Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  She gazed at Susan for just a moment, then said to the inspector, “If it’s names you want, I can give you names. Everyone involved—Cargo’s bosses, a dozen or more of our customers. I’m ready to deal.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Susan left the room and walked back across the dance floor to the window table where Abidine still waited. “They said you were with the police. You were gone a long time.”

  She looked across at the band, playing a slow blues number. “Not so long as Yolanda will be gone.”

  A SHIPMENT OF SNOW

  Susan Holt stepped out of the Fort Myers airport wheeling her floral-patterned suitcase, a wave of Florida heat hit her like a hammer. The temperature had been hovering around the freezing mark a few hours earlier in Manhattan. The change had been a bit sudden for her, and the air conditioning in the rental car felt especially good. It was also a treat driving with an uncluttered windshield after the registration and inspection stickers required on New York cars. Her position in store promotions for Mayfield’s of Manhattan often took her to other cities. South Florida was not as exotic as Japan or Iceland or even London, but it was a nice change from the crowds of Fifth Avenue shoppers bundled against the first flurries of winter. Heading south on route 75, bound for a big shopping mall near Naples, she tried to convince herself that the two-night stay was really necessary. Certainly the type of Christmas shopping promotion planned by Gulfpalm would be out of place in New York. A shipment of snow from the north was hardly needed there, even in a mild winter, and there’d be no space near the store to dump it anyway. Gulfpalm’s facility, surrounded by a sea of mall parking lots, was another matter entirely. Susan checked into her Naples hotel by midafternoon and called her contact at the store. Marci Chester sounded young and perky over the phone, urging her to come right out for a look around before the big snow event the following morning. “Sounds good,” Susan decided. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  She’d seen photographs of the Gulfpalm store, but it was even more impressive as she drove up and parked in the massive lot. Two stories high, it swept around in a gentle curve to connect with one end of a gigantic shopping mall. Approaching the main entrance, past dancing fountains and groves of palm trees, Susan could almost imagine herself at a first-class Vegas casino. Inside, all was brightness and glass, with wide aisles in the cosmetics department that signaled luxury in both product and price tag.

  Marci Chester was as perky as her voice. Still in her twenties, she had the sort of big blond hair and perfect skin that was fashionable these days. “Great to meet you at last, Susan!” she enthused. “Seems like we’ve been writing and talking to each other for months. I want you to meet Mr. Vangridge, our store manager, before I show you around.”

  Susan glanced at her watch. “It’s going on five, I don’t want to keep you if that’s your quitting time.”

  “I’ll be here late tonight making sure everything’s lined up for the promotion. We did this last year and had a real mob of people. All these transplanted northerners brought the kids to see the first snow of their young lives.”

  They rode up on the gleaming glass-sided escalator to the second floor. Benjamin Vangridge’s office was over in one corner with promotions, art, advertising, purchasing, and the other departments. “Everything is right here,” Susan noted, thinking of the scattered offices in her own Manhattan store.

  “Everything but billing. That’s handled by the home office in Atlanta.”

  Obviously they were expected, and the secretary waved them through while pushing a buzzer. Vangridge was a tall, silver-haired man who looked exactly like the pictures Susan had seen in the trade magazines. He smiled and shook hands and welcomed her to the Gulfpalm store. She took a chair opposite his desk and found herself surprised by his southern drawl, something the magazine photographs couldn’t reveal.

  “It’s a pleasure to be here,” she assured him. “It’s not every day I fly four hours to see a truckload of snow.”

  Marci lifted a black scrapbook that occupied a corner of the president’s desk. “Here’s what we have so far, just from this year. I think we’re going to top last Christmas, at least for publicity.”

  “The first item was from yesterday’s Buffalo Evening News, a three-column captioned photo from page one of the second section. It showed workmen using shovels and a bulldozer to fill a truck with snow: Flakes to Florida! A large refrigerated truck is loaded with some of Buffalo’s recent snowfall, starting a 1,500mile journey to a shopping mall near Naples, Florida. The Gulfpalm department store rented the truck and will use the snow to launch its Christmas shopping season this Saturday morning.

