Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  Garcia seemed pleased with himself. “If you were right about the killer leaving something here, I figured he’d be coming back for it. I wanted to catch him just as bad as you.”

  She took her cup of coffee and walked over to the police car where Hank Burnside, Gulfpalm’s ad manager, sat in handcuffs. “You should hear this too, so you’ll know what you did wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no way you could have known about that truck.”

  Appleton interrupted the exchange. “Perhaps you’d better tell us what happened first, Miss Holt, and why Vangridge was killed.”

  “Burnside here was earning some extra money selling illegal guns to Cuban exiles in south Florida. That earlier theft of rifles from the store was probably his doing. I guess police surveillance had gotten a little tight lately, and with Gulfpalm about to repeat its Snow Day, he decided the perfect way to bring a shipment of weapons into the area from the north was in a truck proudly announcing it was carrying snow to Florida. He dumped the snow outside Buffalo and filled the truck with the guns.”

  Already Appleton was shaking his head. “If the truck was full of guns, how did they deliver snow to the parking lot this morning?”

  Susan gestured at the truck. “That answer was obvious to me almost from the beginning. There were two almost identical trucks. The switch was made here. The two drivers were switched and the truck’s license plates were switched. When the truck arrived today it needed to have the New York plates it started with, and that’s where you made your mistake, Hank. New York vehicles carry registration and inspection stickers on their front windshields. Florida vehicles don’t. The truck that pulled in with its New York plates and cargo of snow had a bare windshield. When I had a chance to examine the snow itself I realized it was shaved ice. It came from the same Florida plant as last year’s so-called snow. That got me thinking. If the snow was loaded in Florida, what had the original truck carried this far? What had the killer left at this truck stop, which was the only possible transfer point? When we got here it was easy to spot the truck because it had Florida plates but New York stickers on its windshield.”

  “Did you know Burnside was involved?”

  “Almost certainly. Vangridge must have planned to meet the truck here and ride the rest of the way with them. That was strange in itself. He could have accomplished the same dramatic effect getting on a few blocks from the store. I think he suspected something. Maybe the ice company phoned him about the order. In any event, he drove up here after the store closed at ten o’clock. And he didn’t come alone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because his Lincoln was still in its parking space this morning. That could mean only one thing. He drove with someone else, and that person had to be the killer. Otherwise, why didn’t he report the crime to the police? Either he went in the killer’s car or they took his car and the killer brought it back. I don’t believe you planned to kill him, Hank, unless you had to. But he was suspicious of something and you convinced him you should go along.” She turned back to the detective. “If the killer left the Gulfpalm store with Vangridge, it was almost certainly one of the four people working late with him—Garcia, Hank Burnside, Marci Chester, or Ann O’Toole. Of the four, Burnside was the most likely, simply because he’d been in Buffalo arranging for the shipment of snow. And he told me he met Garcia through Cuban friends in Miami. That gave him the connections for selling the guns to the right group. When I started asking people about this truck stop he heard about it and panicked. He followed us up here, hoping to move the guns before we found them.”

  “What about the drivers?”

  “One of them, the Canadian Pierre Rivage, had to be involved. He claimed he was sleeping in the truck when the switch must have taken place. Once the license plates were changed, the other driver, Creasey, might not have realized it was a different truck. Rivage drove the rest of the way into Naples while he slept.”

  “Why do you think Vangridge was shot?” Appleton asked.

  “I think Burnside and Vangridge drove up together and Vangridge spotted the two identical trucks. Maybe the driver opened one to show him the snow and then something happened. Burnside shot him and they put his body in with the snow because they had nowhere else to put it. They couldn’t just leave it there with the guns the Cubans were buying and I don’t suppose Burnside wanted it in the car with him.”

  “Rivage shot him!” the ad manager shouted from the back of the police car. “I didn’t have anything to do with that part!”

  “I think your gun will tell the story,” Appleton said.

  Burnside was in a panic. Perhaps he was remembering they had a death penalty in Florida. “The gun was Rivage’s. He gave it to me to get rid of!”

  “I’ll have both drivers picked up,” Appleton decided. “It seems to me Creasey might know more than he’s admitting.”

  On Sunday morning Marci Chester phoned Susan’s hotel as she was packing. “What’s this about Hank being arrested for the murder? He never showed up for our date.”

  “Garcia can tell you all about it, Marci. I’ve been up half the night with the police and I’m all talked out. Besides, I have a plane to catch.”

