His terse greeting was followed by: “You said you wanted to talk to me about your innocence, Mrs. Schulz.”
“Absolutely.” But where to begin? Not at the end, for I knew the Buddha would berate me if I told him I’d just visited Julian in jail. I fidgeted while reminding myself that Barry Dean’s Vicodin and all my machinations over the prescription also needed to go into the don’t-tell-your-lawyer category. Eight hundred bucks an hour! my conscience screamed. At least tell him something!
Hulsey’s eyes were piercing. I was sure he was reading my thoughts. His face turned thunderous; one of the black eyebrows rose. Will I ever be able to put this guilty-looking woman on the stand? he seemed to be asking himself. Probably not.
I took a deep breath, then told Hulsey I’d first met Barry in school, where we’d had a class together. I’d lost touch with him after I got married and he graduated. He’d called me this March, though, to book a couple of parties. Hulsey frowned. I explained that Barry had heard about me from a mutual friend, Ellie McNeely, whom he had either proposed to or was about to. So he’d hired Goldilocks’ Catering to do the cocktail party accompanying the jewelry-leasing event. I was doing another event for him, or at least I was supposed to, this Thursday, a lunch for potential tenants in the mall’s addition… I faltered.
“Did Dean talk to you about his business? Mall business?”
“He told me he’d been working at Westside Mall for the last six months. He’d always been…My suspicion is—” I hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Well, I just thought that if I were the person hiring Barry, it would be not so much for his expertise, even though he might have been super at what he did. But his real assets were his charm and… enthusiasm. They were contagious.”
Hulsey’s brow furrowed, so I plowed on: “Barry was trying hard to jump-start sales and establish shopper loyalty to Westside before any more new malls opened in the Denver area. He loved to talk about shopping, about all the goodies that were available, especially at Westside. He was frustrated that the new mall addition was taking so long, but he perked up when I gave him some chocolate.” Hulsey’s scowl deepened. I was obviously blathering. “Look—Barry really didn’t share very much with me about his job… or his personal life. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me everything about the hours leading up to his death.”
And so I did: Barry asking to chat with me, the truck incident, Barry’s unwillingness to stay and talk to the cops, Barry craving a drink, the jewelry-leasing party with its bewildering conflicts—Liz, her son, Barry, Shane and Page Stockham—and through it all, the hectic catering. Barry had left without saying good-bye, I told Hulsey, then returned and dropped off the note about the gratuity. Or at least I thought it was about the gratuity, but maybe that word tip had meant something else. The next thing I knew, I was slipping on a pile of shoes in Prince & Grogan. When I tried to regain my balance, I fell onto a cabinet. The doors swung open, and I saw a man’s legs, shoes, tuxedo… it was Barry. He groaned, I tried to pull him out, and then something struck me—
“So he wasn’t dead at that point?” Hulsey interrupted. “Before you were hit?”
“No. I thought I felt a weak pulse.”
Hulsey scribbled a few notes, then locked those impenetrable eyes on me once more. “You know the police have arrested Julian Teller. But I’ve got to warn you. From the way the detectives were questioning you, they’re obviously considering you a viable suspect—”
“Me? Why?”
“Because you found the corpse. Because your knife was in Barry Dean’s gut. And that’s just the beginning. The cops say they wanted that note so they could analyze the handwriting and compare it to Julian’s. But they’ll compare it to yours, too.”
“Barry gave the note about the tip to a musician,” I protested. “Julian only read it before he gave it to me.”
Hulsey waved this off. “Here are the charges they might be thinking of making against you: First-degree murder. Conspiracy to commit murder. Accessory to murder, or accessory after the fact—say if you asked Julian to pull the knife out of Dean. And then there’s tampering with evidence, in case there’s something from that scene that you’re hiding from them.” He lifted both eyebrows.
I was right. Hulsey could read minds, after all. I shrugged and lifted my hands in a helpless gesture.
“Mrs. Schulz, you’re my client. I don’t want you talking to anyone about this case. Do not see or speak to Julian Teller. Doing so would strengthen the DA’s conspiracy case, if he has one. Do not go to that mall and start asking questions about Barry Dean—”
“As I told you, Mr. Hulsey.” It was my turn to interrupt. “I have to go to the mall on Thursday. I’ve signed a contract and I’ve been paid. The food supplies have been ordered. I have a catering commitment to honor, and my reputation depends on not backing out of events.”