  Susan turned the page and found a folded full-page ad from the Naples paper: It’ll be snowing bargains at Gulfpalm this Saturday! Bring the whole family— especially those who’ve never seen snow before! Souvenirs, prizes, snowman contests! Fun for all! On the opposite page were news articles about the event. The truck from Buffalo was scheduled to pull in at ten o’clock, and the pile of snow was expected to last throughout the day, despite temperatures in the seventies.

  Vangridge smiled. “I don’t have to tell you the object is to generate traffic in the store. Last year’s event was extremely popular and got the holiday season off to a fine start. Unfortunately, the early winter weather was so mild we had to settle for shaved ice from a plant in north Florida. It looks pretty much like snow.”

  “Did you go up to Buffalo yourself this year?”

  “No, no. Our ad manager, Hank Burnside, makes the trip. Not in the truck—he flies up and back. Marci keeps the publicity flowing at this end.”

  “I have plenty of help,” she assured Susan.

  “Mr. Vangridge, can you tell me something about the population base you draw upon here?”

  “Please call me Ben.” He was every inch the southern gentleman, flirting just a bit with this carpetbagger from Manhattan. She wouldn’t be surprised if he invited her to dinner before she flew back north. “Most of our customers come from Naples and North Naples, though our location near the route 75 highway makes us accessible from Fort Myers and points north. Naples itself has grown tremendously in recent years.” He had the sort of pleasant, flowing voice Susan enjoyed listening to, and she was almost sorry when Marci Chester suggested a few moments later that they should get on with the tour. “Is there anything here you can take back to Manhattan?” he asked as she was leaving.

  “I hope so. Perhaps our two stores could run a joint event next Christmas— Snow Day at Gulfpalm and Sun Day at Mayfield’s. It’s worth thinking about.”

  Ben Vangridge shook hands again, giving her a particularly warm smile. “I’ll be downstairs in the morning when the truck from Buffalo rolls in. I’m sure we’ll see each other then.”

  Though the Gulfpalm store hardly compared to Mayfield’s, Susan was impressed with many modern features that added comfort and convenience to the shopping experience. She even found herself complimenting Marci about the spacious ladies’ room where they paused near the end of the tour. They finished up at the young woman’s second-floor office, where Susan was introduced to the advertising manager, Hank Burnside.

  “Susan Holt from Mayfield’s of Manhattan,” Marci announced. “Susan, this is Hank Burnside.” He was good-looking, thirty or so, with rumpled brown hair and a bit of a squint. A pencil was stuck behind his ear.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, letting his eyes roam quickly down her body in its fashionable gray suit. “Is that what they’re wearing in New York this winter?”

  “I didn’t bring my winter clothes, to Florida,” she replied. “Should I have?” His eyes came back to her face. “A bathing suit is fine, if you’ve got one.”

  Susan dismissed the topic with a shrug. “I’m only here two days. Hardly enough time to get all sandy.”

  “You could have brought us some New York City snow.” She shook her head. “Just rain so far this season.”

  He seemed to lose interest in their banter and sudd
enly turned to the telephone. “I have to call the TV station, schedule two more spots for tonight. ’Bye for now. See you later.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Marci said after he’d left, “but you may want to be busy if he asks you out to dinner.”

  “Susan grinned. ‘Thanks for the tip. Is this personal experience speaking?”

  “You bet! Come on. I’ll walk you to your car and show you where we’re dumping the snow.”

  The parking lot at Gulfpalm’s end of the mall was actually divided into two sections split by a landscaped strip.”That’s for the Christmas overflow,” Marci explained, waving toward the farthest area. “The Lincoln you see there belongs to Mr. Vangridge. For tomorrow the lot becomes a winter wonderland with tons of snow all the way from Buffalo. The kids will be climbing on it and throwing snowballs and even making snowmen, all right here in sunny Florida with the temperature in the seventies.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Susan promised. “It sounds great!”

