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THE FIFTY OR SO PEDESTRIANS who walked past Bombay Spices & Rices between ten and eleven that rainy Saturday morning all failed to take notice of the vehicle that was poised to murder Dennis Grant. This surprised the police, because Hampton Lane — a narrow street in Ryde, Maryland, that dates back to late eighteenth century — was designated "No Parking" along its entire five-block length. Surely some passerby must have seen a car or truck idling in Schooner Alley, which was directly across from Ryde's lone Indian grocery shop?
In fact, the police could locate only three witnesses to help them identify the hit-and-run vehicle that had accelerated to nearly fifty miles per hour before it struck Dennis Grant. One clearly remembered seeing "a big, dark-colored SUV zoom down the street and knock Dennis off his bicycle." The second vaguely recalled "a large black sedan" seen out of the corner of his eye. And the third — well, she didn't actually see the accident, but she did hear "the deep roar of a powerful engine, followed by a loud thud."
The detective in charge of the investigation tried every memory aid in her detecting toolbox, but none of the three could dredge up specific details to support a positive identification. As the first — and best — witness explained, "It was pouring and I was clomping along Hampton Lane at full speed — head down — trying to avoid all the puddles in the old, uneven sidewalk."
The vehicle in question was easy to describe: a full-sized Ford pickup, shiny black, with a fiberglass truck cap over its bed and a hefty steel-brush guard bolted to its massive front bumper. Anyone who had bothered a second glance would have seen that its front license plate had been carefully obscured by mud and that its driver was all but hiding from view. He or she — it was impossible to tell which — had on a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and was fully screened by the current issue of The Ryde Reporter held open across the steering wheel. The driver, occasionally peering from behind the newspaper, had observed each soggy pedestrian on Hampton Lane with a twinge of concern. There was great risk involved in running down a bicyclist on a public street. With luck, there would be fewer witnesses when the time came to act.
Speaking of time...
The driver glanced first at the dashboard clock and then at the man and woman arguing inside the small Indian grocery shop. "It's almost ten-thirty, boys and girls — that's enough fighting for one day." The driver's murmur trailed into a sigh. Everything about Dennis Grant became complicated — even killing the man.
That's probably how Dennis made it to the ripe old age of forty-two. The thousand other people who had good reasons to kill him simply gave up.
The driver laughed out loud at the thought. Dennis Grant was a pompous fool who preened and postured and chose to behave like minor royalty merely because he wrote the chairman's speeches. When Dennis worked at Hardesty Software Corporation, no one could stand him — no one, that is, except Mitch Hardesty. And so, for nearly two years — until he left to take another job — the productive occupants of Hardesty's executive suite had had to put up with Dennis's self-important lectures about ecology, and why Indian cuisine was more environmentally friendly than American food, and how driving a car on short trips around Ryde was a crime against nature, and why every ablebodied employee should pedal to and from work on a bicycle, just as he did.
Well, Dennis Grant had delivered his last lecture.
The driver had followed Dennis to Hampton Lane from his home in Algonquin House, a plush condominium tower that overlooked the Magothy River. That chore had been unexpectedly easy because Dennis wore a bright orange rain suit that was visible a hundred yards away, even during a deluge. The driver stopped halfway down the block until Dennis had chained his fancy mountain bicycle to a parking meter in front of Bombay Spices & Rices, and then backed the big pickup truck into Schooner Alley. It was an ideal vantage point; Schooner Alley was almost directly opposite the small shop. The driver could see almost everything that Dennis Grant did inside.
Twice before, on two Saturday afternoon reconnaissance trips, Dennis had led the driver to Hampton Lane. On both occasions he had spent no more than fifteen minutes replenishing his supply of pungent ingredients for the strange curries and vindaloos and biryanies that he proudly brought to the office in an original Charlie Brown lunchbox. But today something unexpected had happened. A woman in a well-worn Burberry raincoat, carrying a large umbrella in her left hand and a yellow plastic file envelope in her right, strode down the street and into Bombay Spices & Rices.
The driver recognized the woman immediately: Pippa Hunnechurch, an executive recruiter who had worked briefly for Hardesty Software Corporation.
What had she done for the company?
