Chopping Spree

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Guards!” I yelled. “Come here now, please! Come take Mrs. Stockham out, now! Now! Please!” I glared at Shane Stockham and said tersely, “You need to back off, Shane. Right now.” I continued to grip his left forearm. Shane was a well-muscled man, with slicked-back brown hair and a handsome baby face. He had that young, all-powerful movie star look. “Stop this,” I said in a low voice. “A piece of jewelry isn’t worth a fight.”

  The security guards reached for Page. She yanked herself away from me, then hopped quickly behind one of the jewelry display cases. Shane, meanwhile, also pulled out of my grasp. He turned his back and walked toward the stage, away from the exit doors.

  “Hey, Shane! Cheap bastard!” Page taunted. “Business failure! Come get me now!”

  The guards, upset at being foiled, lumbered a bit more quickly on either side of the case, trying to apprehend Page. Again she was too quick for them. With a few agile steps, Page danced back out by the buffet table, not far from me, but probably twenty yards from where Shane was walking away.

  Shane turned slowly. His furious eyes fixed on his wife.

  Page hissed something incomprehensible. Shane, in turn, raced back in her direction. Page neighed in triumph.

  Shane was charging toward his wife. There was just one thing in his way: me. A warning chill raced down my spine.

  “Security!” I squealed.

  Shane kept coming. My mind conjured up Shane as the hot-tempered lacrosse coach and Arch, my little Arch, who was trying so hard to become a tough athlete. If I just stepped out of Shane’s way, he’d hit Page. Do what Arch does, I thought. Pronto.

  I’d seen it over and over. Arch set his position against the attack man, then used his body weight to send the attacker in the opposite direction. When Shane was a yard from me, I placed my shoulder at right angles to his chest. Then, just as he was about to slam into me, I jerked up and under his chest, and whacked him with such force that he reeled upward. The muscled poundage of Shane Stockham went airborne. I staggered backward. Outstretched hands couldn’t prevent me from falling. I thudded to the floor, landing with a jolt of pain on my shoulder.

  The security guys, who’d called for help, finally forced their way forward. Two of them manhandled a shrieking Page toward the exit. Three guards seized Shane and pulled him upright. When they tried to march him out behind his wife, I noticed that he was limping slightly.

  “You nosy bitch!” Shane yelled at me, his face scarlet with fury. “What do you know about anything?”

  I rubbed my shoulder. For the second time that day, I wondered if it was broken.

  CHAPTER 5

  That was pretty awful,” Marla commented as she escorted me to the kitchen to tend to my shoulder. “Is somebody going to call the cops? The guards shouldn’t be the only ones dealing with Shane.”

  “I’ll call the cops,” Julian assured us. He asked if he could check my shoulder; I said yes. “It’s not broken,” he reported, after gently poking the shoulder blade and asking me to move it in a circle. He frowned, pulled out his cell phone, and punched buttons. “I’m going to run down to the parking lot, see if I can snag a cop who might still be there. I’ll let the sheriff’s department dispatcher know what’s what, too. Where would those guards have taken Shane, the mall security office?”

  “Probably,” I replied weakly. What was going on with Shane Stockham? Did he dare think that I’d still be putting on a lunch for him day after next? At that moment, I couldn’t ponder anything that was two days away. I did want to know the reason for the fight among Liz, Barry, and Julian. Julian had taken off, which only left one person to ask.

  “Liz,” I began, “I need to know why you and Julian—”

  “Please,” she said in a low voice, as she bent over the sink, where she was washing platters. She would not meet my eyes. Marla, all interest, leaned in. Liz said stiffly, “I promise to tell you later, Goldy. My son should call me soon. Then I’ll know more.” She turned the water off and lifted her chin. Tears spilled as she faced me. “Look, I’m sorry I argued with Barry, but he started it. If you could just trust me to help us get through this party, I promise I’ll tell you the whole story later.”

  I gnawed my lip. Liz had become invaluable to my catering business. I simply could not, would not force her to explain herself in front of Marla. Teddy had been hauled out; the Stockham crisis had erupted right after that. And Liz had apologized. I murmured that it was fine for us to talk at her convenience.

