Killer Market dk-5

by Margaret Maron

  Killer Market

  ( Deborah Knott - 5 )

  Margaret Maron

  Killer Market Deborah Knott Mystery [5] Margaret Maron Mysterious Press (1997) Tags: Cozy Mystery, Contemporary

  Cozy Mysteryttt Contemporaryttt

  From Library Journal

  North Carolina district court judge Deborah Knott unintentionally "crashes" several manufacturer's receptions at the internationally known Southeastern Furniture Market in High Point, where she becomes involved in murder. Initially befriended by a mysterious and elusive woman with bogus name tags, series protagonist Knott soon runs into an old woman friend from law school as well as a hunky ex-beau now in the furniture business. When Deborah later discovers the man dead, she and police begin investigating. Maron (Up Jumps the Devil, LJ 8/96) continues her usual warm-hearted, family-oriented approach, tempered with observant detail, infectious enthusiasm, and light humor. Highly recommended.

  Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.

  From

  In this fifth entry in the widely praised, increasingly popular Deborah Knott series (following Up Jumps the Devil ), the judge must travel to High Point, North Carolina, to fill in for a vacationing colleague. Unbeknownst to her, the usually sleepy, little town is playing host to the International Home Furnishings Market, attracting companies from all over the world, and Deborah is practically laughed out of every hotel in town when she shows up without reservations. After losing her purse in one of a dozen cocktail-party feeding frenzies, Deborah finally finds a place to stay with an old law-school chum. When her purse is found at the scene of a murder--cutthroat furniture-company executive Chan Nolan is found dead in a pricey wicker porch swing--Deborah is brought in for questioning. Attempting to solve the case by tracking the whereabouts of Nolan's legion of enemies (and also shop for some bedroom furniture), Deborah comes into contact with some real characters, including a onetime legendary designer who has gone off her meds; a pesky, persistent free-lance reporter; and a southern belle with a homicidal streak. All the furniture shoptalk will keep decorating aficionados happy; the rest of us will be more than willing to settle for Deborah's feisty humor and sharp deductive skills. Joanne Wilkinson

  Killer Market

  Margaret Maron

  Knott 05

  A 3S digital back-up edition v1.0

  click for scan notes and proofing history

  Contents

  |1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|

  |16|17|18|19|20|21|22|23|24|25|26|27|

  By Margaret Maron Deborah Knott novels: KILLER MARKETUP JUMPS THE DEVILSHOOTING AT LOONSSOUTHERN DISCOMFORTBOOTLEGGERS’S DAUGHTER Sigrid Harald novels: FUGITIVE COLORSPAST IMPERFECTCORPUS CHRISTMASBABY DOLL GAMESTHE RIGHT JACKBLOODY KINDEATH IN BLUE FOLDERSDEATH OF A BUTTERFLYONE COFFEE WITH ATTENTION: SCHOOLS AND CORPORATIONSWARNER books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please write to: SPECIAL SALES DEPARTMENT, WARNER BOOKS, 1271 AVENUE OFTHE AMERICAS, NEW YORK, N.Y. 10020

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”WARNER BOOKS EDITIONCopyright © 1997 by Margaret MaronAll rights reserved.Cover design by Rachel McClainCover illustration by Donna DiamondHand lettering by Michael SabanoshWarner Books, Inc.1271 Avenue of the AmericasNew York, NY 10020Visit our Web site athttp:warnerbooks.comA Time Warner CompanyPrinted in the United States of AmericaOriginally published in hardcover by Warner Books.First Paperback Printing: January, 199910 987654321

  For Dorothy, Sarah, Sue, Joan, Charlotte, Sharyn, Barbara, Penny and Sandy—nine of the grouchiest women I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing!

  All chapter captions are taken from The Great Industries of the United States, Hartford: J.B. Burr & Hude, 1872.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTSSpecial thanks to Mary Ellen Hiatt, Executive Director of the Southern Home Furnishings Association, who first suggested that Deborah come to High Point and showed me a whole new world. Thanks also to all the men and women of High Point who graciously answered questions and let me look behind the scenes, especially Ann A. Pickering, Director of Operations at Market Square, and her assistant, Ginger Hicks; Susan M. Andrews, formerly of Furniture/Today; Yolanda Jackson of The Father’s Table; Detective J.L. Grubb of the High Point Police Department; and Dawn Brinson, Executive Director of the Furniture Discovery Center and former proprietor of the sorely missed bookstore, One for the Books.

  KILLER MARKET

  1

  ^ » “Man, as classified at the head of the organic evolution of intelligence upon this planet, is a measurer, and, as symbols of his true domination of the world, a rule and a pair of scales would be much fitter and more expressive of his glory than a crown and a sceptre.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

  I hate child custody cases.

  I hate having to choose between two people who clearly love the child they’ve created together but who now detest each other so thoroughly that there’s no way they can share joint custody of that child.

