Chopping Spree gbcm-11

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Outside the kitchenette, Barry was making an announcement that customers only had five minutes to complete their leases…and they might want to stow their pieces in their cars, if they were moving on to make great shoe deals at Prince & Grogan!

  “My son had a theft problem,” Liz said huskily. “You probably read about it in the paper, they just couldn’t release his name because he’s a juvenile.”

  “I actually heard about his…problem from a friend. What does that have to do with Barry?”

  Reluctantly, Liz continued: “Teddy… used to wait in that eggs-and-bacon area, where parents let their kids play. Sometimes people sit at tables around the edge of the play area, to drink coffee or tea. You know it?” I nodded. “Teddy would… watch, until the parents or the coffee drinkers were distracted. Then he’d walk off with their bags. Their purses, too.” She ran her fingers through her short silver hair. “Their wallets. That’s why I wanted to talk to Julian. I just keep thinking if Teddy could have a role model—”

  “Liz. The fight with Barry? Why did the security guys haul Teddy out of the lounge?”

  “Law enforcement has talked and talked to Teddy, and he’s doing so much better. But then Barry Dean,” Liz began savagely, “barred him from Westside. Technically, it’s called being trespassed. He’s not allowed into the mall for any reason. If mall security catches him, they automatically call the cops and have him transported away—”

  “This sucks!” Julian interjected angrily. “Here’s this seventeen-year-old kid, who’s just trying to find his mom so he can give her a ride home, and then that creep gets him dragged off—”

  “Sounds like Barry was just trying to do his job,” I pointed out gently.

  “Oh, puh-leeze,” Liz scoffed. “Barry didn’t have to have Teddy humiliated. There were enough guards holding on to him to stop an army, for God’s sake. And I’d like to know why my son was immediately hauled away in front of everybody when he didn’t even do anything, and Barry stood still while Shane Stockham tried to beat up his wife and whacked into you instead. Hello?”

  “Well, uh,” I said, but couldn’t finish. Liz had a point.

  “Anyway, why am I talking to you?” Liz’s voice was defiant. “I need to go find out where my son is.” She tugged off her chef’s jacket and tossed it onto the counter. “If you don’t want to pay me for my work today, that’s fine. Good-bye.”

  With this, she stomped away.

  “That went well,” Julian commented.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I retorted. “But why didn’t they just agree to meet outside the mall? If the kid knows he’s not supposed to come into the mall, why would he do it?” I let out a breath. “This was a Goldilocks’ Catering party. And we saw not one, but two fights.” I slumped against the counter, exhausted and in pain. Worse, I felt defeated.

  Julian’s dark eyebrows knit into a straight line. “Let me help you with the cleanup and packing. I’ll stay as late as you want. And…I know a catering staff shouldn’t argue with anyone. So you don’t have to pay me, either.” He paused. “Teddy just felt so awful when I talked to him tonight.”

  I resisted commenting on how awful the people Teddy stole from undoubtedly felt when their packages and purses disappeared. Instead, I thanked Julian for staying to help. And of course I would pay him, and Liz, too. Talking about her brought up a fresh worry. She and I had come down from Aspen Meadow together…. What if she couldn’t find Teddy? How would she get home? Did she have a cell phone? When I voiced this worry to Julian, he said Liz had his cell number. If she got stranded, she’d be sure to call.

  By the time Julian and I had cleaned the kitchen—to make way for more mess—and reentered the lounge, the crowd had vanished. At my suggestion, Julian offered the remains of the buffet platters to the band and the jewelry salespeople. They pounced as if they hadn’t eaten for months. I smiled. “Free food” is always great publicity for my business. And after the evening’s crises, I needed all the help I could get.

  I stacked more empty trays and carried them to the kitchen. As usual, Barry had done another of his disappearing acts. Stockham conflict or no, if Barry thought I was going to leave without my check for the staff gratuity, he was wrong.

  After twenty minutes of washing platters and shuffling them to the van, we were almost done. Still no Barry. After all my admonitions about staying cool, I was starting to simmer.

  “One of the musicians gave me a note the last time you were out at the van,” Julian said as he brought the last of the platters into the kitchen. “I thought it was for me, but it was for you. From Barry Dean.”