  Liz nodded her thanks, then worked silently drying the platters and assembling new trays. Marla filled a dish-towel with ice and lightly pressed it into my shoulder. The events of the day filled my mind. First the truck had almost mowed me down, then Shane Stockham had almost mowed me down. And, as Liz had reminded me, we were in the middle of an event….

  Marla murmured in my ear, “You should have stayed in bed.”

  The band burst into “The Emerald Isle.” After a few moments, against Marla’s stern advice, I tentatively lifted a tray. I ignored stares as I transported it out to the buffet. Marla bustled along beside me, tossing smiles at the gawkers. When the guests realized no new crisis was brewing, they turned their attention back to the jewelry cases and continued trying on glittering necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The videographer slithered through the crowd, occasionally asking women to pose for him. When Marla insisted he follow her to a jewelry case, I wondered fleetingly if the videographer had caught the Stockhams’ conflict on tape.

  A few moments later, Marla magically reappeared at my side. She stepped back for me to admire her newly rented double strand of pearls with diamonds. Brilliant matching earrings and tiny barrettes wreathed her pretty, plump face in twinkles. I gave her a thumbs-up.

  She said, “You don’t want to know what these cost.”

  “You’re right.” I straightened platters and stirred the meatballs in the sauce. “So,” I asked her, “do you have any idea what Barry and Liz and Julian were fighting about?”

  “I can guess,” she said. “You don’t need Liz to tell you the whole story; I can fill you in on most of it. Don’t you know that little Teddy’s had a few shoplifting incidents here at Westside? More than a few, if my sources are correct. Julian must know about Teddy’s problems, because he was in on the argument. When he comes back, I can cross-examine him.”

  I groaned. “Well, then, what was Shane and Page’s fight about? Do their spending disagreements often turn violent?”

  “I’ve heard stories,” Marla replied knowingly. Three beautifully outfitted women sidled up to the table. Marla’s eyes glided over to them. “I can’t talk about the Stockhams out here, Goldy,” she announced in a stage whisper, “with people eavesdropping. You know, I tried to warn you—”

  I interrupted Marla by asking her to come back to the kitchenette after a few minutes. I picked up the empty chafer of meatballs and hightailed it back there myself.

  When she pushed through the door, I was ladling meatballs into a sauté pan to heat them up. The rich smell of Burgundy sauce steamed through the small cooking space.

  “If Shane is hell-bent on doing harm to his wife, then I’m not going to cater a party at his place on Wednesday or any other day,” I said. My voice sounded a tad more rancorous than I intended.

  Marla shrugged. “Shane and Page have one of those love-you-one-minute, hate-you-the-next relationships. You watch, tomorrow he’ll buy her a ruby bracelet, or a round trip ticket to Paris, or maybe both. That’s the glory of numerous credit cards, yes?” Actually, I did not know, having limited myself to one about-to-be-canceled card. “Shane just received that eviction notice from Barry, although I think it’s been coming for some time now. You should have heard Page’s reaction, like a rich kid who’s been denied Christmas. By the way, she told me that they added folks to the guest list for the lunch you’re doing for them. Shane wants to include a group of potential investors to underwrite his moving the business on-line.”

  I peered at her in disbelief. “He�
��s added to the guest list? Does he have some new caterer in mind?”

  Marla popped a piece of Gorgonzola into her mouth. “Mm-mm.” She moved her hips in time with her chewing, then said, “Shane still thinks you’re his caterer, doll.”

  “That son of a bitch told me the lunch was for his best customers.”

  “Yeah, well, he told Page the eviction was just a tiny setback, and that he’d lease her something really gorgeous today.” Marla nabbed a morsel of Camembert. “You’d think losing your livelihood would mean cutting back on expenses. You can imagine how well Page would react, in fact, is reacting to that idea.”