The driver remembered. It was a small assignment. She had found a new writer for the Internal Communications staff. No big deal — but her presence in the executive suite had been annoying. All that never-say-die British enthusiasm wore on the nerves, not to mention her overblown camaraderie with the administrative staff. So what if she had once been a secretary herself? These days she was rubbing shoulders with corporate executives. And the consulting bill she submitted was for lots more than any secretary at Hardesty earned.
Did she also like Indian food?
Why not? Pippa Hunnechurch had made no secret of the fact she was from England. The English seem to love Indian food. Perhaps she was stocking up on spices and rices, too.
A thin layer of condensation had formed on the inside of the truck's windshield. The driver directed the air conditioner through the defroster vents and soon had a clear view through the shop's plate-glass front window.
The driver had no difficulty spotting Dennis and Pippa inside the store. They were standing near the solitary check-out counter, his head shaking, her hands gesturing forcefully. Were they conversing or fighting? It was impossible to tell from across the street, although the driver could see that Dennis was now holding the bright yellow file envelope.
Pippa gave something to Dennis. What could it be?
The driver stopped musing about the envelope when Pippa abruptly turned her back on Dennis.
Whoo-ee! Someone said something wrong. Was it he or she?
Pippa stormed out of the grocery shop and trod through three large puddles.
There goes a really mad headhunter. Dennis emerged into Hampton Lane a few seconds later, carrying his usual parcel of food, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. He tucked the yellow file envelope inside his rain suit.
He seems on top of the world. He has gotten something he wants!
The driver thought about the yellow file envelope again. Speeches! Of course! Pippa Hunnechurch would have samples of his speeches. That's why Dennis Grant looks so happy — she gave him some of the speeches he'd been searching for.
Did she have THE speech to give him? Did she know what it contained? Had she also become a threat?
The driver muttered a curse. A minor typographical accident had created a major crisis — a silly error that Dennis had described as a "dropped widow." No one — not even Dennis — had understood its significance back then.
Oh, but you understand now, Dennis. You've figured out nearly everything.
The driver watched the speechwriter unlock his bicycle. Why did you have to be such a prodder and poker? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?
The driver answered the question aloud in a determined voice. "Because Dennis Grant is an arrogant jerk who thinks he has a chance to become a bigger hero. He has become a liability you can't afford to leave alive."
The driver peered left and right as Dennis mounted his bicycle. Pippa Hunnechurch was nearly a block away, splashing her way toward Ryde High Street. There were two other pedestrians in sight, neither of them paying attention to Dennis.
So long, Mr. Grant. The world will be a better place without you. The driver put the truck in gear, waited for Dennis to begin pedaling along Hampton Lane, and then floored the accelerator.
THE WOMAN LOOKED AS GENTLE AS A LAMB when I saw her standing in the doorway to our reception room. She even resembled a lamb, with a young, roundish face, close-cropped curly black hair, and enormous dark brown eyes that darted hither and yon. She seemed wary about entering the world headquarters of Philippa Hunnechurch & Associates; I found myself chuckling at her apparent lack of self-confidence. Many novice businesspeople don't know what to expect when they deal with an executive recruiter for the first time. They approach even small, twoperson head-hunting firms like ours with a certain hesitation — until they're sure we're harmless.
"Come on in!" I said, cheerfully. "You're right on time for the seminar."
Her response was a grunt — a low-pitched growl, really — that should have warned me this particular businesswoman with the aggressive temperament of a hungry great white shark, was anything but a novice and was using those lamblike eyes to plan a fast getaway.
Lamentably, my guard was down because I had seen the woman many times before. She worked in our building and kept a schedule similar to mine. I made it a point to arrive in the lobby at eight-thirty on weekday mornings — and so most days did she. She would trot off to one of the office suites on the first floor, while I took the elevator to the fourth floor. Her first name was Kelly; I learned her last name weeks later. For now I shall call her Kelly the Shark.
Kelly the Shark's gaze fixed on me; she began to move forward. Determined as I was to be a cheerful hostess, I suppressed my curiosity about the thick envelope she was carrying and wholly ignored the determined expression that had taken over her quiet countenance. Instead, I assumed that she was eager to attend the hour-long presentation on executive recruiting we had scheduled on that Friday afternoon in early June. True, Kelly looked scarcely older than a college kid, but Ryde, Maryland, was fast becoming a hotbed of advanced technology, and many fast-track executives in town were mere months past earning their Ph.Ds and MBAs.
