|
|
THEY HAD EATEN TWENTY DOZEN CRAB CAKES FOR DINNER. The one hundred and twenty-six enthusiastic partygoers aboard the Chesapeake Belle pushed back their chairs and turned their attention to salesmanship. There were merchants, and lawyers, and consultants, and accountants, and executives from big and small companies — a true cross section of the business community of Ryde, Maryland. Most were members of the Ryde Chamber of Commerce. Many hoped to land new customers and clients while the big party boat chugged through the calm waters of the Miles River, near St. Michaels. They greeted their colleagues with eager smiles as they traveled from table to table, networking each other and handing out business cards.
As evening became night, a few hardy souls left the air-conditioned salon and braved the muggy air on the brightly lit promenade deck. One of these was a well-dressed woman who stood concealed in the shadows cast by a tall bin full of life jackets. She watched with intense interest as Marsha Morgan, the good friend who had helped her achieve so much success, wobbled unsteadily near the Chesapeake Belle’s stern railing. If all went according to plan, Marsha would soon have a dreadful accident.
A few minutes earlier, the watcher had half-steered, half-pushed Marsha up the narrow staircase that led from the main salon. She had been careful that no one noticed the pair together. Her plan was simple. She'd wait until they were alone, and then help Marsha over the side.
But they weren’t alone. A portly man in a white dinner jacket, one of the Chesapeake Belle’s musicians, had appeared at the stern to smoke a cigarette, sending the watcher scurrying to her present hiding place. He stood a few yards away from Marsha Morgan, occasionally frowning at her.
The watcher felt herself smile. He has decided that Marsha is drunk. He’ll make a splendid witness when the police investigate Marsha’s accidental death.
It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to give Marsha a drink that contained a shot of vodka. Perhaps Marsha hadn’t tasted the diluted spirits in the tall glass, or maybe she decided to tempt the devil. Either way, the alcohol had dulled her caution. Marsha had eagerly knocked back two other drinks after dinner, much stronger cocktails, with more than enough vodka to trigger the physical reaction that made Marsha seem drunk. Marsha held a fourth even stronger drink in her hand, which the watcher had given her.
The moon glistened on the Miles River. Here and there on the nearby bank, Tiki torches lit backyard barbecues. The watcher could hear faint laughter on the occasional wisps of offshore breeze that reached the Chesapeake Belle. A perfect night for a tragic "act of God," she thought. I only need a few seconds alone with Marsha.
The musician flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the water and pulled open the companionway door. But as he went inside, two other people took his place at the stern railing, a man and a woman. The watcher recognized them immediately: David Friendly, an inquisitive business reporter from Ryde’s third-rate hometown newspaper, and Pippa... Something, Marsha’s new business associate.
The watcher sighed deeply. How stupid of Marsha Morgan to take a partner, particularly someone who seemed so competent. Marsha should have known better. Didn’t she realize that the risk was too great for everyone involved? Marsha should have known better. All of this is Marsha’s fault.
"Hi, Marsha," David said. When Marsha didn’t answer, he added: "Earth calling Marsha Morgan."
There was more chatter, and the sound of Marsha’s glass crashing against the railing, but the watcher in the shadows hardly noticed. She had focused on getting back to the salon without being seen. Her impromptu scheme to kill Marsha Morgan had gone awry. David Friendly and Pippa Something would recognize that Marsha was unwell. They would comfort and protect her, and certainly not leave her alone at the rail.
Why did they have to arrive now?
The watcher heard Pippa say to David: "You keep Marsha upright and I’ll ask the captain to radio ahead for an ambulance."
She muttered a curse. Pippa Something is a classic do-gooder! You can hear it in her voice. She bubbles over with sympathy and concern, and zeal to do the right thing. All of which makes her doubly dangerous as Marsha Morgan’s partner.
And then it happened. Marsha Morgan pulled away from David Friendly and, to the watcher’s astonishment, folded herself over the railing. An unexpectedly loud splash followed an instant later, but no shout for help.
"Marsha!" Pippa Something screamed.
"Man overboard!" David Friendly yelled. "Turn the boat around!"
"Incredible!" the watcher murmured. "Marsha Morgan fell overboard and I didn’t have to do a thing."