  As Marla bustled behind me on my way back to the buffet table, I recalled those long months when The Jerk had refused to pay the full amount he’d been ordered to give Arch and me. There’d been weeks of peanut butter, homemade bread, nonfat dry milk, chunk tuna, and noodles. When I was strung out beyond my ability to cope, our priest had come to visit. He only came once, admitting he didn’t want to jeopardize John Richard’s continued financial support of the parish by appearing to take sides. I was tempted to bring up John Richard’s current fling with a woman in the choir, but did not. In any event, the priest informed me that the most desperate folks he counseled were ones who went from having money to suddenly not having money. Most of them, he added, lived in denial for at least a year, unable to give up the high life. So they racked up debt that took decades to repay. And he certainly hoped, he concluded as he chomped into his sixth peanut butter cookie that I had made especially for his visit, that I would not bury myself in debt! I’d sat in silence as he swallowed the last of the cookie, then asked him to leave.

  Well. Mustn’t grumble, as the Brits are wont to say.

  I assessed the buffet table. If Shane and Page wanted to live in denial, that was their problem, not mine. At the moment, we needed still more refilled trays. I headed back to the kitchen. Marla made a wide U-turn and followed.

  “OK,” she began as I pulled a new tray of beautifully arranged, succulent fruit from the refrigerator. “Here’s the scoop on why Barry kicked Shane out of Westside. First, are you aware of how they figure rents in a mall?”

  I frowned at the fruit tray. How mall rents were figured. Wait—I did know this. “Yes, Barry told me. It’s a base figure plus extra for the—what’s it called?… CAM. Common area management,” I added, as I scoured the refrigerator for our Creamy Fruit Dressing.

  “Very good,” said Marla.

  I carefully placed dollops of the dressing—equal parts sour cream and mayonnaise—into a crystal bowl that fit in the center of the tray.

  “That’s not quite all—”

  “Hold on.” I paused before covering the large jar of dressing, long enough for Marla to grab a spoon and help herself to a large mouthful. I instantly prayed for the county health inspector to be a thousand miles away. “Rents,” I said, as I stored the jar. “OK. If a store is doing well enough, it’s supposed to pay a percentage of its sales to the mall. But The Gadget Guy shouldn’t have had a problem with that. That place is always mobbed!” I shouldered the fruit tray. “Was always mobbed.”

  “The Gadget Guy was a huge success,” Marla agreed, as she followed me out of the kitchen. “The place did so well that they should have been paying extra to the mall owners, but Shane cried poor. So Barry had his accounts audited, and guess what? The Gadget Guy owed the mall owner, what’s their name?”

  “Pennybaker International.”

  “Owed Pennybaker over a million dollars. Pay up in thirty days, Pennybaker said, or you’re out of here, forever. Shane didn’t even have a hundred thou, much less a mil. The eviction notice was delivered yesterday afternoon.”

  I set my tray on the buffet, where women dripping with leased jewels dug in for second, third, or—was it possible?—fourth helpings of truffles. They squealed and wiggled and raved about the rich chocolate. Curse of the cocktail buffet: People eat too much, because it’s all right there in front of them. When I’d retrieved a load of glasses and plates, I stopped to scan the lounge. Barry was nowhere in sight.

  Marla moved away. I unloaded the dirty dishes and glasses, then began a lap around the lounge to retrieve more of them. Liz and Julian, I noted thankfully, were bent on the same task at the room’s opposite end. The dregs of the buzzing crowd clustered around the jewelry display cases, doing last-minute deals. Marla waved at friends, pointed to her new necklace, earrings, and barrettes, and then nipped back toward me. She must have gleaned a final tidbit of gossip.

  “More news,” she said eagerly. “Shane’s future is looking even dimmer.”

  “Financially?” I replied. “Or legally, after he gets through with the cops for coming at his wife?”

  “In the money department, Barry’s not backing off on demanding the mall’s million.” Marla’s voice was hoarse. “Shane claims he wants more time to bring together the cash. That party you, uh, may be doing at his house? He’s hoping these potential investors will write him checks to bail him out of everything. So. How’s your shoulder?”

  “It’s fine,” I lied, realizing my best friend wanted to get back to shopping and talking, not necessarily in that order. “Thanks for your company. And all the good info,” I added with a wink.