  “A note? Or a check?”

  Julian wordlessly handed me a single piece of paper.

  Hey Goldy! it read. Great event, despite the problems. I have your check, and a tip for you, too. Meet me at the Prince & Grogan shoe sale at 8:30. Your buddy, B.

  It sure didn’t feel as if Barry Dean was my buddy anymore. I glanced at my watch: quarter to nine. Great.

  “Look, Julian, Barry’s being elusive. I’ve got to find him in Prince and Grogan to get our gratuity. And I need to pick up Arch’s guitar, too, before I get there.”

  “You bought Arch a guitar?” Julian asked, his eyes brightening. “Why don’t you let me pick it up? It’ll save us some time.”

  “You don’t know Westside Music. I’m not even sure they’ll let me have it, and I just paid them hundreds of dollars for the damn thing.”

  When we hurried back out to the lounge, the lights were blinking. A bored voice from an unseen loudspeaker announced that the mall was closing in fifteen minutes. I looked around in dismay. Julian and I had done quite a bit, but at least twenty more minutes of cleanup awaited us.

  “Look,” Julian said, aware of my problem. “I’ll finish the cleanup extra fast while you nab the guitar and the check. Then I’ll meet you back here, say, no later than ten after nine. They won’t lock us in, I’m sure. Plus, that’ll give Liz time to call if she doesn’t find Teddy. Then we can drive in convoy out of the lot. I don’t want you all driving out of here on your own, what with killer truckers on the loose. You’d better leave now, though, in case Westside Music closes early. You can always get the staff gratuity check later, you know.”

  In the catering biz, “getting the check later” was not something you should ever do. Food is perishable; events get messed up; people decide not to give you your money. But I had no time to remind Julian of all that. I needed to get Arch’s guitar. I thanked Julian and dashed out of the lounge.

  The mall was finally emptying. Rolling metal gates had been drawn halfway down most stores’ entrances. Shoppers, weighed down with bags, straggled toward the exits. Strobe lights flashed overhead, and unseen speakers warned customers to shove off. Only one family remained at the bacon-and-eggs area. Their young son, perhaps four years of age, was clinging to an oversized piece of toast.

  “I can’t leave the bwed alone tonight,” he howled. “The bwed will be lonely!”

  I walked faster and prayed that Tom and Arch had arrived home safely from lacrosse practice. Had Shane left his mild-mannered assistant in charge of the usual carnage at practice, I wondered, while he came here to the mall to threaten his wife and me?

  At Westside Music, a much-body-pierced young woman was guarding the front doors. When I arrived, she lifted her metal-dotted chin and announced in a chilly voice that the store was closed. But I could see a clerk at the register, the same fellow who’d waited on me in the first place. I said I’d only be a minute, pushed past the sparkly gatekeeper, and scurried over to the salesclerk. Deep in thought, he was counting the contents of the cash register, one bill at a time, very slowly, mouthing twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five….

  “I need my guitar, please,” I said sweetly.

  The guy shook his head without looking up and kept counting. I could see the guitar leaning against a CD case behind him. I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out the crumpled receipt.

  “Please, s
ir. I’m not here to cause you trouble. Just keep counting and hand me that guitar I’ve already bought—”

  Again, the clerk shook his head. Overhead, the lights in the store dimmed. Once more, I asked him to hand me the guitar; the fellow acted as if he had not heard a word I’d said. One more reason to discourage Arch from joining a garage band: Musicians go deaf fast.

  “Well,” I persisted, keeping my tone light, “since it’s clear you don’t give a fig about customer service, I’m just going to take matters into my own hands.” The clerk wrinkled his brow but did not cease counting. I moved closer to the cash register.

  “We’re closed!” bellowed Body-Pierce Gal from the entrance.

  Startled, the deaf cash-counter glanced up as I sidled in behind him and grabbed Arch’s guitar. Tucking it under my arm, I waved the receipt at him. He peered at it, then frowned and nodded. I raced toward the exit. Mission accomplished, I thought. I sprinted past the startled gatekeeper and headed for Prince & Grogan, Barry Dean, and the money Liz and Julian seemed so intent on refusing.