  I particularly hate it when I have to make such judgments in an unfamiliar courthouse after less than four hours’ sleep on a stranger’s lumpy guest room mattress.

  I’m not Solomon, full of God-inspired wisdom. I’m just a thirty-six-year-old district court judge, paid by the State of North Carolina to make Solomonic decisions when its citizens can’t—or won’t—decide for themselves.

  Some days I earn my pay; others—like today—I’m not so sure.

  Randy J. Verlin versus April Ann Jenner. Unmarried. Both were twenty-three and high school graduates. Both had past records of minor substance abuse and driving violations. He had shoplifted a six-pack of beer when he was seventeen; she bounced two checks around the time of the baby’s birth, and they once drove off from a convenience store without paying for a tank of gas. Both were currently employed for the longest sustained periods of their young lives. Both wanted sole custody of twenty-month-old Travis Tritt Verlin.

  “Both of you still like country music?” I had asked upon reading the baby’s given name.

  Each had nodded warily.

  “Well, now, that’s a starting place,” I said, which got me a skeptical smile from April Ann. “What were you going to name her if he’d been a girl?”

  “Kathy Mattea Verlin,” they answered together.

  That would have been a first for me. I’ve passed judgments affecting two Patsy Clines, several Loretta Lynns and even a Dolly Parton, but never a Kathy Mattea. Autres temps, autres noms.

  Custody hearings can be as formal or informal as the judge wishes, especially when neither side is represented by an attorney, as was the case today. My style is to let all the parties speak freely. I usually learn a lot more that way.

  Randy Verlin told me he worked as a rough carpenter at Mulholland Design Studio here in High Point, just a few blocks from where I was holding court for a week, substituting for a colleague who had flown out to Detroit to welcome the arrival of her first granddaughter.

  “What is it you actually do?” I asked.

  “It’s like building part of a new house inside a warehouse every week,” he said, “like if they’re shooting a bedroom, we have to put up two walls, do the sheetrocking, maybe set new windows, hang some doors, then tear it all down again after the photographer finishes and turn
it into a den or a dining room. I’m learning how to sheetrock and do a little wallpapering, too.”

  “Does the studio have a family leave plan?” I asked, trying to ignore the headache that was building in my left temple from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

  “You mean like if Travis gets sick, could I get off?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s on my medical plan and they’re pretty good about letting you off if you really need to do something. Like today. ’Course they do, like, dock your pay.”

  He showed me pay stubs to prove that he’d been employed there for over a year and he had a letter from his supervisor that said he’d been steady and dependable and had already received two merit raises.

  April Ann Jenner had been a data entry clerk for a large insurance company over in Greensboro for the past eight months, and she, too, had a glowing letter of commendation. Her salary was less than his, but her company did have a family leave plan.

  Neither employer provided day care, though.

  Randy had recently moved back to his parents’ house so he could save money and have help with Travis on the weekends. If granted full custody, his mother, a youthful fifty, was prepared to keep Travis during the day since she was already tending a neighbor’s child and often cared for Travis as well whenever April Ann got in a bind.

  At present, April Ann and Travis shared an apartment with another woman and the woman’s three-year-old daughter. The roommate kept both children as a rule, but occasionally she took part-time jobs. When that happened, her daughter went to preschool and Randy’s mother would come and get Travis.

  The housemate was another reason Randy was asking for full custody. According to him, she had a different man there every week, sometimes he could smell alcohol on her breath when he went to pick Travis up after work, and her daughter bullied Travis.

  April Ann admitted that her friend had boyfriends, liked her beer, and didn’t always control her daughter, “But don’t no men sleep over in our apartment, which is more than Randy can say about his women. And I know for a fact that he has a beer or two when he’s got Travis.”

  Living alone was not an option, she said. “My salary just won’t do it.”

  I leaned my head on my hand so that I could unobtrusively massage my throbbing temple and asked, “What about family?”

  “My mom, you mean? She’s got a new boyfriend and lives in Memphis now. I got a sister in Wilmington, but she’s sharing with two other girls herself. I could ask her if she wants to come to High Point or maybe I could get work down there if that’s what it takes to keep my baby.”

  The trouble was, I didn’t know what it would take to give either of them full custody. I had read the Social Services report. It said that Travis was healthy and well nurtured and seemed to be happy and sociable. It also said that April Ann appeared to be a warm and loving mother doing the best she could with her limited resources.

  Randy also got high marks for being a loving and responsible father who was almost never late when it was his turn to pick up Travis. Too, he had never missed a child support payment, although that was because his parents helped him out before he got taken on at Mulholland. His father was a career lathe operator at one of the furniture factories outside town, the house was large enough for Travis to have his own room and there was a fenced-in backyard where he could safely play.

  I looked at Randy’s mother, who was seated in the row behind him.

  “Mrs. Verlin, do you think that Ms. Jenner is an unfit mother who deserves to lose custody of your grandson?”

  I could see on her face the struggle between loyalty to her son and what appeared to be an innate sense of fairness.