  Marla nodded, gave me a huge smile, and skittered away to coo over someone’s diamond necklace.

  It was almost seven-thirty, and the lounge was finally emptying. At least the platters had held up to the end. Liz and Julian appeared and also asked about my shoulder. I told them it was fine. Liz wondered if she and Julian could grab a quick cup of coffee, as they needed to talk. Then they would come back to do cleanup. I nodded. She didn’t mention the argument with Barry. I certainly hoped she didn’t want to visit with Julian so they could agree on a story.

  Stop being paranoid, I ordered myself.

  Marla swooped back and signaled that we go into the kitchenette. “I’ve got a flask in my purse,” she whispered. “This was supposed to be a cocktail party, and all Barry Dean managed to offer was wine. Disgusting. I’ve got some sherry in here, Dry Sack, your favorite. Why don’t you have some?”

  I politely declined her offer, which brought on a why-can’t-you-ever-relax harangue that I ignored.

  “OK,” I said, after Marla took a sip of her sherry. “What else have you got?”

  Marla leaned forward, eager to share. “Shane and Page fought because he didn’t lease her a piece from the six-thou-a-month category. Page is a compulsive shopper, like her sister. The woman is crazed, I’m telling you. Maybe they both are. Anyway, Page wants everything her sister has, and the sister got a piece from that six-thou-a-month case.”

  “Her sister?”

  “Pam Disharoon. Goldy, where have you been?”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. “The blond lingerie saleslady? She has so much stuff that Page Stockham is jealous of her?”

  “Word is that Pam is loaded with goodies, all gifts from boyfriends. She doesn’t have to work in sales, but she does for the thrill of it. Apparently, she’s a whiz at both selling stuff and getting stuff. Free stuff. She goes to a guy’s house. She and the guy have a wild lovemaking session on his Oriental rug, all while the guy’s wife is away, of course. Pam says, Oh, if only I had a rug like this, I could think of us on it. Next thing you know, a Kirman’s delivered to Pam’s front door. I’m telling you, the woman is infamous. I can’t believe you haven’t heard about her.”

  “I’ve been working. Too hard, according to you. What about Page?”

  Marla sniffed. “Page is insanely jealous of Pam. Page watches her sister like a hawk, to see what she gets. Then Page goes out and buys the same thing, only bigger. It’s like a game between them.”

  “And Shane fits in how?”

  Marla sipped more sherry. “Well, I just heard Shane and Page are in counseling, individually and together. Last month Page spent fifteen thousand dollars just on stuff. That woman can’t walk past a store without buying something that she thinks Pam might have. Pa
ge just bought a new white Audi, because one of Pam’s boyfriends gave her one. Page can’t stand the fact that Pam’s Audi license plate says ‘GOGIRL.’ She thinks it means go get more stuff.”

  I stacked the last of the dirty platters in a cardboard box. “So Page bought one because Pam had one? There’s a great motivation for purchasing a luxury vehicle.”

  Marla put down her glass and obligingly scraped a platter into the new trash bag. She hesitated, as if trying to remember something. “And that’s not all,” she added. “Before she was kicked out of tonight’s party, Page told a friend of mine that Shane had told her that ninety percent of the new stuff Page just bought has to go back. Page was upset, whoo! The last ten percent, she stowed in a storage shed—her fourth. But it’s not as if she isn’t trying to change. I hear she’s on an antidepressant that’s supposed to help with compulsive spending. Plus, she’s in individual counseling, as well as a support group for over-spenders. Anonymous, of course.”

  “For crying out loud—” I couldn’t imagine keeping any secrets from Marla. The woman was a bloodhound.

  “You haven’t heard the worst of it. The reason Shane had to come with her here? As part of their counseling deal, Page gets no credit cards, no checkbook. So if she wants something, Shane has to be there to get it for her.”

  “How’d she get the fifteen thou worth of stuff this month, then?”

  Marla raised an eyebrow. “Ellie McNeely called and left a message for Shane. He’d applied for a loan and it had come through. The minute Page heard it, she raced down to the bank and talked the clerk into letting her get the dough. Bye-bye loan.”