Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  “Sounds like a lot of songs.” I also thought that two days wasn’t enough time to know how someone likes his eggs cooked, but I didn’t ask about that.

  “Maybe.”

  Another sip of wine and she was still watching me, waiting for some kind of response to let her know how she was doing. I couldn’t give her one, because I didn’t know. She was no less beautiful, alive, or desirable than she had been three days ago, but something rang hollow. Top of her class in brains, looks, and personality, a lot of flash and class, but not a lot to chew on. Three days ago I hadn’t noticed that.

  “So, McCauley,” Maggie said, trying a different angle. “What have you been up to these last few days?”

  “Not much,” I said, not wanting to go into it.

  “That’s not what I hear from Harry. I understand you’re out of work.”

  “Just temporary.”

  “Need a place to stay?”

  When I didn’t answer she said, “Okay, Quint, I guess I owe you a little groveling? Why don’t we pick up where we left off? It’s only been three days. Come back. Please.”

  How could I tell someone who placed an emotional price tag on every action and had trouble discerning shades other than black and white that I didn’t want groveling? I cleared my throat and jammed my hands in my jeans pockets. I noticed that her wine had an unpleasant aftertaste.

  “I hear you have a letter for me.”

  She plunked her glass on the table. I wasn’t trying to irritate her. I’m not sure what I had wanted on my way over here, but, at this point, I just wanted to leave. The situation was sour, like the wine, and I didn’t feel inclined to try to change it

  Maggie handed me the letter and at first I thought there must be some mistake. This letter should have Preston Hauser’s name on the front, not mine. I recognized the type and the innocuous white envelope with no return address. I swallowed hard. That was definitely my name there on the front.

  “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked.

  “When did this arrive?”

  “Today. Why? What is it?”

  I wasn’t intentionally ignoring Maggie, but I had a lot on my mind at the moment. Apparently she didn’t see it that way.

  “Look, McCauley. This strong, silent bit is wearing thin. Either talk to me or take your stupid letter that’s giving you palpitations and get the hell out of here.”

  I opened the envelope and removed a letter and a photograph. I looked at the photo, then the letter, and I could almost hear the ice cubes clinking in my veins. I was finally able to empathize with my client. Then I looked at the photo again and something clicked. I pocketed the envelope and its contents, said to Maggie, “I’ve gotta go,” and walked out of her apartment.

  Maggie’s nostrils flared when she was really mad—one of the few gestures that was totally unflattering to her.

  It felt good to get out of the city, and it was a fine day for a drive—sunny, cold day, with yesterday’s snowfall sparkling like gems. As I was driving, it occurred to me that Maggie hadn’t noticed my mustache, or lack of it. She hadn’t even looked at me funny. Interesting.

  There’s not much to Wayne except the vast, expensive homes set on vast, expensive acreage. And there were almost as many horses as people.

  The Hauser estate was immense and the driveway long enough to make me wonder if they had ever considered putting up a gas station. There was a white-fenced paddock on either side of the driveway, but both were empty today and the snow fresh and untouched. The setting looked like a Christmas card.

  A maid ushered me into what she called the sitting room, where Diana Hauser waited for me. Intended or not, the effect was stunning. The room was white, with white carpet and furniture, a few chrome pieces, and white drapes framing a huge bay window that looked out onto the snow-covered expanse of lawn. Diana Hauser stood in front of this window and turned toward me as I entered the room. She wore a blue silk pants outfit, all one piece with a plunging vee for a neckline, vivid against the stark white.

  “Thank you for coming, Quint,” she said, throwing her arms around me and holding on longer than necessary. I

  gently moved her away. She looked a little hurt and confused. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “It’s been a long couple of days.” She smiled like she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about and sank into a cushion on the couch. Sighing, she stared out the window. Finally, she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Bored?” I asked, realizing as I spoke that there is a time and place to be a smart ass and this probably wasn’t it. I shook my head and sat in a chair next to the couch. “I’m sorry. What can I do to help?”

  She turned toward me, apparently forgiving my attitude. “I don’t know. That Sergeant O’Henry has been harassing me. I came here from the city because I thought he’d leave me alone if I were harder to get at. I was wrong. He was here this morning.”

  “And what did the good sergeant want?”

  “He wanted to know what I was doing last night. He wouldn’t say why.”

  “Did you give him an answer he was happy with?”

  She shrugged. “I was here. Alone. I watched a movie, cried, and got drunk on vodka martinis.”

  “What was the movie?”

  “I don’t remember the name of it. It was something with Arnold Schwarzenegger playing some barbarian.”

  “That narrows it,” I said. “Sounds like a real tearjerker.”

  “It wasn’t the movie that made me cry. You sound like O’Henry. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “I’m on Preston’s side. Remember, he’s the one who’s paying me.”

  She lit a cigarette with an ivory-trimmed lighter, then dropped it with a clatter on the white marble coffee table and said, “That’s rather mercenary of you, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. What else did O’Henry say?”

