New Book Starts Today!

Today begins our new story Dead as a Girdle (also known as DAAG, for those who are too embarrassed to say the title). You can read a synopsis of this book on Friday’s post.

Remember our Book Drawing and Give-Away! Today is the last day you can comment to get in the drawing (see last Thursday’s post). 

And now to begin DEAD AS A GIRDLE.

  

Chapter One

Fourth floor.

Janelle Weaver waited as the elevator doors rolled open a few inches, then stuck, then opened a little more. Stuck again. 

She glanced across the elevator car at Helga Svensson, the woman who had hired her. “Are we going to get trapped in here?” That would be great—stuck in the elevator on her first hour at a new job.

         “Ja, probably.” A slight Swedish accent lilted Helga’s words. She jammed the open button with her thumb, holding it down until the doors rolled smoothly back. “Only needs some convincing, you see.”

         Janelle smiled up at Helga as they stepped off the elevator. Tall, big-boned, and buxom, Helga looked sixty-something, with silvery blonde hair caught up in a turtle shell clip at the back of her head. Her white blouse, which sported a chocolate stain, was half tucked into a pair of tight navy slacks.

That woman could use a few fashion tips. Janelle smoothed down the skirt of her petite-sized lavender suit. She readjusted the strap of her purse, pushing her light brown hair behind her shoulder.

         “Here are the offices,” Helga said.

          They approached an old-fashioned wooden door with frosted glass and a transom over it. Painted across the glass in big gold letters was the company name—Thorne’s Bra and Girdle Company.

How embarrassing. But this was exactly the type of job her dad wanted her to get—a woman’s job. And he had definite ideas about the kind of job a woman should do. Janelle couldn’t work with him in his private investigating firm, no matter how much she had begged after college graduation. Nope—too dangerous for a girl like her. Being hired as a receptionist was definitely a woman’s job, in Dad’s book, especially at a lingerie company.

Helga opened the door and they walked into a large, high ceiling room that smelled of stale cigarette smoke. “Here is the office where you work, Janelle.” She pronounced her name Yanelle.

The brown paneled walls looked old although they must have been beautiful in their heyday. A waist-high chair rail, molded from the same brown wood and carved with fancy curlicues, ran around the perimeter. Five closed wooden doors, each topped by a rectangular transom, dotted the walls surrounding the office. A wooden desk sat near the back wall, littered with stacks of orders, old Styrofoam coffee cups, wadded papers, a can of pens and pencils, and a black business phone.

Janelle wrinkled her nose. What a mess!

At the side of the office, a mannequin, clothed in nothing but a bra and girdle, stood elegantly enshrined in a glass case. She looked ancient—obviously their first model. Bits of spider web clung to her painted hair and ascended to the corner of the case.

Helga stood in the center of the room. “We do not get many visitors as we did years ago.” She pointed to two straight chairs by the door. “But if we do, tell them to sit and wait. Then buzz me.” She gestured to an inside door near the desk. “I work in that office and­­—" She nodded to a door near the mannequin. "Ben works there."

“Ben?”

“Mr. Thorne—the boss. We do not yet have portrait of him.” She waved at two painted portraits hanging on the wall above the chairs.

Janelle stood in front of the first portrait, her hands behind her back. “So who is this man—the president of the company?”

“Ben is president of company now. These two were his grandfather and father.”

Janelle examined the dignified gentleman with bushy silver eyebrows in the oil-on-canvas. Must be the grandfather. She read the gold nameplate on the frame. “Ebenezer Jedadiah Thorne, Senior. That’s a mouthful.”

“Ja, he started our company in 1941. Built this building same year.” Helga shrugged. “We need new building but have no money to build.”

Janelle knit her brows in concern. “I thought Thorne’s was doing well. The lingerie store on the first floor always seems busy.”

“True, but not enough sales.” Helga moved closer and lowered her voice. “I am the bookkeeper. I know.”

Great! She finally got a job her dad liked, and the company was going under.

Janelle studied the second painting. A handsome man with wavy black hair stared back at her with calculating blue eyes. She shivered as she read the nameplate. “Ebenezer Jedadiah Thorne, Junior.” She stepped back. “I can see the resemblance between the two.”

Helga tossed her head and walked toward the mannequin case. “Everyone called him Jed.” She pronounced it Yed.

Janelle was getting used to Helga’s J-less vocabulary.

The older woman continued. “He and his father were alike, both ruthless businessmen. I did not mind working for Mr. Thorne Senior, but I hated working for Yed. I never did anything right.” She folded her arms. “But he is dead now. Murdered.”