  “Do you think something like this would go over at Mayfield’s?”

  “What? A truckload of snow, illegal weapons, and a murdered store manager? Not a chance! That’s too much excitement for New York!”

  A SHOWER OF DAGGERS

  Susan groaned. She’d slept less than three hours and her mouth felt as if it was full of cobwebs. She glanced at the lidless toilet in one corner of the cell. “Do they give you anything to eat here?”

  “Pretty soon now. They’ll bring something around seven o’clock. What you in for?”

  “Murder, I guess. I haven’t been charged yet.” The other woman gave a low whistle of appreciation and Susan hastened to add, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Have you called a lawyer?”

  “Not exactly. I called someone who’ll get me a lawyer.” She had called Mike Brentnor, her coworker in promotions at Mayfield’s, Manhattan’s largest department store. He was hardly a friend but in the middle of the night in a strange city she was feeling desperate. Considering that she’d awakened him from a sound sleep, he’d been both concerned and reassuring, promising to be on the first morning plane out of LaGuardia, a flight that would take less than an hour.

  Presently a guard brought her a breakfast tray with some juice, coffee, and a hard roll. “You’ll be brought before the judge at ten o’clock,” he said, not unkindly. “Have you seen your lawyer yet?”

  “No. I think someone’s on the way.”

  Mike Brentnor arrived a few minutes before nine, looking just a bit flustered. He was slim and slyly handsome, around thirty, the sort of man Susan used to see by the dozen in Manhattan singles bars. She met with him now in one of the interrogation rooms. “I phoned Marx from the airport and he gave me the name of a good criminal lawyer up here,” he told her.

  For an instant she was dismayed that he’d reported to their superior, but of course Saul Marx would have to know about it. She wouldn’t be flying back as planned this afternoon. She’d be in a jail cell in upstate New York. “What did he say?”

  “That it must be a mistake. Who is this person you’re supposed to have killed?”

  “Betty Quint. It’s a long story. I’d rather just go over it once when the lawyer’s here.”

  “I left word at his office. They were going to try catching him at home so he could come directly here. Mayfield’s name carries some weight, I guess.”

  “I’m glad of that!” The coffee had revived her and she was feeling a little more human.

  “I’m pleased you phoned me, Susan. I heard you broke up with Russell and I can’t say I’m sorry about that. You know I’ve always had a fondness for you.”

  “Fondness? Is that what you call it?” She decided to make things clear from the beginning. A night in a jail cell had intensi
fied the anger she sometimes felt toward Brentnor, though she knew none of what had happened was his fault. “I phoned you because I didn’t want to wake Saul in the middle of the night, and yours was the only other Mayfield’s home phone number I had with me. I do appreciate your flying up here, but let’s not get the wrong idea.”

  “All right,” he agreed, flushing at her harsh words. “Now tell me what—”

  A guard came to announce that her lawyer had arrived. He bustled in looking like an upstate version of Mike Brentnor, though with more style. She had a sudden vision of him in a courtroom defending her on the murder charge.

  “Hello, Miss Holt,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Irving Farber from the firm of Freeman and Farber. That’s my father in the firm name, not me.” A smile flashed across his face, then was gone. He was all business. “What happened here?”

  “I’ve been arrested for murder is what happened,” Susan said, her anger rising again.

  “Have you made a statement to the police?”

  “I told them what happened. They questioned me for hours until I demanded a lawyer.”

  “That’s good.” He took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and started to make notes. “What about the assistant D.A.? Was he in to see you?”

  She nodded. “After they photographed and fingerprinted me. I told him I wanted to phone a coworker to get me a lawyer. By that time all I wanted was some sleep.”

  “All right, Susan. May I call you Susan? Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning.”

  He glanced questioningly at Mike Brentnor and Susan said, “It’s all right if he stays. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning. What brought you to our city?’

  Susan took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into a swimming pool. “I work for Mayfield’s, the Manhattan department store. We’re opening our first location in western New York at your new shopping mall in Pembroke and I flew up to work out the details of some special promotions, Betty Quint was my contact here.”

  More notes. “How long had you known Miss Quint?”

  “I’d met her once at our New York office about six months ago. She stayed overnight at my apartment. We’d been in constant touch by phone, fax, and E-mail since then. This is my first trip up here because there was no point in coming until the store was almost ready to open.”

  “When does it open?”

  “Next Tuesday. A week from today.”

  “Go on. Describe everything that happened.”

