cocks his head at me. “Why?”

“I just want to make sure that I’m not going to do the same thing with this one. Well-made or no, it’s about the nicest pen I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of them.”

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t think that you’re going to have that problem. Just don’t put too much pressure on the tip and you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say, setting the cap of the pen against my bottom lip and keeping it there. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else that you need?”

He raises an eyebrow, and I quickly realize that between my body language and my last question, it probably looks like I’m hitting on him. “That’s all right, Miss Pearson,” he says, “I think I can take it from here.”

He walks back into his office, and I get my things together. I want to get my hands on his pen. He’s probably thrown it away already though. Stop it, Rose. You’re finally working for someone who doesn’t treat you like crap, keep your pen-lust in your pants. There’s not even a coherent plan in my head just yet, but he did seem to react rather strangely when he saw the pen.

I’m walking toward the elevator, chastising myself when Melissa steps into my path.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Doesn’t this company ever fire anyone? “I work here,” I answer.

“You killed our boss.”

“No,” I sigh, rolling my eyes, “I didn’t. You made that up, remember? Or
can
you tell the difference between reality and your sick little fantasy world?” I wasn’t aware of it before, but apparently, I’m holding onto some really negative feelings about this woman.

“I saw you,” she says. “I saw you go into that room and you killed him.”

“Shouldn’t you be in an institution somewhere?”

“I saw you,” she repeats.

“Fine,” I say, “I’ll play along.” I do a quick survey of the area. Everyone is looking; it’s pretty likely they’ve all been waiting for this moment since I came back to work. “You say that you saw me stab him, right?”

“I did,” she says, and I can’t believe I didn’t notice that screw-loose look in her eyes before now. “I saw you do it.”

“Was the door open or shut?”

“It was shut,” she says. “You didn’t want anyone to see, but I saw you.”

“And where were you when this happened?”

“I was at my desk,” she says, not seeing the logical fallacy in her statement.

“Uh-huh.” I say the next part loudly enough for everyone to hear, “So, what you’re telling me is that you saw me kill Mr. McDaniel in his office while the door was closed, and that you were sitting at your desk at the time?”

“That’s right!” she says, matching my volume.

“Melissa,” I sigh, “you’re an idiot. If the door to the office was closed and you were sitting at your desk, you couldn’t possibly have seen anything. Isn’t it possible that you just forgot your medication that day?”

“Ha!” she shouts and points in my face. “The joke’s on you! I haven’t taken any medication in weeks!”

She may not get it, but I think it’s clear enough to everyone else. To confirm this, I look around and ask loudly, “So, are we good?”

Everyone but Melissa is either chuckling with their palms on their foreheads or nodding to indicate that yes, we are good. I can’t believe this crazy person almost had me put away for life in prison.

“You need help, Melissa,” I say.

“I saw you kill Mr. Waite, and there’s nothing you can say to prove otherwise.”

How exactly did someone like this make it to the fourteenth floor? Don’t get me wrong, I’m just a secretary, but if I was half as gone as this woman, I would have been fired on my first day. “Mr. Waite?” I ask, smiling.

“Yes,” she says. “You killed Mr. Waite. I saw the whole thing.”

I pull out my cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” she asks nervously. Munchausen’s my ass, the woman’s got some more serious issues going on than wanting attention. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t look down upon the mentally ill, but when someone tries to put me in prison for murder because of a delusion or a hallucination, I tend to get a little cranky.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I say as the man on the other end of the phone answers, “but there seems to be a dispute out here, and I think you might be able to clear it up if you have a moment. I’ve tried to diffuse it myself, but it doesn’t seem to be doing any good.”

The man assents and I hang up.

“Who was it?” she asks. “You called the police, didn’t you? They’re coming for you, aren’t they?”

“Not quite,” I answer, just as Mr. Waite’s door is opening. I look back toward the office and then at Melissa. “So, what you’re saying is that I killed Mr. Waite.”

“That’s right,” she says. “You did.”

“Then why did you call to warn me that the police were on their way, Melissa?”

“I didn’t do that,” she says.

“That’s when you talked to the detective,” I answer, wondering when she’s going to spot the man that she’s confusing with the man she accused me of killing.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Waite asks, coming up to my side.

The presence of the man that Melissa now thinks I’ve murdered does its job in shutting her up.

Mr. Waite looks at me, then back at Melissa, “What’s the problem?”

“Melissa here,” I start, “is saying that she saw me kill you in your office while the door was closed and she was sitting at her desk. I thought it might save us all some time to diffuse the situation before she called the cops again.”

“You killed him,” she whispers, looking at the ground.

“Who?”

“No,” she answers with a non-sequitur, shaking her head back and forth, tears coming to her eyes.

“I didn’t kill anyone, Melissa,” I say.

“Earlier this week,” she says. “You left the office, and I could hear him coughing and throwing up. I knew what you did.”

“Well, here he is,” I say. “I’m not a doctor, but he seems pretty alive to me.”

“Rose,” Mr. Waite says in a calm voice. “Why don’t you head on home? I’ll take care of things here, okay?”

“Okay,” I respond, glaring at Melissa. I don’t know what her real problem is, but I shouldn’t have to be the one to pay for it. She did this to herself and to me, and I hope she does get fired. Does that make me a horrible person? You know, right now, I don’t really care if it does.

“Don’t leave me,” Melissa begs, her voice quivering in fear and in that moment, a bit of my humanity returns. I know that I have every reason to be mad at her, but it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know the difference between reality and fantasy, and there’s no reason to punish her for that fact. God, this is humiliating. I can’t even be angry at someone who’s done so much to hurt me.

“It’s fine,” I say, wondering if I’ve really changed my mind so quickly. “She’s sick, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“Melissa,” Mr. Waite says, “why don’t you head on home. If you want, you can wait with me until Rose gets on the elevator.”

“No!” she shouts and pulls away from Mr. Waite. “I’m going with her,” she says. “I’m not afraid of her anymore.”

I should have just walked right past her. Granted, it’s nice that everyone knows that the one person who accused me of murder isn’t connected to reality, but I know myself too well. We’ll get on the elevator and I’ll end up apologizing to her. For what, I don’t even know yet. Afterward, I’ll spend the next however long trying to convince her to seek treatment.