  “I don’t know how to answer that, Your Honor.”

  “Try,” I said gently.

  She shook her head. “They were both of ’em too young to be having a baby. April Ann’s done what she’s had to do, I reckon, and Randy hasn’t always been ready to settle down. I just wish they could’ve worked this out without having to come to court.”

  “Me, too,” I said, leaning back in my chair to think about the situation. I had all the objective facts Randy and April Ann could give me and, honestly, there didn’t seem to be a nickel’s worth of difference between them so far as character and dependability went.

  If April Ann were a drunk or did drugs, if Randy had been violent with her or the child, my decision would be clear.

  As it was—

  My concentration broke as the door to the right of me opened and a middle-aged man came in. He was medium height, of slightly more than medium weight and had medium brown hair that had receded almost to the top of his head. A thick brown mustache made up for the loss above.

  He took a seat on the side bench where attorneys and law officials usually wait for their cases to be called, and the bailiff who was sitting there nodded and smiled. They had a whispered conference, then the bailiff, a Mr. Tomlinson, caught my eye.

  I motioned for him to come up and leaned forward to hear what he wanted to say.

  “Ma’am, Detective Underwood wants to know if he could speak to you at recess?”

  “Detective?”

  “Yes, ma’am. High Point Police.”

  “Certainly,” I said, assuming he wanted me to sign a search warrant or something.

  “Ma’am,” said Mr. Tomlinson, “could I tell him how much longer that’d be?”

  It was only eleven-thirty, but having skipped breakfast, I was more than ready for lunch. I motioned him back to his seat and sat up straight to speak to the courtroom at large.

  “At this time, we will take a lunch break and I will render my decision when we return.” I gave an authoritative rap of my gavel and said, “This court will be in recess until twelve-thirty.”

  “All rise,” said the bailiff.

  Detective David Underwood followed me down the hall to the small office that had been assigned to me for the duration.

  “So what would you like me to sign?” I asked.

  He looked at me blankly. “Sign?”

  “Isn’t this about a search warrant or—?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. We need for you to come over to Leonard Street, if you will.”

  “You’ve found my purse?”

  “You lost one?” he asked, holding the door for me. “Somebody steal it?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. Not deliberately anyhow.”

  “Actually, we did find it,” he said hesitantly.

  “So why didn’t you bring it with you?” I was definitely getting cranky. “And are my keys still there? I need to move my car if y’all haven’t already towed it.”

  He looked a little uncomfortable. “I’m afraid it’s part of the evidence, ma’am.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re treating last night like a homicide and your bag was found near the victim. So what I was wondering was if you could come on over to the Leonard Street building and let us get your fingerprints?”

  And to think that when I got up this morning, I had absolutely convinced myself that my second day in High Point couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first.

  2

  « ^ » “Falstaff’s question, ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ is an expression of that complete comfort and entire independence which travellers in all ages and in all nations have at least expected to find in a public house.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

  Yesterday—Thursday—had started out so nicely, too, a beautiful sunny day in mid-April. I finished court early, ran a couple of errands, and by the time I finally left Dobbs, I knew I was going to be hitting High Point around rush hour, but hey, there are rush hours and then there are rush hours, right?

  High Point’s about a hundred miles west of Dobbs. The only time I’d actually driven through it was a few summers back when my friend Kiernan was visiting from California and was suddenly seized by a desire to see Old Salem. We were talking so hard when we got to the I-85/I-40 split at
Greensboro that I took the wrong fork and was on my way to Charlotte before Kiernan, who was supposed to be navigating, caught it. To get over to Winston-Salem, I had to cut back through High Point.

  I remembered a sleepy main section though, about six blocks wide and four or five blocks deep, with a lot of furniture stores sitting on broad streets that were mostly oneway. (“There aren’t enough cars on these streets to justify stoplights,” Kiernan had said, “so why all the one-ways?”) With a total population of seventy thousand or so, how bad could its rush hour be?

  As soon as I exited off of I-85 onto Main Street, I found out.

  Ten minutes past five and judging by the way cars and buses were streaming away from midtown, Pharaoh had just said, “I’ll let you people go,” and the children of Israel were rushing toward the Red Sea as if pursued by locusts and serpents.

  Where were all these people coming from? Too late for basketball, too early for football, and the Greater Greensboro Open wouldn’t start for another week or two. Besides, from what I could see of the shirts and ties and conservative suit jackets on the people inching past, they weren’t dressed like golf enthusiasts, who tend to favor green blazers or turquoise and coral knits.

  At the Atrium Inn, inbound traffic was held up while an outbound bus in the opposite lane disgorged at least a dozen passengers who blithely crossed against the light, heading for the motel. The men mostly wore business suits and wingtips, several of the women wore sneakers with their suits or business dresses. All seemed to carry heavy briefcases and notebook computer bags.

  When I got to the Radisson Hotel, the parking attendant tried to wave me off, but I slid into an Unloading Only space near the front entrance.