Weddings Can Be Murder by Connie Shelton

Juliette spent an hour poking through the
drawers in her new office, figuring out how the filing system
worked. Mainly, the folders seemed to contain bids for jobs,
information on new clients and invoices for materials. When she
asked if the invoices should go to Marion, the older woman
dismissively said, “You’ll have to figure it out.” What a witch.
Juliette blew off the insult and concentrated on straightforward
filing. In total, it took less than an hour.
    About the time she was looking for something
to do the phone began to ring.
    “I’m transferring all of Al’s calls to your
desk. Just take messages. You won’t know any of the names but
that’ll come with time,” Sheila said.
    Three lines immediately lit up at once.
Juliette put on her best voice and pressed the button for Line
1.
    “Mr. Proletti’s office,” she said.
    “Where is he?” The gruff voice had a strong
New York accent and she almost had to ask the man to repeat.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Proletti is out of the
office today. May I take a message?”
    “Who’re you?”
    “My name is Juliette. I’m Mr. Proletti’s new
secretary. How may I help you?”
    More gruff words. Finally a name and phone
number. On to Line 2, then Line 3, then back to Line 1. By lunch
time she felt as if her head would explode. She asked Sheila if
lunch was a full hour, then took her sandwich and walked to the
park. Tomorrow, put a pair of comfortable shoes in a bag and bring
them along, she told herself. She could learn the job. Surely, she
could.
    Tuesday, the office was abuzz already when
Juliette walked in at 7:49. The door to Albert Proletti’s office
stood ajar and she caught a glimpse of a good-looking, dark-haired
man, younger than she would have expected. For some reason when
Sheila had referred to the boss’s father as ‘the old man’ Juliette
assumed he must be in his eighties, putting the sons in their
fifties or sixties. Mr. Proletti glanced up, spotted her, flashed a
smile.
    She greeted Sheila and headed toward her own
office. This morning the connecting door to the boss’s office stood
partway open. A cassette tape sat on her desk. She picked it up,
leaned out into the hall and waved it toward Sheila, shrugging her
shoulders. The receptionist came and showed Juliette the
transcription machine, whipping the cover off an IBM Selectric.
Juliette figured out the headphones and playback mechanism which
operated with a foot pedal. By the time Mr. Proletti got off the
phone she was halfway through the first letter he’d dictated on the
tape.
    “You’ll find that I often work at night,” he
said, leaning on the door frame to his own office as he nodded
toward the dictation machine. He wore a sleek-looking suit with
wide lapels and a bold-printed tie that was surely real silk.
    She gave a nervous smile, unsure if he meant
what the inflection in his voice seemed to hint.
    “So, Sheila tells me you have a lot of
secretarial experience,” he said.
    She did? Juliette merely smiled.
    “I’m glad. The work here can get crazy at
times. We have deadlines that cost tens of thousands a day if we
miss them. Sometimes I yell. Sometimes I curse. I hope that won’t
bother you.” He winked one of those brilliant blue eyes as he said
it.
    Juliette shook her head. She’d noticed that
Marion Flightly kept her own office door closed. Was this part of
the reason?
    “You’ll do great, sweetie. Don’t worry about
it.”
    Carol Ann would have piped up and objected
to a boss calling his secretary sweetie. Definitely a sexist
remark. It absolutely would have been if her old boss had uttered
it. But here Juliette didn’t mind. His tone was warm, yet
professional. She had a feeling this was a boss who really cared
about his employees.
    “Mr. Proletti—”
    “Al. We’re all on first names here.”
    “Thank you. I, um, I hope all the messages I
took yesterday were all right?”
    “Perfect, Juliette. Just perfect.” He turned
back toward his desk but that time she was