I Know a Secret

Thirty

I’m being watched. Phil and Audrey whisper and shoot furtive glances my way, the sort of looks you give to someone who’s doomed with a terminal illness. Last week, Victoria Avalon fired Booksmart Media, and now she’s signed on with some glitzy New York publicity firm. Although my boss, Mark, hasn’t come right out and blamed me for losing our client, of course that’s what everyone else is thinking. Even though I did everything I could to promote that stupid memoir, which Victoria didn’t even write. Now I’m down to only eleven author-clients, I’m worried I’m about to lose my job, and the police won’t stop tailing me.

And somewhere out there, Martin Stanek is circling in for the kill.

I notice Mark approaching my desk, and I quickly swivel toward my computer to work on the pitch letter for the breathtaking new novel by Saul Gresham. The letter’s only half written, and so far all I’ve got are the usual tired superlatives. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I search for something new and fresh to say about this truly awful book, but what I really want to type is: I hate my job I hate my job I hate my job.

“Holly, is everything all right?”

I look up at Mark, who truly does look concerned. While that bitch Audrey just fakes her concern, and Phil’s sympathy is about getting into my pants, Mark really does seem to worry about me. Which is good, because maybe it means he won’t fire me after all.

“While you were gone at lunch, a Detective Rizzoli called here, wanting to speak to you.”

“I know.” I keep typing, an automatic stream of words pulled straight from every publicist’s glossary. Thrilling. Unputdownable. Pulse-pounding. “Last week she came to see me while I was visiting my dad.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s a homicide investigation. I knew the victims.”

“There’s more than one victim?”

I stop typing and look at him. “Please, I can’t talk about it. The police asked me not to.”

“Of course. God, I’m sorry you have to go through this. It must be awful for you. Do the police know who did it?”

“Yes, but they can’t find him and they think I might not be safe. That’s why it’s been hard for me to focus lately.”

“Well, that explains everything. With all that going on in your life, no wonder things went off the rails with Victoria.”

“I’m so sorry, Mark. I tried my best to keep her happy, but right now my life is a mess.” I add, with a fetching tremble in my voice, “And I’m scared.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you need to take a leave of absence?”

“I can’t afford to take time off. Please, I really need this job.”

“Absolutely.” He straightens and says loudly enough so that everyone in the office can hear it, “You have a job with us for as long as you need it, Holly. I promise.” He raps my desk for emphasis, and I see Audrey scowling in my direction. No, Audrey, I’m not going to be sacked, no matter how many nasty things you say behind my back. But it’s not Audrey who catches my attention; it’s Phil, who’s walking toward my desk, cradling a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers.

“What’s this?” I ask, bewildered, as he hands me the bouquet.

“What a nice idea, Phil,” says Mark, clapping him on the back. “Good of you to think about cheering up our Holly.”

“They’re not from me,” Phil admits, sounding annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. “The deliveryman just dropped them off.”

Everyone watches as I peel back the cellophane and stare at a dozen yellow long-stem roses framed in baby’s breath and exuberant foliage. With trembling fingers I sift through the foliage, but I find no palm leaves anywhere in the bouquet.

“There’s a card,” says Audrey. She’s nosing around as usual, probably looking for something she can use against me. “Who’s it from?”

As the three of them crowd around my desk, I have no choice but to open the envelope in front of them. The message inside is short and all too legible.

I miss you. Everett.

Phil’s eyes narrow. “Who’s Everett?”

“He’s just a man I’ve been seeing. We’ve gone on a few dates.”

Mark grins. “Ah, I sniff romance in the air! Now, come on, folks, let’s all get back to work. Let Holly enjoy her flowers.”

As they return to their desks, all the tension drains from my body. It’s an innocent bouquet from Everett, nothing to worry about. I haven’t seen him since the night of Victoria Avalon’s book-signing, when I was so rattled that I broke off our evening together. The bottle of wine he brought me is still sitting unopened on my kitchen counter, awaiting his next visit. He’s texted me every day for the past week, wanting to see me. The man won’t give up.

