Killer Blonde (4 page)

It was another six months before Minnie was ready to go all the way.

I don't know what triggered the final change. Vicki didn't treat her any better, or any worse. But I could feel something unstable in our office. Everyone had the jitters.

We were a week away from our next evaluation time. There were more rumors than usual. There would be changes this time, bigger than the annual chopping of the deadwood.

A special corner office was being built for the new division manager. Mr. Hammonds had personally picked out the furnishings. Francine, his secretary, showed them to me. I was bowled over. The new office would have an antique partners desk that cost a thousand dollars, luxurious sculpted brown shag carpet, a silver pencil holder that once belonged to John D. Rockefeller, and a leather wastebasket. It was a palace compared to the cubicles for us wage slaves.

I knew the staff would kill one another to sit behind that ornate desk. The competition would be vicious.

Minnie wanted a promotion. She was determined to sit at that partners desk someday. But first she had to make department head. She wanted to pump me for information, so she took me out to lunch. I appreciated the gesture. Vicki wouldn't have bothered.

Minnie didn't get me cheap chicken salad at Renee's Tea Cozy, either. She sprang for steak at Harper's and a decent red wine.

“You know everything and everyone at the company, Margery,” she said. That was pure flattery, but I liked it just the same. “I want to be department head. What do you think of my chances? I do most of the work. I should be able to run it.”

I chomped a juicy hunk of cow and considered her pitch. This was before we knew about cholesterol. Sirloin steak was almost a health food. With a scoop of cottage cheese on the side, it was a diet dinner. But I wasn't on any diet. I had a baked potato slathered with sour cream and chives.

“I think you have a good shot, as long as Vicki gets promoted to division head,” I told her. “If you get promoted over Vicki, there will be hell to pay. You'll spend so much time putting out the fires started by Vicki, you won't be able to get your work done.”

I took another bite of sirloin, chewed, and thought some more. “Vicki's your only real opposition. You have a lot of friends in and out of the department. Mr. Hammonds sees himself as forward-thinking, so he wouldn't object to another woman department head. You're definitely being noticed. Just keep doing what you're doing.”

I decided to put in a good word with Francine to help things along. But I didn't say that to Minnie.

If Minnie had followed my advice, she'd be running that company today. But she couldn't let well enough alone. Minnie was a born overachiever. That was her fatal flaw.

The staff had become used to the new, good-looking Minnie. As part of her promotion strategy, she decided to stir things up and get noticed all over again.

So that Saturday, Minnie sat down in Mr. Rick's chair and said, “I'm ready. Make me a blonde.”

And Mr. Rick did. He'd been waiting for this moment.

“Your true destiny is to be a blonde,” he said. “You have a blonde's eyes and skin coloring. Mother Nature simply slipped up. I'm righting her wrong.”

Mr. Rick restored Minnie to her rightful place. No more half-blonde streaks. Mr. Rick mixed and measured until he had the perfect potion to turn straw-colored hair into gold. There are many shades of blonde. He gave her a touch of Marilyn Monroe blonde for sex appeal, a bit of Twiggy for youthful style, and a dollop of Grace Kelly for class. It was the perfect combination.

When he finished, Minnie's hair was a shimmering gilded wave. It bounced on her shoulders like a Breck shampoo ad. Her hair was so beautiful, it seemed alive. The ceaseless salon chatter stopped. Even the hair dryers were silent. Customers and stylists alike were lost in admiration of his new creation.

Minnie had been pretty before, but now she was dramatic. She was a drop-dead blonde. She studied herself in front of Mr. Rick's full-length mirror. “I'm transformed!” she crowed. When she finished pirouetting, she examined her nice navy suit.

“I'm tired of dressing like a nun, Mr. Rick. I need some suits with style.”

“Sweetie, I'm your fairy godmother,” he said. “My last appointment is at four, and then we'll go shopping.”

They made an odd couple, the fey, big-nosed man in the bizarre braided coat, and the cameo blonde in the severe suit. He was proud that he'd spotted her beauty before anyone else.

Mr. Rick said they went on a spree that had Las Olas talking for a week. It was an orgy of high-style purchases—suits, shoes, purses, jewelry. They would take over each store. Mr. Rick would select suits, dresses, and blouses, send Minnie back to the dressing room, then make her model them.

“Oh, I can't possibly buy this,” Minnie said, when she appeared in the showroom in a splendid designer suit. “I've never worn anything this expensive.”