She moved deeper into the shadows. The darkness would help to clear her mind; it would give her a chance to think about loose ends. What else must she do to get completely free of The Morgan Consultancy?
Find the paperwork. Yes! That would be the first chore on the list. Get the wretched paperwork — as soon as possible.
A screech of metal caught her ear. She looked up to see David Friendly unhook a bright yellow life ring from its mounting bracket. He flung it into the water behind the Chesapeake Belle, then shouted at Pippa Something: "Keep your eye on the life preserver! It marks the spot where Marsha fell into the river." Pippa climbed high on the stern rail to obey David Friendly’s command.
I wish she would fall in, too.
The watcher took a long breath and exhaled slowly as a new thought formed in her mind: Pippa Something is another loose end that must be eliminated.
She tried to recall Pippa’s last name. It was long and unmistakably British, a name that went along with her English accent and her beautiful English complexion.
All in good time, the watcher told herself. Someone at the table will tell me her
name. It will be easy to find her address. But right now you have a more
immediate problem. Marsha Morgan is dead. You have to pretend that you care.
WHEN THE COPPERS TALK ABOUT MARSHA MORGAN, they start with her death — how she fell off the Chesapeake Belle and drowned in the Miles River. But the police can’t tell you the whole story. I can. My tale begins five days earlier, with a frenetic telephone call.
It was the last Monday in July. I had begun to peruse The Baltimore Sun and drink my second cup of Darjeeling tea when my telephone rang. "Pippa Hunnechurch, here," I said, ready to talk business. On occasion, early morning calls come from eager personnel managers bringing me new assignments.
I heard a deep breath, then a sniff, then a rush of syllables I could scarcely separate. "We received the most awful news this morning. It’s a disaster over here and we need to talk."
I recognized my caller at once: Connie Hillman, the director of human resources at Simpson Manufacturing Company. I had known her for the past fifteen months as a chipper individual with a buoyant personality. Today, her voice reeked of despair.
"Slow down, Connie," I said. "Begin at the beginning."
"There is no beginning! This is the end. The worst day of my career. The pits. The bottom of the barrel. The..."
"I get your point. Something calamitous has happened at Simpson Manufacturing."
Another deep breath. Another sniff. "It’s way past calamitous, hon. Our Chairman ordered a hiring freeze. Effective today. Throughout the whole company. Starting this morning, I don’t have a single job opening to fill."
My hand began to tremble when I guessed what she would say next. I gingerly set my cup atop its saucer.
"You’re in the soup, too," Connie moaned on. "Forget about any new recruiting assignments. I can’t even hire the classy accountant you found for us last week."
"No, I suppose not," I mumbled, with Grade-A British reserve, although I wanted to scream: This can’t be happening to me! Not now! I had spent the better part of a month tracking down the perfect candidate. I had earmarked most of my fee, six thousand dollars, to pay down my credit cards and renew my ancient fall wardrobe.
"Did your Chairman say how long the hiring freeze might last?" I asked.
"Nine months, minimum. Maybe longer."
Nine months! Intolerable! Simpson Manufacturing generated more than half of my revenues. The company had become my best and most reliable client, the one I could always count on to provide a steady stream of recruiting jobs. Without Simpson paying my monthly bills, I was well and truly done for.
"There must be some way to push my accountant in under the wire," I said, trying to sound less panicky than I felt.
"A prayer might help."
A prayer! I fought to hold my temper. What kind of an absurd suggestion was that?
"To be honest, Connie, I had something more practical in mind. Perhaps it might help to send your Chairman an E-mail message that explains how much work we did to find this particular accountant. It will be shame to lose him."
Connie hesitated, then asked: "Don’t you believe in God?"
I almost laughed. When Connie grabbed hold of a bone, she didn’t let go. but I wasn’t in the mood to talk about God, not when I felt scared stiff about my future. I came up with a suitably glib reply.
"Oh, I suppose he is up there somewhere," I said, "but I doubt that he watches over me, or cares about my professional problems."
"I believe you’re wrong, Pippa. I need God to take an immediate interest in my future. This could be the start of a complete corporate restructuring. If that happens, I’ll almost certainly lose my job."