In any case, I urged a copy of our brand-new brochure into her hand. "Hot off the press. It will tell you all about us."
The Shark folded it in half and tucked it in her purse. "Thank you, I'll read it later."
Thus encouraged, I shooed her into our spanking-new conference room; she went willingly, holding her blasted envelope tight against her chest. There were five other people inside — chatting with one another, drinking tea, and nibbling on scones. Kelly scanned the room like a radar antenna but said nothing. I assumed that she was shy in unfamiliar social settings, so I offered her a warm smile and said, "We've nodded to each other on many mornings, but we've never been formally introduced. My name is Pippa Hunnechurch."
"Pippa?" she said, suspiciously, "I thought your name was Philippa? Your recruiting firm is named Philippa Hunnechurch & Associates."
Still picturing Kelly the Shark as a potential client, I ignored the startlingly unpleasant edge in her voice and cranked my smile up a full notch to melt.
"My friends call me Pippa," I said, "because my full name seems to go on forever: Philippa Elizabeth Katherine Hunnechurch. I am a Brit by birth, a resident of Ryde by choice, and a headhunter by occupation. I am thirty-eight by the inexorable march of time, and recently remarried after eight years of widowhood."
Kelly stared at me as if I had lost my mind. I suddenly realized that I was spouting the litany of facts I use to explain my background to those people who care about me. Mercifully, I stopped myself before I reached what my new husband James had dubbed "our last-name compromise." I answer to Pippa Huston in Atlanta, where James hails from, and to Pippa Hunnechurch in Maryland. James had shrewdly observed three facts: "First, it makes no sense at all to confuse your clients by changing the name of your consulting firm. Second, tacking Huston to the end of your supersized string of names will make your handle too long to fit on a business card. And third, the initials on your luggage work fine with either Huston or Hunnechurch."
I raised my hands and made the T, time out, sign that American football referees use during those head-knocking exhibitions that James chooses to watch on Sunday afternoon. "What I meant to say," I said, "is that Pippa is the traditional English nickname for Philippa."
The Shark grunted again, then added begrudgingly, "My name is Kelly," she gestured with her thick envelope. "Why did you bring me into a roomful of people?"
Ooops!
"I seem to have made a mistake," I said. "I thought you were here for our seminar." I pointed at the screen hanging in the front of the room. The projected image was a title slide that read: "How to Work Successfully with an Executive Recruiter."
"I don't care beans about headhunting," she said. "I want to talk to you — in private. I won't need but a minute."
"Pippa doesn't have a minute right now," said a voice behind me. "Our seminar is about to begin."
The voice belonged to Gloria Spitz, my small firm's one and only "associate."
Kelly glared at Gloria — a reaction I wrongly attributed to jealousy. Gloria is twenty-five, tall, blonde, and a knockout. She looked even more stunning that day because she had recently returned from her annual two-week training stint with the Maryland Army National Guard and was still glowing from all the exercise involved in climbing over obstacles, firing machine guns, and practicing hand-to-hand combat.
Kelly, alas, had no idea that Gloria was a weekend warrior or that she moonlighted on occasion for Collier Investigations, a private detective agency in Baltimore, or that she had been trained in crowd-control techniques. And so Kelly made the mistake of ignoring Gloria's blunt directive.
"We can do this the easy way," Kelly said to me, "or we can do it the hard..."
Kelly didn't get the chance to finish. Gloria grasped Kelly the Shark's elbow and spun her around toward the assortment of goodies we had laid out on top of our new buffet.
"Pour a cup of tea and relax," Gloria said, firmly. "Try a fairy cake. I baked them myself."
The Shark broke loose from Gloria's grip, pivoted to face me once more, and hissed: "I'm not hungry." But she didn't make the mistake of challenging Gloria again.
"What do you think she wants?" Gloria whispered to me, as we walked to the front of the room.
"I've no idea," I whispered back. "If she's a salesperson, her approach needs lots of work."
Gloria rapped on the conference table. The merry chitchatting in the room faded away.
"Good afternoon, everyone," I said. "It is my pleasure to welcome you to our offices. Please find a place at the table, and we'll begin."
