Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  “In a minute,” I said, moving into the kitchen. “First, do you like your steak—?” I broke off in mid sentence, seeing Elaine’s color pale about two shades. I congratulated myself on selecting the perfect entrée to follow an appetizer of rat entrails.

  I put the steaks in the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of Chardonnay. “If we get hungry, I’ll open a can of chicken noodle soup.”

  18

  ELAINE SIPPED HER wine while I finished the can of beer I’d opened.

  Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Finally, Elaine asked the question that I’d been considering. “How does Diana know who I am and where I’m living?”

  “The only thing I can figure is that she followed me to you. Then maybe she saw you in your car.” I shrugged. “She may not know what apartment you’re in. Otherwise, why not leave her gift by the door?”

  Elaine nodded. “That’s true.” She took a healthy swig of wine and poured herself another glass. “That makes me feel a little better.

  “You’re pretty sure Diana did this. Does your conclusion have anything to do with your conversation with Art?”

  I looked at her and once again realized that there was no lying to this woman, and she wouldn’t tolerate evasive answers for very long either.

  I cleared my throat. “Apparently Diana Hauser is not totally in tune with reality.”

  “No kidding. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  “I figured she was a little flaky, but it’s beginning to look like she could be dangerous.”

  Elaine’s eyes widened. “You think she killed Hauser?”

  “I don’t know.” I drained the beer and crushed the can in my hand, a sure sign that I was considering a situation from all angles and that they don’t make cans like they used to. “For someone who insists she didn’t do it, she sure

  doesn’t mind drawing attention to herself. Seems to me if I were under suspicion I’d be making a concerted effort to keep a low profile. It’s just too obvious. Even for Diana, who isn’t exactly known for her subtle ways.”

  “Okay, Quint. What did Art tell you?”

  “The woman is jealous to the point of being psychotic.” I told her about Art’s fling with Diana and about her reaction to his dating another woman. “The lady doesn’t handle rejection well.”

  Elaine eyed me. “Did you have an affair with Diana Hauser?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you almost have an affair with Diana Hauser?”

  “No,” I said. “Evolution prevailed.” I waved off her bewildered look. “Trust me. It never happened.”

  “But she came on to you.”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  Elaine sank into the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table. “I’m glad I never wasted all that psychic energy on men who rejected me.”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “If her reaction to Art’s rejection is typical, then it doesn’t follow that she would have killed Preston. I mean, she retaliated against Art’s new friend. Not against Art. And, if Diana sent the rat-in-a-box, she was lashing out at you, not me.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know whom Hauser was rejecting her in favor of.”

  A thought hit me. Whom or what. “Oh my God,” I said aloud.

  “What? Oh my God what?”

  I recalled the news Hauser had received the morning of his death. With all the events that had occurred since then, it had slipped my mind. “Hauser had a picture of this prize Arabian in a frame on his desk. In fact, he had more kind words to say about the horse than he did about Diana.”

  Elaine shook her head. “That’s weird.” Then she added, “Don’t tell me she iced the horse.” She giggled as if she knew that was a silly notion.

  “Someone might have. It was young and apparently healthy, and it died. Maybe it had some help.”

  Elaine considered that for a moment, then said, “Do they do horse autopsies?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “I don’t even know what they do with horses after they die. Somehow that never really seemed important to me. I think I’ll see what I can find out about Scheherazade’s untimely death at Hauser’s funeral tomorrow.”

  “Maybe they’ll take care of them both at once,” Elaine said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe they’ll bury Preston on top of his horse.” Elaine giggled.

  “Christ,” I said. “I knew Diana was a bit flaky. Now I’m not so sure about you.” Elaine giggled again.

  I leaned back, feeling suddenly very tired. “If Diana did the horse in, it doesn’t follow that she would kill Preston before he had ample time to suffer over his loss. What would be the point?”

  “I don’t know, Quint” Elaine paused, thinking. “It doesn’t seem like Diana Hauser has predictable behavior patterns.” She shook her head. “She sounds like a real fruitcake. Maybe she has voices in her head telling her to do these things.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The little voices that told her to lift silk lingerie may have escalated the war.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s late,” I said. It really wasn’t that late, but I was thinking there were better things to do with Elaine than sit on the couch and analyze Diana Hauser.

  Elaine placed an argyle sock-clad foot on my thigh.

  “What do you want to do now?” she asked, smiling. I put my hand on her foot. “Well, like I said. It is late.” She nodded.

  “You wanna work on the floor exercises we were practicing last night?”

  We did. Only we skipped the part on the floor. Still, we were both tired, and when the telephone rang at one-thirty, we were sound asleep. Elaine fumbled for the receiver on her nightstand and in my sleep-blurred mind I prayed it wasn’t Diana Hauser. I came to regret that prayer.