Now another text message chimes on my cell phone. Of course it’s from Everett.

Did you get the flowers?

I respond: Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you!

Meet me after work for a drink?

I don’t know. Things are crazy.

I can make them better.

I look at the yellow roses on my desk and suddenly think of the first glorious night that Everett and I slept together. How we feverishly clawed at each other like animals in heat. I remember what a tireless lover he was and how he seemed to know exactly what I wanted him to do to me. Maybe that’s just what I need tonight, to lift my spirits. A hot, hunky dose of sex.

He sends another text message: Rose and Thistle Pub? 5:30?

After a moment I respond: O.K. 5:30.

See you there.

I set down the cell phone and focus again on the pitch letter I’ve been trying to write. In disgust I type: I hate my JOB!!! then hit the delete key and send the draft into oblivion. There really is no point trying to work today. Anyway, it’s already five o’clock.

I shut down the computer and gather up my notes on Saul Gresham’s stupid novel. I’ll work on this at home, where I won’t have to put up with Audrey’s catty remarks and Phil’s moon-eyed stares. I open my purse and reach inside, just to assure myself that the gun is still there. A lady’s pistol, my father called it when he handed it to me that night in the kitchen, small enough to not weigh you down but powerful enough to do the job without much kickback. The gun feels cool and alien but also reassuring. My little helper.

I sling the purse over my shoulder and walk out of the office, prepared to deal with whatever — or whoever — comes my way.

Everett is nowhere to be seen in the Rose and Thistle. I choose a table in the corner and sip a glass of cabernet sauvignon as I survey the room. It’s a cozy and clubby space, all dark wood and brass fixtures. I’ve never been to Ireland, but this is what I imagine their old country pubs must look like, with a fire crackling in the hearth and the Guinness golden harp hanging over the mantelpiece. But in this pub, the patrons are young and hip, a business crowd in oxford shirts and silk ties, and even the women wear pin-striped suits. After a long day of hammering out deals, they’ve come here to unwind, and already the pub is getting crowded and raucous.

I check my watch: 6:00 P.M. Everett has still not shown up.

At first all I notice is a faint tingle on my face, as if a breeze has brushed against it. I know that research has proven people can’t really sense when someone is staring at them, but when I turn to see what triggered the sensation, I immediately spot the woman standing at the bar, eyeing me. In her late forties, with handsome streaks of silver in her auburn hair, she looks like an older, redheaded version of me, but with two extra decades’ worth of confidence. Our gazes lock and a smile crooks up the right side of her mouth. She turns and says something to the bartender.

If Everett doesn’t show up, there are certainly other tempting prospects in this pub.

I pull out my cell phone to check for new messages. Nothing from Everett. I’m tapping out a text to him when a glass of red wine suddenly appears on my table.

The waitress says, “It’s the same wine you ordered earlier. Compliments of the lady at the bar.”

I glance at the bar, and the auburn-haired woman smiles at me. I feel as if I’ve seen her before, but I can’t remember where or when. Do we know each other, or does she just have one of those faces, those smiles, that invite a sense of familiarity? The glass of cabernet sits before me, as dark as ink in that firelit pub. I think of how many hands it took to deliver this wine to my table, from the farmer to the harvester, the vintner and the bottler. Then there’s the bartender who poured it, the waitress who set it down before me, plus countless unseen others. When you think about it, a glass of wine is like the work of elves, and you can’t possibly know if one of those elves wants to harm you.

My cell phone chimes with a text message from Everett.

Arghhh, sorry! Last-minute meeting with client. Can’t make it tonight. Call you tomorrow?

I don’t bother to answer him. Instead, I pick up the glass and give it a swirl. I’ve already tasted this cabernet, so I know it’s pedestrian and not worth a second pouring, but it’s not the wine I’m contemplating; it’s what my next move should be. Should I invite her to my table and let the game begin?