Tracy Kiely: Murder Most Persuasive

However, the first time you see Dickey’s vanity walls, you tend to be impressed. You believe that he actually knows all these people. I did, anyway, until we received a publicity still of Angelina Jolie along with a form letter thanking Dickey for his fan letter. Two days later I noticed the picture on the wall—framed—complete with an inscription that Dickey presumably had added himself. Although it could have been signed by his secretary, Barbara Clark. For unknown reasons she adores Dickey and probably would give him her kidney if asked. I should also mention that Barbara lives alone with six cats.

Of course, I wasted no time relaying that story to Sam. Since then we’ve taken turns trying to sneak celebrity photos onto the walls—complete with inscriptions—to see if anyone notices. Last month, I hung a head shot of Steve Carell with the inscription, “Thanks for the inspiration!” Before that, Sam hung a picture of Renée Zellweger that read, “You complete me.” So far no one has noticed either one.

Sitting at the head of the table, Dickey clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right, everyone! Let’s get started!” My immediate boss, Sharon, sat to his right. While Sharon isn’t my favorite person, I did feel for her. Whenever Dickey descended on our office, her whole day went out the window. She sat quietly, her long face immobile and her gray-green eyes appearing resigned to her fate. Turning to her, Dickey said, “You’re going to want to write this down.” Sharon dutifully nodded at the blank tablet in front of her and held up her pen as evidence of her readiness. “Oh, right,” said Dickey. “Well, everyone should write this down.”

Around me everyone pulled out pads and pens in lackluster anticipation of Dickey’s pronouncement. When he saw that we were all ready and waiting, he leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said, “Significant Human Beings.” Then he sat back.

Nobody wrote anything down. Nobody spoke, either. Really, what could any of us say? Sharon was the first to venture a response. “Um, well, you certainly have our attention Di … er, Richard. How do you see us going forward with this exactly?”

Dickey beamed at her. Spreading his hands, palms outward, and eyeing us with almost maniacal pride he said, “Our new feature! Every week we’ll run a story on some person, a Significant Human Being. You know, someone from the community who is making a difference. We’ll run a picture of him or her—with me, of course—and then tell the story. I was thinking we could call it Significant Humans in Town.” He punctuated each word by high-fiving the air in front of him.

“But wait, there’s more,” he added, like one of those TV commercials for a gadget that promises to change your life (but doesn’t). “I have a brilliant idea for our first article. He was a great man who, sadly, recently passed, and who has a special connection to our little staff here.” A nasty feeling of apprehension slid down my spine. Glancing at Dickey, I saw that he was beaming in my direction.

“It is my pleasure to announce that our first Significant Human in Town will be none other than the late Martin Reynolds, who as you all probably realize was the great-uncle of our very own Elizabeth Parker.”

All heads swiveled my way. Shit, I thought with appropriate vulgarity, Uncle Marty was to be, as it later became known, our first SHIT.

By the time Dickey adjourned the meeting, my legs were numb, my deadlines were looming, and I was being pestered by the rest of the office for details on my dearly departed uncle. I spent the rest of the day hunched over my desk frantically trying to get everything done and deferring personal questions. When I’d finally finished, my neck ached, my shoulders were sore, and my fingers were cramped from holding my red editing pen.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I was in a lousy mood and was finding it hard to cheer myself up. My apartment was still infested with mold. I was living with my bossy pregnant sister. I hated my job. My boyfriend was constantly traveling. Oh, and let’s not forget—my extended family was wrapped up in (another) murder investigation. Given all that, Sam’s invitation to get a drink and “shoot the shit” seemed a perfect idea. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had enough time for a quick drink before I headed back to Ann’s.

We headed for the DC Grill, a little bar/restaurant down the street from the office. It’s not bad and it’s not great; mainly it’s convenient and sometimes that’s all you need for success. Sam and I headed to the crowded oak bar and ordered. As I still had to drive to Ann’s, I ordered a Diet Coke. Sam opted for a beer.

When our drinks came, I raised mine. “What shall we toast to? SHIT, my Uncle Marty, or both?”

Sam laughed. “I vote we toast Dickey. But don’t toast my glass. It’s bad luck to toast with a nonalcoholic drink.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t know, it’s just one of those things people don’t do.”

“By ‘people,’ I take it we’re referring to drunken frat boys?”

“Hey, drunken frat boys are people, too,” he said, pretending to look hurt.

“Yes, I believe that is the literal translation of Alpha Gamma Delta.”

Sam laughed at me. “That’s a sorority, not a fraternity.”

“Does it matter?”

“I take it you didn’t pledge.”

I shook my head and took a sip of my Diet Coke. “Nope. I went to an all-girls Catholic school. They don’t need sororities. It’s already one big giant sorority, complete with hazing and drunken pledges to be friends forever.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow at me. “You seem jaded.”

I dipped my head in acknowledgment. “Another by-product of the all-girl Catholic school experience.”

Sam started to say something when his attention was caught by someone behind my left shoulder. From his frankly appraising expression, it was an attractive someone.

“Who are you gaping at?” I asked, turning to scan the room. “Need I remind you that you are dating a lovely girl named Amanda?” While there were several attractive women in the bar, I instinctively knew which woman held his attention. She wore a backless tangerine dress that hugged every one of her curves. Her shapely tanned legs were supported by four-inch pumps, the kind with that sexy ankle strap. Her glossy black hair hung in heavy waves down her Nautilus-defined back. I knew it was a Nautilus-defined back, because I knew the owner of the back. It was none other than my cousin Reggie.

“That’s my cousin Reggie,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? I can see the resemblance,” said Sam with false politeness. I laughed outright at the absurdity of the idea. “Who’s that with her?” he asked. “Her husband?”

“No, she’s not married. At least she’s not currently married. That’s a status that frequently changes with her, though.” I craned to get a better look at the man on whose brawny arm Reggie now hung. He was tall, tan, and muscular. His dark hair was cut short, as was his beard. He was also no one I’d ever seen before. However, from the way they were talking, this did not appear to be a casual first meeting at a bar. His head was bent down low to hers. From their somber expressions, their conversation appeared anything but casual. My cell phone went off just then, preventing me from catching Reggie’s eye and waving hello. It was Peter. I turned my body toward the bar and pressed the phone against my ear so I could hear better.

“Hey, there. Where are you?” he said.

“I’m out having a drink. Then I’m going to head over to Ann’s. You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Dickey took over the day with another one of his harebrained ideas.”

“You have my sympathies. Who are you out with?”