  Elaine mumbled a few words and sat upright. “Pam. Calm down. I can’t understand you. What are you saying?” She listened. “Are you sure?” A shorter pause. “We’ll be right over. Call the police.” She pulled the telephone cradle over onto the bed and pushed the button down. Without turning to me, she said, “Art’s dead. He’s been shot.”

  When we got to Art’s apartment, Pam was in a state of shock, but she was a whole lot better off than Art. He lay sprawled on the gold shag carpet. A dark stain had blossomed beneath him. His eyes were open, staring into an eternity that held nothing but empty space.

  Pam was huddled in the corner of Art’s couch, hugging her knees to her chest and whimpering. Elaine tried to calm her, but Pam just shook her head and brushed off Elaine’s gesture.

  I crouched in front of her. “Pam?”

  She looked at me and stopped shaking her head. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing, and finally allowed Elaine to put an arm around her shoulders.

  She hadn’t been able to call the police like Elaine told her, so I did, and specifically asked that O’Henry be notified. Then I turned back to Pam, whose sobs were subsiding

  a bit. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I found him like that.” Gulping down a sob, she took a deep breath and attempted to collect herself. “He … he was supposed to come to my place tonight, about nine. At ten-thirty I started calling him. I got real worried. I almost called you guys. Finally, I came over here.” She moaned, burying her face between her knees and chest. “I found him like that,” she finished, her words muffled. “Oh, God, why? What did he do?”

  “Did you call us right away?” I asked, trying to narrow down the time of his death.

  Her head bobbed up and down. “I think so.”

  I didn’t want to push her too hard, but I wanted to question her before the police arrived. “Pam, did Art still have a lot of gambling debts?”

  She jerked her head up and snapped, “I told you before, he wasn’t gambling anymore.”

  “He told me that too. I just need to know if he might have owed someone enough money to make them want to settle the debt this way.”

  Pam wiped her eye
s with the cuff of her sweater. “No. He was paying them off.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “He still owed a lot, but he was paying.”

  “Where was he getting the money to pay off the kind of debts he had?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. All I know is that he kept saying ‘I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.'”

  Good old Art always did have a way with words.

  The police arrived within a few minutes and the usual procedures followed—questions, photos, and analyses. They told me O’Henry was out of town but would be back in the morning. Elaine took Pam back to her apartment. The sun was coming up when I finally put the key in the door to Elaine’s place.

  I set the alarm for ten and didn’t exactly feel rested when it went off, but I wanted to be sure I didn’t miss Hauser’s funeral. I figured his murderer would be there, whoever that might be.

  Diana Hauser looked stunning in black, but then that’s what I expected. She wore a raw silk black dress accented by pearls partially visible under her silver-fox coat A wide-brimmed black hat framed her face. The service was brief, and afterward, before the procession out to the cemetery, she spent a few minutes accepting condolences.

  I approached her and she glanced from side to side as if seeking an escape route. Finding herself hemmed in, she turned to me, her smile appropriately strained as she held out her hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. McCauley.”

  I took that hand and held it as I spoke. “You seem to be holding up all right.”

  As a response, she raised her shoulders in the merest shrug. “One does what one has to.”

  I nodded. “I understand you’ve found an effective solution to the rodent problem. They make very thoughtful gifts.” Her smile froze and she tried to pull her hand from my grasp. I held on and leaned forward so I could speak into her ear. “One more move like that and that coat of yours isn’t going to be fit to dust furniture with.” Then I stepped back and released her hand. She didn’t reply, but met my gaze with a cold, hard glare.

  Having said what I’d come to say, I nodded and moved on.

  At the burial, she sat with Frank Griffin and his pudgy wife, Theresa, on one side and Grace Hunnicutt on the other. I stared at Griffin and when he finally glanced my way, I smiled and nodded. He turned away quickly without acknowledging me.

  I didn’t have any trouble attracting Sergeant O’Henry’s

  attention. He stood with his hands shoved deep into his overcoat pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold. He wasn’t wearing a hat and his ears were turning red. He nodded to me, but I turned away.

  There’d been a break in the frigid spell we’d been having and the temperature was in the mid thirties. It was still cold and I think everyone was in a hurry to get Preston in the ground. Preston’s passing had rated news coverage and several photographers were busy snapping the grieving friends and relatives, especially the beautiful, young widow.

  When the minister finally said his last words and the group broke up, I made my way over to Griffin. “If you’ll allow me a minute of your time, Frank, I won’t give you grief for not returning my phone calls.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk to you now, McCauley,” he said, taking his wife by the arm and leading her toward the row of cars. “Why don’t you make an appointment with my secretary?”

  “I don’t have anything to say to your secretary.”

  “Well, I don’t have anything to say to you,” he replied and turned away from me.

  “I’m sure you don’t now,” I said, “but I have some information you may find interesting. Some information I’m sure you’ll want to comment on.”

  He hesitated and I knew I had him. “I’ll only be a moment, Theresa,” he said to his wife, who smiled and nodded.

  Griffin and I stepped away from the group. “All right, McCauley. Tell me what you have to say and don’t waste my time.”