Perhaps it sounds silly, but I was inordinately proud of our new conference room. Four weeks earlier it had been our file and storage room — a grimy repository of office supplies, canisters of tea, cartons of copy paper, and many hundreds of candidate files stuffed with resumes, interview notes, and sundry related documents. As you might expect, executive recruiting generates mountains of paper. But you may not realize that a headhunter never willingly purges her files because information gathered today may be priceless years from now. One never knows how fast a rejected candidate will climb the ladder to success or if a contact made in passing will be vital in a future search. Despite our small size as an enterprise, Hunnechurch & Associates was fast running out of storage space in our three-room office suite, which consisted of the reception room (it also doubled as Gloria's office), an inner office for me, and what our lease euphemistically labeled an all-purpose utility room. We crammed our candidate files into a bank of four lateral file cabinets in our storage room, and we had three more overflow file cabinets in our reception room.
The builder who had restored the five-story, eighteenth-century leather warehouse on the northernmost end of Ryde High Street — not the most convenient location in Ryde — had assumed his tenants would be newly created small businesses that would graduate to larger offices elsewhere. In fact, the historic redbrick building had become a much-loved home for a diverse collection of CPAs, lawyers, management consultants, public relations agencies, specialist dentists, and one headhunting firm. We all faced the challenge of operating ongoing businesses in relatively small suites that had been sized to keep rents affordable.
James came up with a brilliant solution to our rapidly multiplying files. "Do like the big companies do. Scan your documents onto CD-ROMs and throw away the paper copies."
"Abandon my paper documents?"
"Every last sheet. When you need to read an old resume, pop the appropriate CD-ROM into your computer." He added, almost as an afterthought, "While you're at it, why don't you turn your ugly storage room into a proper conference room."
"A conference room!" I cooed. "I've always wanted my own conference room."
We went to work. I rented a self-feeding document scanner and hired a part-time assistant to feed our collection of old correspondence and miscellaneous paperwork into the wondrous machine. It had taken less than six weeks to transform every scrap of paper in seven large filing cabinets into a single drawer full of indexed and organized CD-ROMs.
James, Gloria, and I repainted the utility room one weekend. We purchased new carpeting, a rectangular conference table made of cherry wood, a matching buffet, eight comfortable swivel chairs, and a pull-down screen hanging from the ceiling.
"Why do we need a screen?" I'd asked James.
"For client presentations, of course. I'll lend you one of my electronic projectors. You can connect it to your laptop computer and dazzle your clientele with PowerPoint slides."
I should have married a computer whiz years earlier!
The first presentation I created was "How to Work Successfully with an Executive Recruiter."
My five guests had chosen seats at the conference table. Kelly the Shark, though, grabbed one of the extra chairs along the side wall — the better to glare at me, I supposed.
I took my position next to the screen and nodded toward Gloria, who was operating the laptop computer. She touched the space bar, advancing the next slide: "Our Agenda for Today."
James is a comfortable public speaker; I am not. He has tried to convince me that it's wholly unnecessary to be nervous when talking about something you know well. Nonetheless, as I surveyed those five agreeable faces, I felt my knees begin to tap together in a staccato rhythm. I offer my unplanned-for bout of stage fright as an excuse for the two mistakes I made in quick succession.
Gloria and I had decided not to waste time with introductions — our guests had had ample time to meet one another over tea and scones. Forgetting our plan, I began. "You all know me. Why don't we take a few moments to introduce ourselves."
That was the first mistake.
My second was to point to Kelly the Shark. "Why don't we start with you?"
She stood up sneering, "There's no need for me to introduce myself, Mrs. Hunnechurch," she said. "I hate to ruin your little get-together, but I have real work left to do this afternoon."
She strode to the front of the room and shoved the thick envelope into my hands.
"I am an attorney," she said. "The envelope I just gave you contains a legal document that commences a lawsuit against Hunnechurch & Associates. The plaintiff in the action is Hardesty Software Corporation. You are advised to discuss these papers with your lawyer — without delay." She took a deep breath and finished up with a chilling declaration:
"You have been served!"
Before I could respond, she pulled a small digital camera out of her pocket and pointed it at me. I was still blinking from the flash when I heard our front door shut behind her. I eventually received a copy of the inane picture she had taken of me — my eyes glowing red from the flash, a bewildered stare on my face, the thick envelope in my right hand.
I remember feeling stunned — and at a complete loss for words — as I looked out on the incredulous faces of the five potential clients who had watched Kelly the Shark announce that one of the most respected companies in town had taken steps to haul me into court.
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