Free Dead to the Max by Jasmine Haynes Page B

used it.
    Max resorted to asking the counter girl’s help.
    “The copier’s in your office. It’s your job to get it fixed.”
    Theresa was anything but sweet sixteen. She dressed like a harlot. Her butt cheeks hung out of her short red skirt, and her skimpy shirt bared half her midriff. A shocking shade of crimson that a hooker would die for resurfaced her full lips, and her stiletto heels topped Max’s by two inches. Being out-heeled by a leggy teenager was not something Max appreciated.
    Max’s smile was saccharine sweet. “Then I vote we move the copy machine out here so it’s everyone’s job.”
    The suggestion was a calculated risk. What she wanted was a repairman, now . What she had was teenage attitude that needed nipping in the bud.
    “No way will Remy let you put that copier in the bullpen.”
    The bullpen was the store’s main office. It housed Susie, the fifty-five-year-old Accounts Receivable clerk, Peggy, the Payables girl, four 800-line guys, and two part-time sales girls, of which Theresa was one. With phones ringing, and the warehouse guys slamming through the swing doors every five minutes, the noise level was deafening. Remy Hackett liked his customers to see activity. Max figured what they encountered was total chaos.
    And Theresa’s size-D breasts at the front counter. They were enough to make any self-respecting male come back for more. The Four Musketeers manning the 800-lines drooled.
    The calls went unanswered as Theresa wriggled her little butt for her audience and responded to Max with superior disdain. “Remy locked the copier up so none of these lame brains”—she hooked a thumb over her shoulder—“could use it for personal stuff without asking. Remy’s real generous, but he doesn’t like to be used.”
    Max wondered just how generous Remy was with Theresa. The girl had invoked his name at least six times in the course of the five-minute conversation. And Remy’s word was law.
    “Well, Theresa, since you don’t appear to be included in the same category as those other lame brains, I’ll put you in charge of getting it fixed.”
    “Remy’ll blow a gasket. He’s real particular about how things are done around here. The copier was Wendy’s job. And he’d like go totally postal if anyone else did it for her.”
    “Postal?”
    Theresa rolled her eyes as if Max should be included with the other lame brains. “You know, like ballistic, pissed, whacked. In fact, they had this huge blow-out the day—” Theresa did have the grace to blush at that point. “On Monday.”
    Max raised her eyebrows. The day Wendy Gregory died. “Bit of an over-reaction, wouldn’t you say?”
    The sarcasm went right over Theresa’s highlighted airhead. “Wendy was bouncing off the walls, you know. I’d never seen her like that before. Sort of freaked us all out. Remy especially. She was usually the little brown mouse type. But wow, that day she was like a lioness.” Theresa seemed at last to have found something admirable in Wendy.
    “The copy machine?” Max prompted.
    “Remy found out she hadn’t called Marvin. So, he dragged her into his office, slammed the door, and yelled up the ying-yang.”
    Max wondered about Theresa’s level of exaggeration. “And then?”
    “She opened the door and walked out. Then Remy had me call Marvin, the copy guy.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes were wide as if nothing of the kind had ever happened in the history of mankind. “And now she’s dead. So...I won’t touch that machine.” She shrugged her shoulders and pointed through the open door of Max’s office. “Maintenance number’s on the inside door.”
    With that, she turned to wiggle her way past the salivating phone jerks to her spot at the front counter, leaving Max in a cloud of Poison perfume.
    Damn, bested by a sixteen-year-old nymphet getting high-school work credits for her part-time act.
    Max went back into her office, pulled the machine open, and wrote down the number on a lined