  “The files,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” he said and then laughed.

  That was my first clue that I was getting warm. If he didn’t know what I was talking about, he would have left me standing there talking to thin air.

  “A woman named Melinda Reichart. To be more specific, a dead woman named Melinda Reichart. I think we’d better talk.”

  He glanced at his watch, glanced at his wife, who was doing her best not to appear out of place, standing by herself in the dwindling crowd, then turned back to me. “McCauley, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m not about to have you questioning me about strange women in front of a distrusting wife.” He glanced at his watch again. “It’s two o’clock now. Meet me in my office at five-thirty.” He regarded me for a moment, his breath steaming in the air. “I’m not a pleasant man to cross.”

  “You’re not a pleasant man to share breathing space with,” I said. “See you at five-thirty.” I turned and spotted the white limousine parked along the curving cemetery road and walked toward it. Marshall, or whatever his name was, held the door for me and I slid into the back seat like I was used to the treatment.

  Grace had removed her dark glasses and replaced them with bifocals. Her black hat with its veil lay on the seat next to her.

  “How is your investigation coming, Quint?” “I’ve made some headway,” I said. “Can you tell me something?” “I’ll try.”

  “Did Preston’s horse, Scheherazade, die of natural causes?”

  She regarded me for a moment before answering. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t. According to the autopsy, she had been given a lethal injection of tranquilizer. Why do you ask?”

  “Is it common to give a horse an autopsy?” “Yes. Especially when the horse is young, healthy, and heavily insured.” “Any idea who killed it?”

  “No. The killing was senseless. In fact I was going to ask you to look into it. That horse represents a sizable investment.” She stared out the window, in the direction of her brother’s grave. “Preston was so fond of that animal. He was extremely upset when I told him of its death. It was as if someone knew what would hurt him the most.” Then she murmured, “The unkindest cut of all.”

  “Tell me something else,” I said. “Yesterday a female friend of mine received a box with a disemboweled rat in it. Do you think Diana’s capable of something like that?”

  “Oh, how awful.” Grace dwelled on the image of the rat a moment before considering my question. “Diana?” she said. “Well, I’m not sure. I hate to think that anyone I know could be capable of such a thing.”

  “Does that include Diana?”

  Grace was silent for a while. Finally she swallowed and said, “I don’t know. Diana is capable of some very strange behavior, but disemboweled rats? How could anyone bring themselves to do that?”

  “It’s possible that a cat did the disemboweling part, but it would have needed help getting the thing into a box and tying it up. Cats don’t have an opposable thumb.”

  Grace smiled briefly. “You know, it would be fairly easy to find a rat in that condition in the stable area.”

  “The house in Wayne?”

  She nodded. “I’m not saying I think she did it, but she would have had the opportunity.” She seemed to tangle with a thought for a moment. Then she said, “Do you think she might have killed Preston?”

  I couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was hoping for a yes or no answer.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She might have. But if she was hurting things she was jealous of, it doesn’t make sense for her to kill Preston.”

  “Perhaps not,” Grace mused.

  “What was their relationship?”

  She smiled and considered that before answering. “It wasn’t very good. She wanted to have her cake and eat it too, as they say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, she wanted Preston’s adulation, but she also wanted the attention of any other man who looked vaguely interesting. And, believe me, she wasn’t very fussy.
One man was not enough for dear Diana, and Preston wasn’t the sort to put up with that for very long.”

  “From what I gathered, Diana’s behavior was a grandstand play for attention.”

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t think so. Oh, she might have been angered by the fact that Preston was becoming bored with her, but she wouldn’t let that get in the way of her liaisons.”

  “Was Preston considering divorce?”

  “He mentioned it in passing. Although I don’t believe he ever took any action.”

  “Was Preston considering selling Hauser’s?”

  She was obviously taken aback by that question, but recovered quickly. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Was he?” I prodded.

  “No. Definitely not.” Her response was terse and invited no further discussion.

  “That’s not what Diana told me.”

  Grace emitted an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “That woman has a gift for making mountains out of molehills.”

  “Then you’re saying that Preston never considered selling the store?”

  “That’s not what I said.” She paused, apparently to collect her thoughts. “Preston went through a phase where he thought he was tied down by the store, that he wanted to be free to pursue whatever interest grabbed his fancy.

  Diana was quite concerned. She suspected that those other interests might not include her.” “Was she right?”

  “Possibly. At any rate, it was just a whim of Preston’s. It passed.”

  Grace studied me for a moment, then said, “Correct me if I’m wrong. You are looking at all the evidence you have and most of it points to Diana. But you are not totally convinced it was her. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. “I guess so.”

  “What would it take to convince you?”

  “A threatening letter addressed to the horse. Membership to the poison-of-the-month club. A signed confession.” I shrugged. “Wouldn’t take much.”

  “Well,” Grace said, “as I told you before, if I can answer any questions or get you any information, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll do the same for you.”