  At the entrance to Prince & Grogan, I pulled the guitar to my chest and zipped inside. The P & G employees were busying themselves with their tallies. Where had Barry’s note said he’d be? Ah yes, the shoe sale. In the far right corner of the main floor, I spied an enormous banner: Red Tag Shoe Sale!!! Clutching the guitar, I sped toward it.

  Making a straight path to shoes proved a challenge, however. Scented air seduced my nose to the perfume counter. Brightly colored spring outfits on impossibly slender mannequins made me wonder if I’d ever again have a slim figure. Probably not. My cross-store hike was slowed by the dimming of lights and relentless announcements that the store was closing.

  I skittered around departments and displays until I finally landed at a large area denoted by a fancy-script sign: Ladies’ Shoes. In the plush P & G redo of two years ago, the shoe department had been outfitted with thick beige carpet, beige-striped loveseats, and brown-patterned chairs. Artfully placed among the furniture were glass-topped tables that probably had been neatly stacked with shoes before the Tornado of Shoppers blew through. On either side of the sign, two tall, deep cabinets held only a few sandals teetering from shelves. Unfortunately, the department held no Barry.

  A couple of salespeople were picking their way through piles and piles and piles of shoes. Their probing gait, as they sorted and boxed footwear, reminded me of beachcombers’. Another salesperson was frowning at the only open cash register. I held the guitar high as I wended my way toward her, dodging picked-over pumps, boots, sandals, slippers, and loafers, all of which lay higgledy-piggledy across the floor. Perhaps Barry had been here, and given the saleslady our check. Or, following his usual style, maybe he’d written another note about where to go for payment. If this was going to be like the hunt for the psych classnotes, it was going to be a very long night.

  “Excuse me, but have you seen Barry Dean, the mall manager?” I asked politely.

  The clerk gently closed the cash register and gave me a sympathetic look. “I sure haven’t. Sorry.”

  “I was the caterer for the Elite Shoppers party,” I attempted again, still hopeful. “I’m just trying to get our final check. Could he have left a note for me?”

  She gestured to the beachcombers. “They might know. They’ve been working here longer than I have.”

  I thanked her and looked around. To avoid the mountains of shoes, I decided to backtrack to the edge of the department, then make a straight shot past the cabinets to the workers. Another overhead announcement reminded customers that the store was closed, and that all salespeople needed to check out immediately.

  So: I hurried. Fearful that I’d miss talking to the sorting salespeople, I lofted the guitar and began to pick my way around the piles of shoes. Ignorant of my presence, the workers called to each other, something about the cleaning crew, and just finishing this last bit. I glanced back at the cash register. The helpful saleslady was already walking toward the escalator.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I muttered, as I teetered at the edge of a pile of leather pumps with cutout designs around the toes. When I began to lose my balance, I overcompensated by yanking the guitar sideways. I wobbled over the shoes and staggered like a drunk. When I tried to get a foothold, I reeled forward, let go of the guitar, and fell onto the shoes.

  My head hit the side of the cabinet hard. The low doors swung open, and I saw stars. I can’t believe this is happening again, I thought, as I lay on the pile of shoes. This is the third time I’ve fallen down today!

  The overhead lights in the department began to click out in a methodical manner. I groaned and turned over. The salespeople had vacated the department. No help was forthcoming. I registered another groan nearby.

  It was not my voice. Fear snaked up my back. I peered around.

  The open cabinet doors had dislodged a stash of shoes and a mannequin. Could the frenzied shoppers have pulled down a mannequin?

  I was startled by another groan. It came from the mannequin, which had on black dress shoes and black socks.

  The shoe with a sock was attached to a leg, and then there was another shoe, and another leg…

  Oh, Lord.

  The legs were attached to a torso. To a body. A still warm, unmoving body.

  Fighting off nausea, I pawed frantically over the shoes. Didn’t I recognize those striped tuxedo pants, those shiny black shoes? Please, God, no, I prayed, as I ignored my pain and burrowed through pumps with cutout toes, sandals, loafers, and platform shoes, to pull out this … person, who was groaning. This…person who was clearly not supposed to be here.

  Finally I got to the body’s face. It was twisted to one side.