“Exactly why you should have it,” he said.

Mr. Rick egged her on to more and better extravagances, but he made sure she never crossed from daring to outrageous. Everything Minnie bought was for an elegant young executive.

“Are you sure this looks good?” she asked, modeling yet another stunning suit.

“You bet your sweet bippy,” Mr. Rick said. That was the catchphrase of the day.

The saleswomen stood back and smiled their approval, then discreetly rang up the purchases. Money was no object, or not much of one. Minnie had squirreled away most of her salary, lived in a modest apartment, and ate frugally. Her blonde hair was her one indulgence.

At last, Mr. Rick declared her new killer-blonde wardrobe complete. They ended, sated and weighted with boxes and bags, at a restaurant on Las Olas.

“Dinner is on me, my dear,” Mr. Rick said. “You are my most brilliant success. Tonight I will celebrate you.”

He ordered Caesar salads with extra anchovies, mushroom-stuffed chicken, and a chilled bottle of Blue Nun wine to toast Minnie, his subtropical Pygmalion.

“Why is a glamour girl like her hanging around with that fruit?” snarled a cigar chomper at the next table. His voice carried to Minnie's large ears, now happily hidden under her golden waves.

Minnie kissed Mr. Rick so hard he blushed. The cigar chomper bit his smuggled Havana in two.

“I know I'm not your type,” she whispered in Mr. Rick's ear. “But I wanted to show the old creep. You've changed my life.”

“Yes, I have,” Mr. Rick said when he recovered. “But I prefer to stay your fairy godmother.”

Minnie, who'd had a little too much Blue Nun, giggled immoderately.

“As your fairy godmother,” he said, waving his butter knife over her golden hair like a wand, “I give you blonde power. Use it to get what you want. Remember, you deserve it.”

“I solemnly swear,” Minnie said, taking another swig of Blue Nun.

Mr. Rick ordered cherries jubilee for dessert. Minnie stared into the alcohol-induced flames and saw only her bright future.

When Minnie walked into the office on Monday, I nearly dropped the Connors file—all eighty-two pages. Minnie had looked good before, but now she was stunning. She wouldn't remind men of a parochial schoolgirl anymore. Minnie was a blonde bombshell.

“Va-va-voom,” I said.

Minnie smiled sweetly, but she didn't blush.

She wore what you'd call a power suit. But this was power on two levels: sex and business. Her suit was a shapely black with a soft periwinkle blouse. It was expensive, feminine, and absolutely serious. Her shoes were classic Chanel, and so was her purse.

The newly blonde Minnie walked in a golden glow. As she made her progress through our department to her desk, typewriters stopped clacking, phones were dropped, and at least one coffee cup hit the floor.

When two of the boys saw her, they sounded like the cast of
Laugh-In,
the hottest show on TV.

“Sock it to me,” Bobby said, reverently.

“Verrrrry interesting,” Irish Johnny said, doing his best Arte Johnson imitation, which wasn't very good.

It got even more interesting when Vicki tip-tapped into the office in a hairy pink bouclé suit and hooker heels.

Vicki was blonde, but compared to Minnie, her hair was brassy. I noticed she had a lot of split ends and her roots needed a touch up. Vicki didn't have Mr. Rick to work his magic.

Vicki knew that she was outclassed. She seemed to shrink into herself and look for an escape. But she brightened when her favorite boy, Jimmy, walked into the department. He stopped dead and his eyes nearly popped out of his head like a cartoon character. Then he gave a long, low wolf whistle.

Vicki smiled and simpered.

The smile slid off Vicki's face when he said, “Minnie, you look like a million bucks.”

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she said sweetly. “But my name is Minfreda.”

Word of the transformed Minnie—excuse me, Minfreda—spread through the building. Even Mr. Hammonds, our sour-faced CEO, found an excuse to check her out. Naturally, the great man wanted to keep track of one of the few females with executive potential. Or maybe he wanted to take Vicki down a notch.

The whole department trembled when he walked in. Mr. Hammonds was a balding, mean-mouthed man who looked like he wouldn't give his grandmother a dollar if she were begging on the street. But he had a glow of his own, the kind created by money and power.

Vicki smiled and wrung her hands like a kitchen maid summoned to meet the master. Mr. Hammonds walked past her as if she didn't exist, and Vicki's face turned to stone.

He kept on going straight to Minfreda's desk, and spent nearly ten minutes talking to her. I sailed by once to get some carbon paper and happened to hear some of their conversation.

