"Then put him through," Geri said crossly, "and don't forget to cancel everything." She drummed her fingers on the desk while various clicks and buzzes came through the line, mentally cursing Mr. Fleecum for his treachery.
"Miss Gebhearn?" said a male voice with no hint of upper-class nasality. "This is Kyle Simmons at KoKo-Nut. I suppose I'm the…well, just yesterday I was assigned to this contest thing. I was given your name and told to…" His shrugs and grimaces were almost audible; his gulps were. She was not in the mood for charity. "I'm very busy, Mr. Simmons. What is your point?"
"We're supposed to coordinate the contest. I mean, your marketing firm is in charge, but I'm representing our company and sort of overseeing things." He cleared his throat unhappily. "I'll present the prize at the end."
Geri shuffled through the stack of papers. "According to what's here, the president of KoKo-Nut is going to be doing that very chore. It's so very kind of you to offer, Mr. Simmons, but we'll just pass on that. The media will respond so much better to…" An articulate adult, she concluded to herself.
"That would be my father, and last night he suddenly announced he had to take a business trip. I'm afraid you're sort of stuck with me."
"Then I guess I am, Mr. Simmons," Geri said, attempting to insert a note of enthusiasm and failing miserably. "My boss just gave me the account this morning, and I'm still trying to sort it out. Why don't I give you a call later in the week and we can set up a meeting to review the initial plans?"
There was a long silence, during which she could hear him breathing over the background clatter of the city. "I was…I was thinking we could do it sooner than that," he said.
"Fine, Mr. Simmons, we'll schedule it for"-she consulted her calendar-"the day after tomorrow, say tennish?"
"I'm in the lobby of your building."
It was a good thing the secretary could not see Geri's expression expression, which was not at all appropriate for a Vassar graduate from a very good family whose mother, at that precise moment, was mailing embossed invitations to a gala for Opera Relief.
"How very clever of you, Mr. Simmons. Please come right up and we'll get started immediately." She replaced the receiver and began to flip through the pages in the folder, wishing she'd done so earlier instead of obsessing over Scotty and the slut. Now her eyes were pink, and she would be facing the client with unsightly splotches on her cheeks and hair that was days overdue for a trim.
When the door opened, she finished the page before looking up with a coolly professional smile. It faltered as she took in Kyle Simmons, the scion of Krazy KoKo-Nut, Incorporated, but her years of cotillion training served her well.
"Please sit down," she murmured, gesturing at the chair across from her desk. "Would you care for coffee?"
Kyle Simmons hesitated in the doorway. He was in his late twenties, but he had less poise (and more gawkiness) than a junior high school boy who had never dared glance below a girl's collar. His face was small and angular, with a pointy chin and recessed eyes that were blinking as if he were in a sandstorm. Thin dark hair was slicked down like a glittery skullcap. His overcoat was rumpled, and his tie quite the wrong color for his shirt. On the other hand, Geri instinctively noted, his watch was outrageously expensive, his briefcase was more expensive than hers, his shoes were Italian, and his suit had never hung on a rack.
"Please sit down," she said, then waited until he'd done so and repeated her invitation for coffee. He shook his head with such alarm that she toyed, albeit briefly, with the idea of offering him a soda pop and a cookie. "Well, then," she continued, "I've only had the account a few hours, but I think I have a grasp of the immediate concern, which, of course, is the contest a month from now."
"Next week."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Simmons, but-"
"Kyle. Call me Kyle."
"Then I beg your pardon, Kyle, but the contest is four weeks from tomorrow. Two of the finalists have sent their acceptances. As for the other three, it might be expedient to fax them some sort of formal-"
"The contest is next week, Miss Gebhearn, and I have the updated list of finalists in my briefcase." He opened it and began to dig through its contents. Slips of paper fluttered to the floor, along with gum wrappers, laundry receipts, and a very brown apple core. He at last surfaced with a page ripped from a notebook. "Good, here it is. I suppose you'd better have a copy run off so you can contact everybody about the new date."
"Next week?" Geri glared at him, her exceptionally large brown eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. "That's impossible. I only received the account-"
"The Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff is to begin on Tuesday."
"But I can't possibly organize it in less than a week. This is ridiculous, simply ridiculous. I'd prefer at least six months, but I'm willing to do it in one." She hit the intercom button. "Meredith, see if you can catch dear Mr. Fleecum at LaGuardia. Have him paged and say it's an emergency."
"His flight left ten minutes ago, Miss Gebhearn."
"Don't sound so damn pleased!" Geri leaned back in her chair and tried to pretend it was the chaise lounge on the deck of the summer house.
Kyle held up his hands placatingly. "I'm as perturbed as you are. I've been working in the quality control division, and I know nothing about this contest. Last night my father packed a suitcase and, on his way out the door, informed me that I'm to be the liaison for the contest."
"Why was the date changed?"
"Several weeks ago an investment group called Interspace International, Inc. managed to purchase enough stock to have a controlling interest in Krazy KoKo-Nut. Their marketing people insist that the contest be next week. Furthermore, they want it held in a hotel they own in the midtown area, so they can control the cost and take full advantage of the write-off."
Geri could almost hear Scotty snickering from under the picture frame. She dropped it in a drawer, winced at the tinkle of glass, and fanned out the contents of the folder. "This is sheer and utter madness, but we'd best get started, don't you think? May I see this updated list of contestants?" She took the page and compared it to what she had before her. "Three of the names are different. Why is that?"
Kyle shrugged. "According to my father, one of them declined and two had accidents. The investment firm called him yesterday with these names, and that's what we'll have to go with."
"This doesn't make any sense. Prodding, Polk and Fleecum is conducting the contest; we're in marketing and that's what we're paid to do. Why would Interspace International be involved with bothersome details like this?"
"Favors to friends and relatives, I guess."
"So the contest is rigged?" Geri said indignantly, having been reared in an ambience of fair play and the superior sense of morality that was affordable with wealth. "Do you have a second memo that names the winner? Why bother to conduct the contest in the first place?"
"Neither you nor I appear to be in a position to ask that question," Kyle murmured.
"Well, I appear to be in a position to make sure the outcome is fair, and unless Mr. Fleecum returns in time to oversee this absurd cookoff thing, I intend to see that it is. Now then, shall we continue?"
"Next Tuesday?" Brenda Appleton said incredulously as she stumbled to a halt in the middle of the den. Her hand fluttered to her unremarkable brown hair, then fluttered away like a disoriented moth.
Jerome nodded. "That's what the lady said when she called. You're a finalist and I'm invited to accompany you. I've got plenty of work I can do at the hotel."
"But I never dreamed I'd be invited to the finals of the cooking contest! If you hadn't pestered me, I wouldn't have bothered to enter in the first place. I don't have a thing to wear, not a thing." Now the hand fluttered to her chest. "And what about my bridge party? I'm having three tables of bridge Wednesday afternoon, and the girls will be furious if I cancel."