  As she got into her car she was aware of a middle-aged man with a dark complexion, perhaps a Cuban. He stood by his car in the next row, openly watching her, though he made no attempt to approach. She thought no more about him as she pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the hotel.

  Susan Holt read the morning paper over breakfast and saw the two-page spread announcing Snow Day at Gulfpalm. The features for children and adults, including the presence of Santa Claus and a high-school band, were boxed and printed in bold type on the left-hand page. An illustration of romping youngsters dominated the opposite page. Hank Burnside and the advertising department had done a nice job. She wasn’t surprised when she pulled into the mall parking lot at nine-thirty to see several dozen cars already there, awaiting the truckload of Buffalo’s snow. It was a sunny morning with the temperature, already over seventy.

  Susan spotted Marci Chester at once, clutching a clipboard as she hurried back and forth between various groups. As yet there was no sign of Ben Vangridge, but his car was in its parking space. Hank Burnside came over as soon as he saw her. “Good to see you again, Susan. I’ll bet they don’t do things like this on Fifth Avenue”

  “Our big treat is when they cart the snow away, not bring it in.” She happened to scan the crowd and saw again the dark man she’d noticed as she left the store the previous afternoon. “Do you know that fellow over there?” she asked Burnside.

  “That’s Jimmy Garcia, our security chief. Don’t worry, he stares at everyone like that.”

  “He looks like he might be Cuban.”

  “He is. Born and raised there. He fought Castro for a long time, then took a boat across about ten years ago. Most of the Cubans settle around the Miami area, and I met him there through some Cuban friends. He came over to our Gulf Coast and Vangridge gave him a job. I’ll introduce you later.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a cheer from the crowd as a big silver truck with New York plates turned into the parking lot. Across its side was strung a banner, no doubt repeated on the opposite side: A Shipment of Snow, from Buffalo to Gulfpalm with Love! The high-school band struck up a lively rendition of “Winter Wonderland.”

  Hank Burnside left Susan’s side to greet the two drivers, who were responding to the cheers. Susan moved over behind a young mother with three children who were about to witness their first snow. “It’s white and it’s very, very cold! Your father and I moved south to get away from it.”

  “Will it hurt us?” a small child wanted to know.

  “It can freeze your little fingers, but I’ll make sure it doesn’t. Come on!

  They’re dumping it now!”

  The truck had tipped its cargo section and the huge mound of snow slid out easily, forming an impressive pile in the parking lot. As the children broke free and ran toward the snow, it was Garcia, the security chief, who first noticed something wrong. He held up both hands and shouted, “Back! Everyone stay back!”

  Susan ran up to the other side of the snow pile, where Marci stood still clutching her clipboard. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out.” Marci ignored the warning to stay back and hurried over to Garcia. “Why did you stop them?” she asked. “What’s the trouble?”

  Then, edging forward a bit, Susan saw it too. An arm clad in a dark suit coat was protruding from the snow. The security chief shouted at the drivers. “What’s this? Help me here!”

  Mothers covered their youngsters’ eyes, and one woman screamed. Garcia and the drivers brushed some snow away and they saw that it was indeed a body. Benjamin Vangridge, president of Gulfpalm, was impossibly dead in the snow that had just arrived from Buffalo.

  It was Marci Chester’s quick wits that saved the day. Seeing that body surrounded by horrified mothers and gaping children, she ran over to the band and ordered them to lead a march away from the scene. She pulled some mothers and children into line behind the band and within minutes a parade was snaking its way across the parking lot.

  Many of the children turned to look back at the mound of snow, where Vangridge’s body appeared from a distance like a great black bird tumbled from the sky. But their mothers urged them on and soon the parade had worked its way to the far end of the mall, with Santa Claus keeping pace all the, way. “Don’t worry,” she heard Marci shout to the children. “We’ll be back to play in the snow before long. You’ll have the whole day there.”

