I’m a natural born killer at heart and get paid pretty well for it. But if it wasn’t for a very rocky start in an advertising agency, my murder M.O. would be much less interesting.
Fifteen years ago I was a recent college graduate with a BFA and ninety thousand words of a mystery novel in my laptop. While my dream was to be a full-time writer, I needed steady income to pay the bills. So I sent out a dozen résumés, confident of quickly snagging a desk job.
Not being snapped up in the first month was disappointing to say the least. I scoured the job listings again and submitted more résumés. Finally, the Schmitt Agency called to schedule an interview for the position of executive assistant. The next day I donned my favorite wrap dress, a splurge for my graduation day, and drove to their offices on the outskirts of Charlottesville.
The receptionist told me to take a seat until Mr. Schmitt was free. Beyond the lobby wall I heard an angry growl berating someone about unacceptable work. Feet stomped away. A door slammed. The receptionist shook her head as she picked up the phone and announced my arrival.
I was directed to Frank Schmitt’s office and leaned across the wide desk to shake hands. His palm was clammy and the top of his head sported a blond toupee that didn’t match the graying hair around his ears. I was already nervous and watching his eyes drill down the V-neck of my dress didn’t help any.
I freed my hand and forced a smile. “I’m Raleigh Myers. I’ve heard excellent things about your company.”
“Unusual name. Why Raw-lee?” he asked, stringing out the syllables.
“My father traveled for work. I have sisters named Savannah and Charlotte. We were always happy Dad’s territory didn’t include Walla Walla.”
Schmitt grunted. “That would be funny if a little kid said it.”
Did he insult everyone in interviews? Was this to judge my reaction? I decided to let it pass. He signaled for me to take a seat, looking me over from head to bust line.
“What exactly would be my responsibilities?” I asked.
“Your duties are rather fluid. Are you good at working independently and handling details?”
“Extremely. In college I managed a heavy class load while also volunteering…”
“Fine, fine. But what caught my attention are your special interests.” He stabbed one finger at the piece of paper centered on his desk. “Genealogy, gourmet cooking, exotic fish, and bonsai trees.”
My heart dropped to my stomach. Most of what I knew about my “special interests” came from Wikipedia.
He pointed to an oak credenza where three dwarf trees sat in shallow dishes. “What do you think?”
“They’re very attractive.”
“Greenhouse guy said pruning bonsai is an art. Bet you could give me some pointers.”
I remembered reading that clipping the wrong leaf could irrevocably ruin the appearance. “I’d have to study them for a while before making any suggestions.”
“Ah, so you do have some expertise. Excellent.” He continued staring. “Don’t have any damn dogs or cats, do you? I’m allergic to pet dander.”
“No, sir.” The only pet I could afford to feed was a one-eyed beta fish that lived in a recycled pickle jar.
“Good, good. Got any questions?”
I had many. “Will my lack of experience be a problem?”
“Assuming you can already write coherent sentences, you’ll pick up the rest as you go. That is, unless you’re a complete imbecile.”
Writing was my passion. Getting paid to write would be perfect. “And what’s the starting salary?”
“How much you want?”
I had researched pay scales for the area. The number I gave him was, I believed, reasonable.
He sneered. “Half that to begin.” He looked me over again. “Maybe an occasional bonus so you can buy something decent to wear. Can you start tomorrow?”
I glanced down uncertainly at my dress. The jerk had crossed the line with that remark. I wanted to walk out but I really needed this job. “Sure. What time?”
Instead of answering, he bellowed, “Ruth, get in here.”
The staccato tapping of heels on tile preceded the receptionist’s appearance in the doorway.
“Make her official,” he said. “And cancel Bill’s bonus. He hasn’t earned it this month.”
Ruth touched my shoulder and nodded for me to follow her. We passed the small office next door.
“That’s yours,” she said and then continued toward the lobby.
I took the chair beside her desk, clutching my purse on my lap. “May I ask why his previous assistant left?”