"Good Lord!"
"See! Everyone becomes a believer when the layoffs begin."
"Touché."
We both giggled.
"Well — I’m off to write my own résumé," she said. "It’s been swell working with you, Pippa."
My friends call me Pippa because my full name is a right long wheeze: Philippa Elizabeth Katherine Hunnechurch. I am a Brit by birth, a resident of Ryde, Maryland, by choice, thirty-six by the inexorable march of time, and a "headhunter" by occupation.
Correction! I would be a headhunter until my bank account ran dry. During the past month, I had suffered through similar phone calls from three other clients:
"Our markets are terribly weak, Pippa. Lombard Computing won’t have any other new assignments for the rest of this year."
"Sorry, Pippa, but Danforth Accounting Services has been forced to downsize its operations."
"Kennally Metals is laying people off, Pippa, not hiring. Senior management has decided to reorganize the company."
The frenzy of corporate cost cutting in my little corner of Maryland threatened to throttle Philippa Hunnechurch & Associates, Executive Recruiters. I had launched myself into business eighteen months earlier with great confidence and enthusiasm, but now I faced the distinct likelihood of not seeing my second anniversary. How can a headhunter survive when her principal customers stop hiring new people?
I stared at the wall for a while, and studied my nineteenth-century print of a whaling ship going to sea. Oh, how I envied the seamen in the picture. A nice steady job for three years with nothing but storms and sea monsters to worry about. How blessed it must be to live one’s life without clients.
Ah well, at least Pippa Hunnechurch won’t starve, I told myself. I will become my last candidate. I’ll find me a snug, low-stress job that doesn’t demand much initiative. I’ll collect a regular paycheck, and cleverer people than me will worry about keeping the business solvent.
All at once the little voice in the back of my brain shouted, Stop! My streak of British determination flared like kerosene on a bonfire. I am a Hunnechurch, after all, and a Hunnechurch stands her ground. A Hunnechurch looks the bulldog in the eye without flinching. A Hunnechurch doesn’t cower like a trapped rabbit while her livelihood pours down the drain.
Let me explain. When one is raised in Chichester (in the heart of Sussex County, in the south of England) by a mother who can trace the family tree back to the very London wigmaker who helped to coif Queen Elizabeth I, one tends to be overstocked with pithy English maxims. At times of stress, they worm their way to the surface.
Maxim or not, I felt my upper lip stiffening nicely. I love my work. Equally as important, I do it well. No way would I let my young recruiting firm go belly up without a fight.
The proper way to launch a new endeavor is to make a list. (Yes. Another piece of practical advice from my mum.) I pulled a notepad from my desk drawer and wrote:
Right then a notion popped into my head. I rummaged through my "In" basket. There! The reminder postcard from the Ryde Chamber of Commerce. The July meeting was scheduled for tonight, at Mariners’ Hall in downtown Ryde. Excellent! A perfect opportunity to collar the local gentry and perhaps uncover a client or two. I amended my list:
For a moment, I was tempted to put down a sixth item: Pray, but my common sense prevailed. God and I had parted company seven years earlier after he demonstrated his complete inability to wisely manage the world
we live in. Connie could believe anything she wanted to; I felt certain that no one had control of my future except me.
Two weeks later, when I reviewed this curious day for Detective Stephen Reilly of the Ryde Police Department, he responded with petulant skepticism.
"Are you telling me that you went to Mariners’ Hall that evening not knowing what would happen?"
"I didn’t have the vaguest idea what would happen," I answered calmly. "How could I?"
"Well, one possibility is that you and Marsha Morgan planned your public debut in advance."
"And how could we have done that? I met Marsha Morgan after the meeting."
"So you built a relationship with Marsha Morgan... became the intended victim of a murderer... and almost got yourself killed..." he fumbled for the right words, "by accident?"
"Neither by accident, nor on purpose. I am an innocent bystander."
"Why don’t I believe you?"
I raised my right hand. "I’ve told you the whole truth and nothing but the truth, guv’nor. I went to the Chamber meeting to find a few new clients — not to put myself in the middle of a murderous mess."
To order your copy of Little White Lies, visit our Order page or click on the links below:
|
 |