         Janelle’s head jerked. “Murdered?”

“Three weeks ago last Friday.”

         The room suddenly felt as cold as Jed’s painted eyes. “Do they know who killed him?”

“No idea.” Helga shrugged. “The sheriff cannot figure.”

Janelle nodded. “Sometimes it’s hard to crack a case. My dad is a private investigator, so I know how difficult it can be.” She thought of the times she sat at the kitchen table with her dad, trying to figure out clues to the latest homicide. “He used to be the homicide officer at the sheriff department, but now he has his own investigation company with two men working for him.” 

Helga pursed her lips. “I do not like police. They ask too many questions. But I hope they catch the murderer.”

         Wow! A murder! Janelle looked back at the painting of Jed Thorne. If she could figure out who killed him, she could prove to Dad that she would make a good PI. Maybe he would let her join Weaver Investigation Services.

Janelle turned to Helga. “So Ben, the new president, is the son of Jed Thorne?”

“Ja.” Helga smiled for the first time, taking years off her face. “Ebenezer Yedadiah Thorne the third. He is nothing like his father or grandfather. Not a ruthless bone in his body. But on other hand—” She sighed. “I wonder how he will do running company. You see, he—”

The door opened and a dark-haired man, about thirty years of age, breezed into the office. A briefcase was tucked under one arm, a sheaf of papers in his other hand. “Helga, you’ve got to call the elevator repairman! That thing is about to croak, and someone’s gonna get stuck one of these days.” He sailed through the room as he talked, reaching the office near the mannequin case.

“Ben, wait!” Helga called. “Meet our new receptionist.”

He turned back, looked around, his gaze finally focusing on Janelle.

“This is Yanelle Veaver.” Helga motioned with a flourish.

Ben squinted at her. “Hi.” He turned back to his office. “Be sure to call the repairman, Helga.” The door banged shut.

Helga shook her head. “Distracted, that one. Too much thinking.” She turned to the messy desk. “So. Let me show you how phone system works. It is easy.”

While Helga explained, Janelle’s mind wandered to the pair of blue eyes that had connected with hers—for all of two seconds. Too bad she wasn’t an artist. She would paint Ben Thorne as she had first seen him, sweeping through the office in his dark business suit, his blue striped tie flying over his shoulder. But then she wouldn’t be able to paint those incredible blue eyes gazing at her. And of course he was distracted—his father had been murdered and no one knew whodunit. On top of the sudden responsibility to run his dad’s company, Ben was probably grieving too.

“So.” Helga’s gray eyes peered into Janelle’s green ones. “Do you understand phone system?”

“Uh, could you explain it one more time?”
         “Uff!” Helga struck her forehead with her hand. “You are as bad as Ben, not listening!”

Ben. She’d better stop thinking about him.

Helga sighed. “Okay. Buzz intercom number two if call is for Ben. Buzz three for me. Buzz four for anyone who works in lingerie store.” She walked to the mannequin case. “The undergarments are made on floors two and three. You should not get calls for them—they have their own phone system.”

Janelle nodded, trying to remember everything.

“Buzz five for Howard and six for Elliot.” She peered at Janelle again. “Do you understand?”

“Who are Howard and Elliot?”

Helga pointed to the two doors across the room from Ben’s. “Howard is in charge of advertising. He is out of town this week.” She walked to the door to the left of Howard’s office and knocked on it. “Elliot is Ben’s uncle, Yed’s younger brother. He has worked here for years and years. Never married.” She knocked again, then slipped open the door. “Not here. Uff! No surprise, and of course, the door is not locked.” She closed it and muttered, “Lazy, good-for-nothing…”

Janelle frowned. Why was Ben the new president of the company instead of his uncle Elliot? Must be that laziness. She imagined an overweight man in his fifties with a balding pate. Definitely not presidential material.

“So.” Helga turned back to Janelle’s desk. “When you answer phone, you must say, ‘Thorne’s Bra and Girdle Company. How may I direct your call?’”

“Couldn’t I just say Thorne’s? It’s so much shorter.” And she wouldn’t have to say the word bra. She squeaked out a laugh.

Helga shook her head. “Marie tried that when she was receptionist. But there is a Thorn’s Restaurant in town, and sometimes people call wrong place.” She dusted her hands together as if she had finished her duty. “I must get back to bookkeeping. Buzz me if anyone arrives.” She entered her office, closing the door behind her.

Janelle was left alone—to clean up the mess.

* * *

Until tomorrow, may the Lord give you a good day!