“A problem with her nerves.” Ruth shrugged. “Now, your hours will be eight-thirty to five. Medical benefits come after thirty days. Frank encourages creativity, but he knows what works and what doesn’t. I’ve been here over twenty years and can handle criticism. If you can’t, then consider taking a pass on this offer.”
My mind was spinning. “I’m ready to do my very best for Frank.”
She lowered her voice. “Address him as Mr. Schmitt. People only call him Frank behind his back. Among other things.” The corners of her mouthed twitched. “We’ll see you tomorrow unless you change your mind.”
“I’ll be here.”
Her phone rang, and she waggled fingers in the air towards me. I’d been dismissed.
That evening I pulled everything out of my closet, wondering what was “decent” enough for an Executive Assistant to wear. Ruth’s outfit probably came from one of the downtown boutiques but I’d have to stick to department store sale racks for a while.
I was too excited to sleep well, floating on air to have found the perfect job for my creative mind. I rose early to spend extra time on my hair and makeup. Worried about traffic, I left too soon and had to wait in my car until Ruth arrived to unlock the door.
“Good morning,” she said. “So you decided to give us a try after all.” The phone started ringing and Ruth pointed toward the hallway. “Go on back. I’ll be with you shortly.” Before I could respond, she picked up the phone.
My office seemed darker than I remembered, with no window and only an overhead fluorescent light that flickered. I was glad I hadn’t thrown out my desk lamp from college. The drawers revealed basic office supplies and a sticky note reading
[email protected]
Ruth strolled in. “Frank is out this morning. I see you found the computer password. Not very creative for a business like this, is it?”
“What exactly does the Schmitt Agency do?”
“Seriously? You didn’t ask before?” She plopped onto the other chair, which wobbled a bit. “We’re creative marketing consultants. We develop comprehensive advertising campaigns, mostly for wineries and breweries.”
I grinned. “And there’s no shortage of those around here.”
; “Exactly, but we handle other clients, too. Frank comes up with the overall concept and our people take it from there. When we’re swamped or understaffed like now, we sometimes subcontract out the detailed design work to independent graphics studios in the area.
“He’s a wizard at this stuff and the rest of us do our best to keep up. Penny’s our local service rep but she called in sick today. I suspect she’s really interviewing for another job. Bill’s our in-house artist and project designer. Mike writes copy and musical jingles. And I handle all the front office duties.”
I heard her phone ringing in the distance. She leaned over, pushed a flashing red button on my desk phone and answered the call. When she hung up, I got a quick lesson in transferring calls and sending them to voice mail. Then she gave me a tour to point out the restroom, lunchroom, and other offices.
She introduced me to Bill, hunched over a light table in an incredibly cluttered workspace. He looked me up and down before grunting, “Welcome to Hades.”
“Be nice now,” Ruth said.
“She looks too perky. That’ll drive Frank crazy. Crazier.” He laughed and returned to his work.
Ruth sighed and led me back down the hall. “Don’t mind him. He’s been here five years and thinks that gives him the right to be rude.” We entered Mr. Schmitt’s executive suite. “Over there’s a private bathroom. If he yells about needing extra towels, they’re in the credenza.”
I was getting the impression Mr. Schmitt yelled a lot. The phone rang again and she answered it from his desk. It appeared the conversation might be an extended one, so I returned to my office and spent the rest of the morning poking around in the computer programs. It was a relief to see familiar icons on the screen. If nothing else, I’d be able to type up any reports or correspondence Mr. Schmitt needed.
He called around two. “Raw-lee, run out and pick up my dry cleaning. Ruth has the ticket. See you tomorrow.”
I grabbed my purse and went to the front office. “I’m supposed to go to the cleaners.”
Ruth frowned. “But he said… oh, never mind.” She opened her top drawer and handed over a claim ticket. “Champion Cleaners, back towards town, on the right. Sign has blue neon soap bubbles, Frank’s design. Charge it to his account.”