“Unusually cool winter weather we're having,” Mr. Hammonds said.

“Why, yes,” Minfreda agreed. Everyone always agreed with Mr. Hammonds.

After a few more scintillating exchanges, Mr. Hammonds left. Minfreda appeared slightly dazed, as if she were a peasant girl who'd been visited by the prince.

After Mr. Hammonds's visit, it seemed like everyone in the office had to find an excuse to see Minfreda. Some claimed they needed sales figures. Others wanted to know if she was coming to the company softball game or had signed up for the midwinter picnic. A few women congratulated Minfreda on her new look and asked for the name of her hairstylist. They got points in my book for being straightforward.

Absolutely no work was getting done that day. Even the extremely proper Francine came back to our department, suddenly in need of a Social Security number I was quite sure she had.

“Maybe I should sell tickets to the show,” I said, when Francine left.

Minfreda giggled. It was an engaging sound. I was enjoying this day way too much. I should have known that Minfreda would pay for her triumph.

Vicki sat alone in her pink chamber, taking no notice of the commotion, saying nothing to Minfreda. She was quiet. Too quiet, as the sheriff said in those Westerns before the cattle rustlers attacked the ranch.

About four o'clock that afternoon, Vicki called Minfreda into her office. She was all business.

“Well, you've certainly impressed Mr. Hammonds,” Vicki said. “The CEO has asked for long-range planning ideas for 1971, and he is particularly interested in what you think about our company's future. Your next promotion could depend on this report.

“If your ideas are good enough, you could move straight up to division manager. No slaving away as a lowly department head, like I did.” Vicki gave a little self-deprecating laugh.

“Mr. Hammonds believes leadership is about ideas, and he definitely wants yours. But you haven't much time. I need your report by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. He'll announce his decision in two days.”

Minfreda nearly skipped down the hall to tell me her news.

“I have a shortcut to that corner office, Margery,” she said. “Vicki wants me to prepare a long-range planning report. If I do a good job, I'll be the next division head.”

“It's a trick,” I told her. “Remember what Vicki did to you last time? This makes no sense. If you're the new division head, what happens to her? Vicki won't help you leapfrog over her to a better job.”

“She says Mr. Hammonds will make her a vice president.” Minfreda looked as trusting as a newborn golden retriever puppy.

Open your eyes, I wanted to shout. Instead I said, “I haven't heard a word about that, and I had lunch with Francine this week. Mark my words: Vicki is up to something. You can't trust her. Don't forget how she had Bobby writing a report the same time as you. He got the inside information and you didn't.”

“Things are different now,” Minfreda said. “I checked with all three boys. None of them are working on anything.”

“Vicki's playing another game they don't know about,” I said.

Minfreda patted my shoulder. “Relax, Margery. You worry too much. I'll win. I've been thinking about how to improve this company for so long, I have that report already written in my head. My buddy Jimmy swiped the projected production figures for next year from Vicki's desk. I have my own inside information. I'm a different person now.”

She was. But Vicki hadn't changed.

Minfreda didn't believe me. I think she took Mr. Rick's good-fairy wave with the butter knife seriously. She truly believed this was her blonde destiny and she had blonde power.

I truly believed Vicki was up to no good. I had only a few hours to find out what it was. I waited for Vicki to leave her office so I could search her desk, but she stayed rooted in that chair for the rest of the afternoon. She didn't even take a bathroom break.

When I brought Vicki an interoffice memo, I got a good look at her face. She was so smug and self-satisfied, I shivered. She shouldn't seem so calm after being snubbed by Mr. Hammonds. Vicki was plotting something.

I called Francine and tried to meet her for coffee, but she couldn't get away. I asked her point-blank if Mr. Hammonds was going to make Vicki a veep, but she refused to discuss it over the phone. Francine was so proper, I think she starched her bras.

Every so often I'd look over at Minfreda's desk and see her hunched over her typewriter keys, like the Arthur Rubinstein of the Underwood. Her golden hair was a beacon. Her cameo face glowed with determination. That young woman was typing her heart out, so sure she was that she'd succeed.

Vicki pattered out on her pink heels at six o'clock. I waited another fifteen minutes, just in case she came back. Then I searched her office. There wasn't much to look through: a few stacks of papers on her desk, some private files in a cabinet I had the key to. Still, I was careful and thorough. I spent nearly forty-five minutes searching.

