Tote Bags and Toe Tags by Dorothy Howell Page A

door. Plan B was a go.
    â€œThanks for coming in,” I said, squeezing between them and taking the power seat behind my desk.
    They filed inside looking a little confused, and sat in the three chairs I’d swiped earlier from the conference room down the hall.
    Max seemed a little nervous about being here, as if SWAT might crash through my window any second and arrest me—along with the three of them, simply for sitting here. Ray seemed like one of those guys who was never upset—no matter what. He was thirty, maybe, and slender, and looked as if his mother dressed him. Tina had a few miles on her. Mid-forties, a bad dye job, and an expression that said she’d seen it all, more than once, and expected to see it all again.
    â€œI’m heading up corporate events now,” I said, “which makes me in charge of office morale, among other things.”
    I gave them a bright smile—a key element in Plan B—just as if I really loved the position and hadn’t felt hopelessly lost since I set foot in the office.
    â€œSo first of all, I want to make sure all of you are feeling good about being here and are adjusting well,” I said.
    They all mumbled that things were fine. They wouldn’t, of course, say anything else, since everybody wanted to keep their job.
    â€œTo be sure you’re included in all the corporate events in a manner that’s comfortable for you,” I said, “I’d like you to fill this out.”
    I passed out the form I’d generated on my computer earlier. The three of them looked it over.
    â€œYou want our home address?” Ray asked. “And our spouse’s name?”
    I cranked up the wattage on my Queen of Morale smile.
    â€œYou never know when Dempsey Rowland is going to surprise you with something cool delivered right to your home,” I said. “And if there’s a special event in your honor here at work, we want your wives, husbands, and significant others to be invited.”
    Tina eyed the form. “You want to know our favorite color?”
    â€œAnd what kind of ice cream we like?” Max asked, as if it were some sort of mounting conspiracy.
    Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less. I’d just thrown those questions in for cover.
    â€œI want to personalize your birthday celebrations,” I said, smiling even wider now.
    â€œThis is too much,” Tina declared. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Bad enough I need some security clearance just to do admin work.”
    There were several levels of security clearances, depending on what project you were assigned to and what your specific duties were—I know this because my dad is an aerospace engineer and has yammered on about it my entire life. It sounded as if Tina’s clearance was lower than that of the rest of us, making her more reluctant to conform to my totally fabricated Plan B.
    Not good—for me.
    So what could I do but turn up the heat—and not on my I’m-a-really-nice-person smile.
    â€œIf you’re refusing to cooperate, Tina,” I said, in my now-you’re-in-trouble voice, “you’ll have to sign a different form stating why you’re not willing to divulge this information. I’ll have to present it to H.R. where it will be placed in your permanent record.”
    Max and Ray eased sideways in their chairs, distancing themselves from Tina. She stewed for another minute, then mumbled something under her breath, picked up her pen, and started writing.
    They all made quick work of completing their forms, then left my office. I fell back in my chair.
    Jeez, who’d have thought corporate events—coupled with Plan B—could be so exhausting?
    Really, at that moment, I’d had enough of Dempsey Rowland. How did anybody sit in an office all day? Especially in the early afternoon on a Friday?
    I took care of a couple of things, then grabbed my purse and left.

C HAPTER 9
    I