inner bitch and simply looked Robbins in the eye. A compact, beefy man of all muscle and no hair, he played Mutt to Batswin’s Jeff, coming in a head shorter than his partner. He, too, dressed in conservative suits but had a penchant for cartoon crime fighter ties. Today he sported one featuring the Gotham City duo. Holy irony, Batman .
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t even know who the victim is. I didn’t see a face.”
“We haven’t made a positive ID yet,” said Batswin. “Any ideas?”
I shrugged. “From the blonde hair and clothing, possibly Philomena Campanello or one of her entourage.” But if Philomena’s the victim, wouldn’t the police have recognized her? “Is it Philomena?” I asked.
“We’re not sure,” said Batswin. “The body sustained quite a bit of trauma. We’ll probably need dental records for a conclusive ID.”
I assumed that meant someone had beaten the crap out of her, although neither elaborated. “You should see if our CEO can make a positive identification,” I said. I looked at Batswin, then Robbins. Neither seemed to understand. “I guess you’re not up on the latest celebrity gossip.”
They both raised their eyebrows. “What gossip?” asked Batswin.
“Alfred Gruenwald and Philomena Campanello. She’s his mistress.”
“Isn’t he old enough to be her grandfather?” asked Robbins.
“I suppose that didn’t matter to either of them,” I said.
Batswin muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “That’s sick.”
“What else can you tell us?” asked Robbins. “How long have you known Philomena Campanello?”
“We’ve never formally met.”
“But you work together.”
“On different magazines on separate floors of the building. I don’t even know how often, if ever, she actually shows (or was it now showed ?) up at Trimedia.”
“So she’s more like a figurehead?” asked Robbins.
I shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. Her name and photos fill the pages of the magazine but most likely others do the bulk of the work. I saw her for the first time this weekend during a consumer show at the Javits Center.”
I proceeded to tell Batswin and Robbins what I could about the show, including the telephone call and conversation I’d overheard. I certainly had no motive to kill Philomena or one of her minions. Offering as much as I knew might help the detectives in their investigation, thus allowing all of us to get back to work as soon as possible. We had production deadlines to meet.
~*~
After being questioned, I was allowed to return to my cubicle. Since I was too stressed to do anything important, I decided to tackle some of the reader mail, something Daphne normally handled for me. These days most readers contact me through email, but I do still receive a dozen or so snail mailed letters each month.
Reader mail generally falls into four categories. There are the readers who saved a picture but misplaced the directions, often for an issue from several years ago. Luckily, all back issues are archived. We either email or print out and snail mail the missing pages to them.
Then there are the readers who proudly send me photos of their original designs, hoping I’ll feature them in a future issue. I never do. Most have only made minor changes to an original design from a competing magazine or even an old issue of American Woman . Rather than explain copyright infringement to them, I send a standard thank-you-for-thinking-of-us form rejection letter.
Some readers take extreme pleasure in telling me I screwed up. Although I have been known to make the occasional mistake, enough people pour over every word of each issue that errors are quite rare. If a reader does find a mistake, a correction is printed in the next issue, and the reader receives a nice thank-you note. Often their motives are more avaricious than altruistic. Some write back demanding a free subscription for their efforts.
I had dispatched half a dozen
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I don’t even know who the victim is. I didn’t see a face.”
“We haven’t made a positive ID yet,” said Batswin. “Any ideas?”
I shrugged. “From the blonde hair and clothing, possibly Philomena Campanello or one of her entourage.” But if Philomena’s the victim, wouldn’t the police have recognized her? “Is it Philomena?” I asked.
“We’re not sure,” said Batswin. “The body sustained quite a bit of trauma. We’ll probably need dental records for a conclusive ID.”
I assumed that meant someone had beaten the crap out of her, although neither elaborated. “You should see if our CEO can make a positive identification,” I said. I looked at Batswin, then Robbins. Neither seemed to understand. “I guess you’re not up on the latest celebrity gossip.”
They both raised their eyebrows. “What gossip?” asked Batswin.
“Alfred Gruenwald and Philomena Campanello. She’s his mistress.”
“Isn’t he old enough to be her grandfather?” asked Robbins.
“I suppose that didn’t matter to either of them,” I said.
Batswin muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “That’s sick.”
“What else can you tell us?” asked Robbins. “How long have you known Philomena Campanello?”
“We’ve never formally met.”
“But you work together.”
“On different magazines on separate floors of the building. I don’t even know how often, if ever, she actually shows (or was it now showed ?) up at Trimedia.”
“So she’s more like a figurehead?” asked Robbins.
I shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. Her name and photos fill the pages of the magazine but most likely others do the bulk of the work. I saw her for the first time this weekend during a consumer show at the Javits Center.”
I proceeded to tell Batswin and Robbins what I could about the show, including the telephone call and conversation I’d overheard. I certainly had no motive to kill Philomena or one of her minions. Offering as much as I knew might help the detectives in their investigation, thus allowing all of us to get back to work as soon as possible. We had production deadlines to meet.
~*~
After being questioned, I was allowed to return to my cubicle. Since I was too stressed to do anything important, I decided to tackle some of the reader mail, something Daphne normally handled for me. These days most readers contact me through email, but I do still receive a dozen or so snail mailed letters each month.
Reader mail generally falls into four categories. There are the readers who saved a picture but misplaced the directions, often for an issue from several years ago. Luckily, all back issues are archived. We either email or print out and snail mail the missing pages to them.
Then there are the readers who proudly send me photos of their original designs, hoping I’ll feature them in a future issue. I never do. Most have only made minor changes to an original design from a competing magazine or even an old issue of American Woman . Rather than explain copyright infringement to them, I send a standard thank-you-for-thinking-of-us form rejection letter.
Some readers take extreme pleasure in telling me I screwed up. Although I have been known to make the occasional mistake, enough people pour over every word of each issue that errors are quite rare. If a reader does find a mistake, a correction is printed in the next issue, and the reader receives a nice thank-you note. Often their motives are more avaricious than altruistic. Some write back demanding a free subscription for their efforts.
I had dispatched half a dozen
Similar Books