  “What difference does it make,” she snapped. “The guy’s a jerk.”

  “That may be true, but he’s a jerk you’re going to have to deal with.” “Why did he ask me what I was doing last night?” “Didn’t he tell you?”

  She impatiently tapped an ash off the end of her cigarette, then crushed it out. “Oh, he said something about some guy from the store getting killed. Wanted to know if I knew him.”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” she said, agitated. “He worked in shipping. Why would I know him?” She stood abruptly, walked over to the window, and stared at the snow. “Now, not only does he think I killed Preston, he thinks I killed some shipping clerk.”

  I joined her at the window, pretending to be absorbed in the view. “He doesn’t think you killed the shipping clerk. He knows who killed him.” I felt her turn toward me so I continued, “I did.”

  Her mouth dropped slightly, and I was pretty sure this was news to her.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Because he tried to kill me.”

  That appeared to take her unawares too, but she seemed more confused than shocked. “Why?” she finally asked.

  “That is the key question, isn’t it?” She went back to the couch and sat, shaking her head. “I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t get what?” I said. “Why someone other than you would want me dead?”

  She stiffened slightly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I took the photo and the letter from my pocket and threw them on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t call this fan mail, would you?”

  She moved the two items around on the table with a bright red nail, as if not wanting to touch them.

  I picked up the letter. “I like this. A bit of the old sod.” I read the verse aloud:

  “There once was a man named McCauley,

  Whose nosing around wasn’t jolly.

  His employer’s demise

  Didn’t cut him to size,

  And it turned out to be his last folly.”

  Diana gave me her best blank look.

  “It’s not bad,” I sai
d. “Probably wouldn’t win a limerick contest, but then there’s really not much you can do with McCauley. Too bad I’m not from Nantucket.”

  I exchanged the letter for the photograph. “And not a bad likeness of me.”

  Diana gave me a wry smile. “Nice try, Quint” She leaned back in the couch, arms folded, in control. “What makes you think I sent them?”

  “This.” I held the photo up for her to see. “It was taken Wednesday. The day you asked me to lunch.”

  “You’re really grasping at straws, aren’t you? That picture could have been taken any time.”

  I had hoped she would say that. I shook my head and sat next to her, holding the photo so we could both see it. “No. It had to be Wednesday.” I paused for a dramatic effect. “I know I’m not likely to make the list of Chicago’s best-dressed men, but I would never, unless I had no choice, wear a brown striped tie with a blue tattersall shirt.” I paused. “On Wednesday I had no choice.”

  She gave me a frozen look. “You’re basing this ridiculous accusation on the premise that Quint McCauley would never clash?” She was amused.

  “One other thing.” I tapped my naked upper lip. “If it wasn’t taken yesterday or today, it had to have been taken

  20 years ago. That’s how long I had the mustache.”

  Her look hardened and after a moment she said, “So. Someone took a picture of you on Wednesday. Prove it was me.”

  “All right,” I said. “The bullseye drawn on the picture is a nice touch. And it’s made even more effective because of the crystal-ball distortion of the picture. To create this extreme a distortion, you need a fisheye lens.” Diana’s eyes narrowed. “On Wednesday you were using a fisheye lens.”

  “Just a coincidence,” she said, sounding less sure of herself.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it’s enough of a coincidence to arouse O’Henry’s curiosity. That doesn’t take much, you know. And I’m willing to bet a lot of police, armed only with a search warrant, would find, probably right in this house, the typewriter that produced this thoughtful message. I’d also be willing to bet that Siamese of yours has recently suffered a cut paw or maybe an ingrown claw. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a bastard,” she said, her eyes filling.

  Sighing, I leaned back in the couch. I guess I didn’t expect her to thank me.

  We sat there for several minutes that seemed a lot longer. The chrome grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked off each second. I didn’t have all day, and I wasn’t sure why I was being so considerate of a woman who had mailed me a death threat.

  I looked at her as she continued to stare out the window. Her mind could have been a million miles away, but her eyes weren’t telling. Someone had to keep this moving.

  “Why?” I asked her.

  Finally she turned toward me. It was as if she just realized, after all this time, that I was sitting there next to her. “Oh, I don’t know. It just sort of happened.”

  “Can you expand on that a bit?”

  She sighed. “I was sitting here one day, reading the paper and I saw that picture of him with the winner of one of the Hauser Foundation grants and I thought to myself, ‘Well, there’s one more life that son of a bitch is going to control.'” She shot me a significant look. “It takes more than talent to win one of those, you know.” Then she turned back to the scene at the window. “I was so disgusted I threw the paper across the room and went to make myself a drink. When I came back, Samantha, my cat, was sitting on the newspaper, licking and chewing at her paw.” She smiled to herself. “Samantha was the only living creature in Preston’s life that he had absolutely no control over. Anyway,” she continued, “I noticed she had torn a claw and it was bleeding, rather badly. I had one of the maids take her to the vet. Then I noticed Samantha had bled all over Preston’s picture.” She nodded to herself as if confirming a suspicion. “I thought he looked good with blood smeared all over his face. That’s when I got the idea.”