  The body was Barry Dean’s.

  A pulse, I told myself, as I groped. It was faint. Weak. With some effort, I managed to turn Barry partway onto his side. He groaned again, but kept his eyes closed.

  There was a knife in his stomach. Blood poured onto the scattered shoes and beige rug.

  “Barry!” Was I yelling? It came out as a croak. “Barry! What happened to you?”

  The air behind me swished. I stiffened and tried to scramble off the shoes. A warning voice echoed inside my head. What was—?

  Swoosh. I grabbed for my pocket, for my cell phone. Crack. Something struck my head, very hard. Everything faded to darkness, but not before I could ask the question that had haunted me since I reached Westside Mall, an eternity ago.

  What the hell was going on?

  CHAPTER 6

  From the distant reaches of my cerebral cortex, I heard Marla’s voice. You should have stayed in bed. Then her reproving voice morphed into Julian’s. You need to peel the potatoes. Was he making potato appetizers? Wait, I was lying on the potatoes. Is that what Julian was calling to me about?

  Why couldn’t I move?

  I tried to wiggle my arms and legs. My head throbbed. Every effort at motion brought stabs of pain. I opened one eye to get a look at the hard, bumpy potatoes on which I appeared to be lying.

  Not potatoes. Shoes.

  “Julian,” I mouthed. “Help him.”

  Hey, Goldy! Julian cried, much closer now. How did your… What happened to… I can’t… He tried to move me off the shoes. Then he cried out. I registered him stumbling toward Barry. A second later, a woman’s scream split the air.

  Suddenly, a rumbly voice, one I didn’t recognize, spoke sharply. Julian protested. I mustered up strength to inch forward, but couldn’t go far. Unconsciousness claimed me the way bullies used to push me down the school slide—before I was ready.

  A scent assaulted my nose. I jerked upward. My brain seemed to be cracking, splintering like glass. The stink of ammonia again hit my nostrils and I yelped. Something bad had happened, was happening, was about to happen again. What? Why?

  “Mrs. Schulz,” came the deep, unfamiliar voice, much closer than before. “Wake up. We’ve called the medics and the police. They’re on their way.”

  A large, rough-skinned
hand grabbed my wrist. The same powerful hand pressed my wrist veins. For a pulse? When I tried to twist my neck to see who was talking, nausea steamrolled over me.

  “Julian,” I moaned. “Where’s Julian?”

  I opened my eyes.

  A wide, pasty male face loomed in front of mine. The man was wearing a security guard uniform. “Just don’t worry about your guy Julian,” his slanted mouth announced. “We’ve got him. He’s on the other side of—”

  “But—” I struggled to remember what had brought me to this pile of shoes. A shaft of memory intruded. “Where’s… Barry?” I struggled upward. I was half sitting, half lying on the bed of shoes. Barry had been right over…there.

  And then I saw him. A silver knife handle protruded from his stomach. His head lay at an impossible angle. His hands were limp. He, too, lay on the pile of shoes. Blood had drenched the leather and pooled on the carpet. He wasn’t groaning anymore.

  I couldn’t look at the blade’s silver handle. Or at the blood. Oh, please, no. Tears welled up in my eyes. And all I could think was: That’s one of my new knives.

  Loud voices, heavy footsteps, and more clammy hands feeling for my pulse signaled the arrival of cops and medics. An eternity had passed since the pasty-faced man had waved an ampule of ammonia under my nose. Now a second dose of stink smacked my nostrils. Was I seeing two fellows in white uniforms, or was I seeing double?

  “Mrs. Schulz,” said one of the white uniforms, “your husband is here.” He reached behind my head and began touching it. When his fingers pressed onto an unexpectedly painful spot, I gasped.

  “How about if you don’t poke me with an ice pick?” I squealed. I was vaguely aware of not being very nice.

  “Mrs. Schulz,” said the other uniform. There were two of them. This second medic’s soothing voice was a tad higher than his comrade’s. “Please cooperate.”

  Now the first medic probed my neck. “Does it feel as if anything is broken?” I tried to shake my head, which was a mistake. When I whispered no, he said, “Your husband will meet you at the sheriff’s department. We’re taking you to the hospital. OK?”