1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun Read Free Page A

Builders planned an entire business
complex for the area, but at present our only neighbor was the
new parking lot and commuter rail stop built across the road to
accommodate the expected influx of corporations fleeing New
York.
    Prior to September 11th, we were located in lower Manhattan,
an easy commute for me via public transportation. Our building
had sustained minimal damage from the terrorist attack, and after
a short stint in temporary offices, we'd returned to our headquarters. However, a few months ago our new owners were lured across
the Hudson by cheaper real estate and huge tax incentives.

    Few staff members at American Woman were happy about the
move, but then again, even fewer were happy about any of the
changes Trimedia had instituted since gobbling up the familyowned Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company-least of all our
former owner, Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp.
    Hugo remained publisher in title only. The real power now
rested in the hands of the Trimedia Board of Directors, a parsimonious group of bean counters who sacrificed editorial content for
the almighty bottom line.
    I worked in a cat-claw-cat environment, but unlike most of my
coworkers at American Woman, I was content in my position as
crafts editor. I had no desire to scheme and plot my way up the
monthly magazine's editorial ladder to the Holy Trinity, better
known as Decorating, Beauty, and Fashion.
    None of my coworkers seemed surprised to see me Monday
morning. Publishing deadlines wait for no one. Our motto is
much the same as the mail carriers': Neither rain, nor sleet, nor
snow, nor hail-or in my case, recent widowhood-will keep us
from getting our issues out on time.
    Besides, thanks to Trimedia's Simon Legree-like benefits package, I'd already used up my yearly allotment of personal leave days.
And it was only the end of January.
    After dumping my coat in my cubicle office, I grabbed my
notes and headed for the conference room. The last Monday of
each month was the day we planned the issue five months down
the road and gave status reports on the progress of the other issues
in the works.
    I arrived to find all the usual suspects, minus Marlys, already
gathered around the battered and chipped walnut conference room table. Our building might be spanking brand new, but
Trimedia's bean counters had saved a bundle by moving all our
crappy old furnishings from lower Manhattan to the cornfield.

    Marlys Vandenburg was our fashion editor and resident Prima
Donna. Rumor had it, she got her job, not because of her experience in fashion but from her gold medal performance in bed-the
bed of our former owner, Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. Marlys kept her
own hours and got away with it because, according to another
rumor, now that Hugo had lost control of the company, she was
performing her bedroom gymnastics for the chairman of the
Trimedia Board of Directors.
    I poured myself a cup of brewed high test and took my seat on
the Bottom Feeders side of the table. The food and health editors
were to my left. The travel and finance editors, plus the one editorial assistant the five of us shared, were to my right.
    Across the table sat the decorating and beauty editors, their individual editorial assistants, and Marlys's assistant. Naomi Dreyfus, our editor-in-chief, sat at one end of the table. Hugo, who still
attended editorial meetings, commanded the chair at the opposite
end.
    "I suppose we might as well get started," said Naomi, scowling
at the empty butternut faux-leather upholstered chair usually occupied by Marlys. "You'd think she'd make an effort to show up on
time at least once a month." She directed this last comment, along
with a bitter purse of her lips, toward Hugo.
    Naomi and Hugo had been an item for years until Marlys came
along. Now they barely spoke to one another. Another rumor flying around the office suggested Marlys had recently set her sights
on Naomi's job.

    Hugo lowered his thinning gray head to avoid eye