  “And you decided to launch a mail campaign?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not really. I don’t think I really planned past that first letter. Then I saw how upset it made him. He never mentioned a thing, but I knew from the timing that it had to be the letter.” She shrugged slightly. “I liked the way it made him distracted and nervous. I was controlling him for a change, and it felt good. So I sent him the second one. I finally had a way of evening up the relationship. For once he knew what it was like to be manipulated—to have someone playing the puppetmaster.”

  “Diana, no one ever controls another person without that person’s permission.”

  She looked directly into my eyes, then turned away and said, “I needed him. Sometimes I hated him and sometimes I adored him. But there was never one time when I didn’t need him.”

  “What was it you needed? His money?”

  “Are you kidding? I come from money. I can’t even conceive what it’s like not to have it.” She paused. “No. It was him I needed. He made me feel alive. He controlled my moods. When he was doting on me, he was incredible. When he wasn’t, well …” Her voice drifted off.

  “Did you kill him?”

  She looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I was kidding or not. “That would have been a stupid thing for me to do, wouldn’t it?” Her voice rose. “I wanted his goddamned attention. How much attention am I going to get from a corpse?”

  Death. The ultimate distraction. I was moved by her sentiment. “You said you needed him. Did you love him?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned.”

  “People don’t love each other anymore. They use each other. They enter into this contract that says, ‘I’ll play the lead in your script if you play the lead in mine. And whatever you do, don’t ad lib.'”

  “What was your role?”

  “I was the young, beautiful, charming hostess who complemented him and made him the envy of his friends. He pampered me, gave me gifts, made me feel special.” She sighed. “But in the end, he didn’t keep his part of the bargain. He began to ignore me, not all the time and not consistently but enough so he knew it bothered me. And he knew how to manipulate me by giving and withholding his attentions.”

  “His ignoring you. That wasn’t part of the rules?” I asked, intrigued by this game, but glad I had never played it.

  She continued as if she were explaining some very elementary facts to a slow learner. Maybe she was. “Nobody ignores me.” There was a touch of incredulity in her voice and she placed a hand over her breast. “Could you ignore

  me?” She really expected me to answer that.

  “Not when you’re tossing lingerie in my in-basket”

  She stood and walked over to a chrome liquor cart. Without bothering to ask if I wanted anything, she dropped a piece of ice into each of two glasses and smothered the cubes with the contents of a crystal decanter. It looked like scotch. She tasted hers before handing one to me.

  “I have trouble controlling myself around men I find attractive. I think Preston liked that about me. I’m very demonstrative.”

  I wished she hadn’t said that.

  She combed a few stray strands of hair away from her face with her fingernails. It was all in place now. Resting one arm on the back of the sofa, she turned toward me. At first she didn’t speak, just sat there in that provocative pose, sipping her drink and studying me with those icy blue eyes.

  Finally she said, “What about you?” Another sip. “Are you always this cool?” “Yes,” I lied. “Always.”

  She set the drink down and moved closer. The light fragrance she wore made me suddenly thirsty, and I took a large drink of the scotch. She stroked my face with the back of her hand and watched me. It occurred to me that this was the second time today a woman had advanced on me. My defenses were weakening.

  “Always?” she asked.

  I took hold of her wrist, which felt very small and fragile,
and moved it away. She slid closer still, pressed her mouth against mine and moved her other hand down to my thigh. She was warm and soft and her body touched and pressed against mine in all the right places. There were a lot of good reasons for calling an abrupt halt to the activities, but I didn’t really want to hear any of them.

  My mental dilemma must have been similar to the one

  experienced by some primeval ancestor when he tried to convince himself that climbing up out of the muck and breathing the air of reason was a good idea. Why bother when the muck feels so damned good?

  Despite myself, I poked my head up for air. Score one for the lizards. “I still need to know a few things. For example,” I continued before she could interrupt, “why send me a letter?”

  Her smile both mocked and tempted me. “I hoped you scared easily.” She leaned back against the couch cushion, still smiling. “I think maybe I was right.”

  It was my turn to stare out the window.

  When she spoke again the humor was gone. “Did I break the law?” She was watching me as if she had just asked a profound question.

  “Assuming you didn’t kill him, I don’t know,” I said, then began to think out loud. “Maybe assault. But no. That’s so nebulous any lawyer could get you off. Besides, I think Preston would have to file suit. Not too likely.” I clicked off a number of offenses in my head and came up with the only one that I thought might stick. “Illegal use of the mail.”

  She touched her fingers to her lips in an effort to suppress a giggle.

  “However,” I added, “if you combine that offense with murder …”—I shook my head—“you just might spend the rest of your life licking postage stamps on death row.”

  “I told you, I didn’t kill him,” she said as if stating the obvious. “I had no reason.”

  “How do I know you didn’t kill him so you could smoke with your coat on?”