Murder Follows Money

I stood at a gate in the San Francisco Airport, slightly behind Judi Kershay, my employer of the moment. I was holding a copy of Hannah Couch's latest book on entertaining, in which she not only told how to bring home the bacon and cook it up in a pan, but how to serve it beautifully to thirty people. I was not fond of doing temporary work, but writing freelance magazine articles, my usual way of earning money, could be uncertain. Liz Sullivan was by no means an easily recognized name among magazine editors, although my pieces has been published in Women's World, Organic Gardening, and even once, the pinnacle of my career, Smithsonian. After tasting those lofty heights, I'd been sending my stuff to more selective markets than Grit and True Confessions, former sources of small but steady money. I had expenses to meet, and no income with which to meet them. At such times, I dove into the pool of temporary workers that populated the San Francisco Bay Area. Not five hours previously, I had been peacefully copying travel vouchers and answering telephones in the San Mateo office of Kershay-Pederson Media Alliance, filling in for a flu-stricken receptionist. January was a good month for temp work because so many people were home sick with flu and colds and general post-holiday malaise. I had worked at Kershay-Pederson for two days, while the receptionist phoned every three or four hours to moan about how sick she was and ask if I needed help. Her job had been relatively simple, as January was also a slack time for book promotions, the firm's mainstay. That morning, Irene Pederson had called in sick. And then another call, one that caused Judi Kershay to erupt from her office. "Quick. Call Maria. Maybe she hasn't left yet." I found Maria on the list of drivers who escorted authors around to bookstores and talk shows. Her answering machine assured me that she'd return my call at the earliest possible time. "Not her home number. Isn't her cell-phone number there?" I tried the next number. It rang a few times, and then a staticky voice said, "This is Maria Lopez." "Judi Kershay for you." I handed the receiver to Judi, but I didn't go back to filing right away. The drama enacted in front of me was too compelling. "Maria, did you already pick up Shirley Climo?" Judi barely waited for an answer. "So it's not too late. I'll get someone else for her. I need you to drive Hannah Couch. She's arriving"--Judi looked at her watch--"in less than two hours." I could hear Maria's reaction to that. " I know she can be difficult--" Judi's voice was placating. "That's why we have the bonus for driving her." More squawking. "But, Maria--" Judi listened intently. "Yes, I know. I know. Forget it. I understand." She handed the receiver back to me and rubbed the vertical lines that had formed between her eyebrows. "I didn't think she would. And Susan is out sick, Leona is on vacation, even poor Irene is sick, and Hannah can't stand me." "Excuse me." I cleared my throat. "Are we talking about the Hannah Couch? The one with all the books, and the magazine, and the TV show?" "That's the one." Judi looked at me, her eyes narrowed. "Do you drive, Liz? Of course you do, you live in Palo Alto." "I have a car--a '69 VW microbus, " I replied promptly. "But I took the train today." "Do you know your way around the City?" "Tolerably well." I had driven around San Francisco, which in an old car with a clutch is a bit of a challenge. And I had maps, lots of maps. My ostensible reason for joining the Triple A was the age of my bus, which any moment might break down in ways I was unable to fix. Really, however, I joined to get as maRoberts, Lora is the author of 'Murder Follows Money' with ISBN 9780449005392 and ISBN 0449005399.