  Susan had followed the parade for a time, leaving the death scene to the store employees. She’d noticed Hank Burnside on his cellular phone almost at once, calling the police. Within minutes a patrol car was on the scene, quickly followed by an ambulance and an unmarked car with a roof flasher. Never one to shy away from the police, she headed back toward the action.

  Garcia was explaining what he knew to a tall detective with small, piercing eyes and thin blond hair. He noticed her as soon as she came up, and when she started edging away he reached out to touch her arm. “Did you see all this too, miss?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” he said, winding up his conversation with the security chief. “Stay right there.”

  Burnside hurried up with one of his young women assistants. “Can you tell us how soon the body will be out of there so we can resume our Snow Day event? Time is pretty important with that sun beating down.”

  “You’re—?”

  “Hank Burnside, the store’s advertising manager.”

  The detective tried a smile, but it didn’t fit with his face. “I’m Sergeant Appleton. I guess it’ll take us some time.”

  “An hour, two hours? Don’t you just photograph the body and take it away?”

  Appleton’s attempt at a smile faded. “The dead man is Gulfpalm’s manager, right? His body is over there with a chest wound. It looks very much as if he was murdered. Your security chief tells me he was in the store yesterday. So what’s he doing in a truck full of snow that left Buffalo two days ago?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Burnside admitted.

  “Neither do I. And we’re going to have to search through every bit of that snow for some sort of clue. When we’re finished, you can have what’s left.” He turned on Susan as Burnside beat a hasty retreat. “Now what about you?”

  “I don’t know. You said you wanted to talk to me.” “Yeah. I’m Sergeant Appleton. Are you a store employee?”

  “Not this store. My name is Susan Holt. I’m in the promotions department at Mayfield’s in New York. I flew down for two days to see how their Snow Day came off.”

  “I’d say it’s come off poorly so far. Did you know Ben Vangridge?”

  “I just met him yesterday.”

  “Then he was here in the store.”

  “Oh yes. We had a nice chat.”

  “Any idea how his body got into that truck with the snow?”

  “None whatsoever. Can you tell how long he’s been dead?”

  “Not with the body packed in snow like th
at. Maybe the medical examiner can take a guess.”

  A detective came over with one of the drivers. “This is Walt Creasey. He was driving when the truck pulled in.”

  Creasey was a bearded man in plaid shirt and jeans, wearing a baseball cap backward on his head. With the beard it was difficult to estimate his age, though there were a few gray strands visible in it. “Hey,” he said, I don’t know anything about this body. The truck was already loaded when I took over.”

  “Where was that, sir?” the detective asked. Susan had the feeling it wasn’t good when he called someone “sir.”

  “Buffalo, New York, where the snow is!”

  “You drove it alone?”

  “Hell, no! It’s over fifteen hundred miles and they wanted it here quick.

  This is my partner, Pierre Rivage.”

  Sergeant Appleton eyed a short dark man with a thin moustache and glasses, who’d come up to join them. ‘You French?” he asked.

  “French-Canadian,” the man answered with a slight accent. “We often team up on these long trips.”

  The detective shifted his attention back to Creasey. “Where’d you stop overnight?”

  “We didn’t. One of us drove while the other slept. We left Buffalo right after dinner on Thursday and drove through two nights. Ate at truck stops on the way.”

  “You must have stopped somewhere else.”

  “Didn’t,” Rivage confirmed. “We stayed on the road. Would have made better time except for a storm in West Virginia.”

  “What about this morning?”

  “Got to Naples a bit after eight. We lingered over breakfast so there’d be a crowd here to greet us. I was driving and then after breakfast Walt took over.”

  “So how did Vangridge’s body get in your truck?”

  “Beats me,” Walt Creasey said. “Maybe it got put in with the snow up in Buffalo.”

  “Several people saw him here yesterday afternoon, after you were already on the way,” Appleton said. Susan could see that his patience was wearing thin. He was a detective who thrived on the routine of robberies, drug busts, and domestic violence. A bizarre case like this was beyond his comprehension. He wanted easy answers and there weren’t any.