But Vicki had learned from her encounters with Jennifer and me. Whatever she was planning, she didn't put it in writing.

It was nearly seven o'clock when I packed up my things to go home. The office was empty, except for Minfreda. Suddenly I didn't hear the click of the typewriter keys. Minfreda had taken a break. I suspected she was making another pilgrimage to the construction area. I followed her to the future site of the partners desk. Minfreda was so sure this would be her new corner office. She visited it at least once a day.

The work was progressing. The old gray carpet had been ripped up and left in the back hall. The sun-faded curtains were in a heap there, too, along with piles of broken plaster and ceiling tiles.

Most of the room's rickety furnishings and a ripped-out wall had already gone down the chute into the construction Dumpster. The new walls were being painted burnt orange. Hey, this was the seventies. If you wanted good taste, go to a restaurant.

Minfreda stood at the doorway, a dreamy look on her face. I could tell she was measuring herself for a leather chair behind the partners desk.

I hoped nothing would go wrong, but I knew it would.

After her visit to her future office, Minfreda shook her silky blonde hair like the woman in the Breck commercial, then sat back down at the typewriter. It didn't make any difference how pretty Mr. Rick made her, Minfreda still believed in hard work.

I put a chocolate bar on her desk. I knew she would be working late into the night and she wouldn't stop to eat. It was the least I could do. I went down in the elevator, sure that I had failed her.

It was two thirty in the morning when Minfreda finished her report. Her name was typed on a separate cover sheet, and the whole thing went into a black folder. Minfreda filed the carbons in her desk as usual.

As she read through the report one final time, she was proud of her work. With ideas like these, Mr. Hammonds was sure to promote her. Minfreda left the report on Vicki's desk under the heavy
WORLD'S BEST BOSS
coffee mug.

The next morning, Minfreda didn't come in until nine thirty, which was late for her. She looked pale and tired. Vicki had arrived early for a change, even beating me into the office. She thanked Minfreda for her report, but said no more.

We all waited. We all wanted rid of Vicki.

The announcement came two days later. Mr. Hammonds sent out a memo to everyone in the company. We found it on our desks at nine that morning. I read it with growing excitement:

It is unprecedented to promote someone this young to division manager,
the memo began.
Another precedent has been broken: This is our first upper-level female executive.

Yes! I cheered quietly. Yes!

But I was deeply impressed with the far-reaching suggestions in this report. Consolidating the Miami Springs and Hallandale offices is a bold cost-cutting move. Reorganizing the shipping department is sadly overdue. The changes in our accounting and billing systems are brilliant.

I kept reading.
These ideas are so innovative, so important to our company's progress, I have no choice but to promote . . .

The words blurred before my eyes. Surely I read them wrong.

But then I heard an agonized cry: “That miserable bitch!”

Minfreda was shaking violently. She pointed to Mr. Hammonds's memo and said, “Those are my ideas. Every one of them. Vicki stole my report.”

Her face was pale as candle wax, but her eyes flared with anger. She was so furious, I thought she would ignite.

I'd never seen Minfreda like that, but I was glad. She was burning with healthy rage.

Okay, I thought. This is bad for us, but good for her. She'll give Jennifer a call over at Bradsco. Won't her old friend be surprised to see how Minfreda has changed? I was sorry to lose Minfreda, but maybe it was for the best.

Minfreda pawed through her desk, looking for her carbons, so she could prove that Vicki had swiped her ideas. She spent the whole day tearing apart her desk, but the file was gone. Without it, she couldn't go to Mr. Hammonds. She'd look like a lunatic.

“Thief,” Minfreda muttered, mostly to herself. “She steals everything. She stole her first office. Now she's taken this one from me. She won't get away with it this time.”

Vicki sat in her purloined office, looked insufferably pert in pink. I figured she'd stolen Minfreda's ideas and retyped the report's cover page with her name. I wondered if she'd made up another report for Minfreda, or simply told Mr. Hammonds that Minfreda couldn't make the deadline. Probably the latter. It would give her rival a double black eye.

Vicki was slick as a greased snake. Now she was going to slither into a cushy office and take the promotion Minfreda should have had.

Minfreda paced back and forth by her desk mumbling something I couldn't make out.

I knew there would be a confrontation when the office cleared out that evening. But I wasn't worried about leaving Minfreda alone with Vicki. She was no longer a mouse. She was a tawny blonde lioness.

It was her turn to roar.