  I took the Monday afternoon flight up from LaGuardia (Susan continued), arriving at midafternoon. Betty met me at the airport and drove me to the new store. She was a friendly, uninhibited young woman of about my age, around thirty. Seeing her again confirmed my impression of her from our initial meeting at the New York store. She was a good worker, perfect for this store, but perhaps lacking the cool sophistication needed for the Manhattan retail scene. She liked jokes and didn’t mind attracting attention to herself. I wasn’t surprised when she mentioned she was active in a local theater group. We toured the completed Mayfield’s store, where clerks were busy unpacking merchandise for the shelves and racks. Betty consulted her notebook frequently as she led the way through the store, pointing out special features of interest. A small cafe was already open for the employees and we took

  advantage of it for coffee and a snack.

  “I’m so excited to be part of the Mayfield’s team!” Betty gushed. “Have you been with them long?”

  “About nine years. Ever since college.”

  “I thought Manhattan was very exciting when I was there in the spring.”

  “It is, but most of my excitement has come from traveling for the store. I’ve

  been to Tokyo, Iceland, Switzerland, London, and all over America.”

  “Do you meet lots of men on the job?”

  “Not too many,” I said. “I told you about Russell.”

  “Are you back living with him?”

  “No.” I felt like, saying it was none of her business. Instead, I shifted the conversation back to the new store. “Do you have anyone helping you on promotions?”

  “Sadie Shepherd, she’s my secretary.” Her face brightened. “There she is now! I’ll introduce you.” She called out to a slender dark-haired woman in her twenties who was already headed in our direction. “Sadie, this is Susan Holt, the promotions coordinator at Mayfield’s flagship store in Manhattan.” The young woman had a pleasant smile and seemed eager to please. “So glad to meet you! Betty told me about the great time she had in New York.”

  “It was fun for me too. Perhaps you can come down and see our store

  sometime.”

  “I’d love that,” Sadie said, then turned her attention briefly to Betty. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Here are a couple of phone messages.”

  “Thanks, Sadie.” She glanced at them and slipped them into a pocket of her notebook. When we were alone again she turned back to me. “It would be great if you could stay and help me through next Tuesday’s opening.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Betty. I have to fly back tomorrow afternoon. But we can go over lots of things while I’m here. If you’re free we can have dinner tonight. My expense account is fairly generous.”

  “That would be great! We have a wonderful new French restaurant down by the harbor.”

  “I’ll have to check in at my hotel first. I don’t want to inconvenience you.

  I should rent a car.”

  “Why bother, for just one night? I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we can go to my place while I change.”

  It wasn’t quite as simple as it sounded. Just as we pulled up at my hotel Betty received a call on her cell phone. She seemed annoyed at the caller, someone named Roger, and tried to get rid of him. “Look, I’m working right now, Roger. Sadie gave me your messages, but I was too busy to get back to you. Can’t we talk about this later?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m with someone from the New York office and we’ll be going back to

  my apartment.” When he said something else she uttered an obscenity and pushed the Off button on the phone.

  I gave a grunt of approval. “Is Roger an old boyfriend?”

  “Worse than that,” she said, but explained no further.

  It took me a few minutes to check in and she accompanied me to my room.

  “I just want to slip into a dress and we can be on our way,” I told her. “It’s not a fancy place.”

  “I’ve gotten a bit rumpled from traveling. I’ll only be a minute.” She sat down on the bed. “Do you smoke?”

  “Tried it. Gave it up.”

  She’d opened her purse to take out a cigarette but then thought better of it. Meanwhile, I’d unzipped my overnight bag and removed this simple print dress I’d brought with me for early fall wear. I didn’t bother retreating to the bathroom for a modest change of clothes. We’d seen pretty much all of each other the night Betty stayed over at my Manhattan apartment. That was also the night she’d startled me by suggesting we stop for after-dinner drinks at the Plaza bar and then paying for them with a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Can I use your phone?” she asked as I was freshening my makeup. “Go ahead.” I motioned toward the nightstand.

  She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. “Roger phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”

  I tried to keep busy with my makeup to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”

  She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup. “No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”

  We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an e
ye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.

  Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”

  It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr. & Mrs. R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.

  “It’s so large!” I marveled.

  “I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”

  “Roger?”

  “I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”

  I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette, with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?’ I asked.

  “Sure! It’s good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day’s work.”

  “No thanks. But go ahead if you want one.”

  She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. “I don’t like to smoke alone.”