Consulted to Death
by Carolyn Rose

EXCERPT

Chapter One

"Why do they call it `losing your job'?" Casey Brandt muttered as she jabbed the elevator call button for the fifteenth time. What a dumb expression, she thought. Like you get up one day and say, "Hey, my job's missing. I wonder where I put it. Hope I didn't leave it in that coat I dropped off at the cleaners."

She jabbed the button again, then jerked her finger back. Why rush the trip to the top floor of the Carlton Arms Hotel to meet with Richard Plenty? Why fast-forward fate? The television ratings consultant was in town to study KOVR's news, and recommend changes. And, considering the big chill her boss had been giving her, she knew those changes would include arranging for her to "misplace" the position she'd held for seven years.

A tiny bell pinged and the elevator doors stuttered open, showcasing framed posters of the hotel's culinary masterpieces. Grilled steaks sidled up to baked potatoes, and shrimp and mushrooms sprawled on beds of saffron rice—all photographed with the Albuquerque city skyline, hot-air balloons, or sunset-tinted Sandia Mountains in the background.

As the car lurched upward, Casey slid her thumbs inside the waistband of her slacks, tilted her head back, and sucked in her stomach. On the mirrored ceiling, her foreshortened image grimaced. Too much lipstick, she told herself, snatching a tissue from her purse. Go for dowdy and dependable. That matches the glasses and the two dozen gray hairs.

Not that it makes any difference, she thought. It doesn't matter that I love my job, doesn't matter how much work I do on my own time, or how many stories I get the reporters and photographers to first. Ray Abbott wants someone else on the assignment desk, someone else deciding what news we cover and when.

"I just wish I knew what I did to piss him off," she told the picture of the enchilada plate. Not that their relationship had ever been anything more than strained, she admitted. Ray Abbott liked people who followed his orders without blinking or thinking. But at first he'd shown grudging appreciation for her ability to research and develop leads, to set priorities for coverage, and rearrange schedules to cover breaking stories.

Until three weeks ago. Then, without any warm-up, without any warning, he'd started a campaign of demanding, complaining, faultfinding and belittling. She suspected it was designed to force her either to quit, or be relieved to hear the words "you're fired."

"I just wish he was honest about what he's up to," she told her squatty refection. "And I wish he was man enough to do the dirty work himself, instead of bringing in the consultant from hell to `have a little chat with me before the staff meeting.' Like I'm too dumb to know that a `little chat' is another way to say `start packing'."

The insipid bell pinged again and the doors swooshed open. She stepped onto mustard-colored carpet in a narrow corridor presided over by an asthmatic ice machine, hesitated, then followed the even numbers toward a corner suite. She glanced at her watch. Thanks to the detour signs and orange barrels that sprouted along Albuquerque's roads every spring, she was five minutes late. She started to sprint, then caught herself and strolled to the polished door of room 1020. What does it matter now?

She ran her tongue across her teeth, combed her hair back with her fingers, tapped gently and smiled at the peephole. Thirty seconds passed. She pulled her smile wider. Nothing.

She tapped again, louder, and looked at her watch. 6:37. Abbott will have a cow if I don't get Plenty there on time for his precious meeting, she thought. Cow, hell, he'll give birth to an entire herd. It'll look like a scene from Lonesome Dove.

She gritted her teeth, pulled the corners of her mouth up again, and rapped four times on the metal frame. No sound except a persistent cough from the ice machine. She turned and looked past two rows of closed doors, started back toward the elevators, then paused. The self-important sub-assistant manager at the desk had said Plenty was expecting her. Maybe he was in the shower.

She sighed, returned to the door, faced the peephole and tapped again, then counted to a hundred. Her jaw muscles ached from smiling.

She raised both fists and thumped the door.

It burst open.

Stumbling into the room, she skidded to a stop with one hand on the black leather briefcase resting on a rack in the recessed closet. Her shoulder brushed a trio of thick wooden hangers and set them clacking against each other like fleshless bones.

"Mr. Plenty." Her voice soaked into the deep pile of the carpet, the heavily upholstered chairs and sofa and the brocade drapes that screened out the yellow light of the late April sun. The room was very warm.

"It's Casey Brandt from KOVR." She took a few steps, and glanced back as the door snicked closed. A piece of paper, bent into a small square, lay on the carpet. She unfolded a sheet of Carlton Arms stationery, blank except for the letterhead. She folded it again and tucked it into her pocket while she crossed to the bedroom door. No wonder he didn't hear me, she thought, this place is huge.

"Mr. Plenty." She tapped gently. "Hello!"

The panel drifted inward and she peered around. The bedroom drapes were pulled and the air was steamy. Across the foot of the king-size bed lay a navy blue jacket and trousers; a pair of spit-shined black shoes toed in on the carpet nearby. The bathroom door was ajar, revealing glistening white tiles, a crumpled pink shirt, two paisley socks and lavender jockey shorts.

I would have to notice those, she thought. Now I won't be able to look at the guy without snickering. She coughed loudly. "Mr. Plenty. We have to get going." Crossing the bedroom in four long strides, she tapped on the wall beside the bathroom door.

The sound of trickling water was the only answer. Don't tell me he's taking a leak? Sweating, she backed away, then stopped. It was too late to retreat and pretend she hadn't heard. Wiping her palms on her slacks, she took six deep breaths, then crossed to bathroom again and cocked her head, listening. The trickle sounded gentle and steady.

Casey you idiot, she scolded herself. That's the tub. Maybe he's got earplugs in, or he's listening to a tape. But why leave the door unlocked so I could walk in?

Maybe that's what he planned. The thought exploded in her mind like a grenade and she felt her body jerk with anger.

No, she told herself. No one could be that sleazy. No one could think she'd be that scared or awed or even intimidated. No one could think she'd offer to trade sex for job security.

No one. Except maybe Richard Plenty.

Whack. Casey hit the bleached wood of the door with the flat of her hand, and in a flash frame saw the sink, shaving cream, deodorant, a razor, and cologne lined up on the counter beside it. The door poinged off a rubber stopper. She hit it again and took two steps into the room.

Beyond the toilet, gold knobs jutted from the wall. Steaming water drooled from the faucet between them. Tiny ripples spread slowly across the oversized tub, breaking around the knife in the back of the man who'd never use the shampoo he clutched in his right hand.

Swaying, she backed away, then fell against the dresser, gagging.

"Get your hands up!"

She spun toward the voice.

"Now! Get them up!"

The uniformed cop crouched in the bedroom doorway, his gun leveled at her chest.

Back to Order Page

writing writers software