“What kind of party is this, exactly?” His voice had turned patronizing.
“Westside Mall is running scared at the prospect of new Denver malls wiping them out. Or undercutting them. This second event Barry hired me to do is a gourmet lunch for potential tenants in the mall addition.”
Hulsey gave me that get-to-the-facts expression again. So I got to them.
“The owner of Westside, Pennybaker International, is sending out a high-powered team to secure leases for the vacant portion of the new addition. On Thursday, they’ve invited twelve of the hottest companies in the Westside area to hear the official pitch on why any retailer who wants to make big money needs to have a store in the mall addition.”
“What are you serving?” Hulsey said unexpectedly.
“He-man food,” I replied with what I hoped was a high-class sniff. “Oriental dumpling soup. Prime rib. Mashed russet and sweet potatoes. Strawberry-rhubarb cobbler. Barry ordered that food hoping that once they ate it, all the retailers would feel rich enough to afford Westside.”
Hulsey sighed. “If you do the event, I want you to concentrate on food. Not crime. Understand?”
I nodded. He told me that he would get in touch with me if he needed to, and I should do the same. I took my leave, and noted we’d been together half an hour. For Marla’s four hundred bucks, I’d been told stuff I either didn’t want to hear or was planning to ignore. If Julian was still in jail on Thursday, did Attorney Hulsey really think I’d concentrate on food and not crime?
If so, he was sadly mistaken.
Since Hulsey’s office wasn’t far from Westside Mall, I drove over there. If anyone asked, I’d say I was looking for Julian’s Range Rover, which was sort of true. In any event, as long as I was going to violate Hulsey’s instructions, there were two people I wanted to talk to: Pam Disharoon and Ellie McNeely, the two purported girlfriends of the deceased Barry Dean. I knew Ellie had been taken to police headquarters. Now she was probably back at work at the bank. But Pam worked for Prince & Grogan, in the lingerie department. I could always use a new nightie, couldn’t I?
I followed the route Liz and I had taken just the previous day—which seemed an eternity ago—along Doughnut Drive. Where yesterday only a handful of workers had been visible, now there was activity everywhere. I passed a crew raking and smoothing the cavernous hole in the berm made by the errant dump truck. Near them, another gang of laborers dug holes in the topsoil. Flats of spruce bushes stood nearby, ready to be planted. Did the crews work alternate days, or had someone lit a fire under them? Had Barry’s murder somehow accelerated the slow-as-molasses construction of the new addition? Hmm.
To my further surprise, the construction lot was more than half-full of trucks ranging from tractor-trailers to pickups. Workers diligently transported sheets of plywood, spray-painted drywall, or pointed high-powered hoses at freshly laid concrete pavers. Diesel-powered cranes lofted yet more workers onto the roofs of almost-finished stores. Those guys scampered up and over the pitched surfaces as if they were playground equipment. A newly painted banner floated overhead: Boutiques Opening Soon!
/>
Oh, yeah? When?
Another surprise: The construction gate was open and unattended. Management must have decided that sparing a worker to be gatekeeper was not possible, especially with the heightened level of construction bustle. Still, in light of the truck incident, you’d think they’d at least be a bit more careful.
I ignored the new No Trespassing sign and sailed the van into the construction lot. The drainage pond, now with chunks of ice floating in it, was slick with oil. Workers driving Caterpillars were digging and smoothing the layer of rutted dirt over which the dump truck had lurched toward us. Which one of those workers had claimed he’d seen Julian piloting that truck? I wondered.
I slowed and surveyed Westside Mall’s main parking area. Compared to the usual crowd of vehicles, the number of cars was anemic, no more than a third of the previous day’s. Apparently, the newspaper articles on Barry’s death had discouraged shoppers. For those who hadn’t caught the news and had ventured out, driving past the yellow police ribbons surrounding Prince & Grogan would have sent them packing.
What had Barry said? Nothing clears a mall like a security threat. Or a murder, apparently.
I parked near one of the Skytrack cranes. Victor Wilson, excavator-turned-construction-manager, was nowhere in sight. I headed toward a cluster of workers standing near a Dumpster. They were leaning over a drop cloth dense with paint cans. Something must have been wrong with the paint, because the workers were having a heated discussion.
I sauntered up and asked them where their boss-guy was. The painters exchanged guarded looks.
“I’ve just got a quick question for Victor,” I improvised hastily, “about the construction. I’m the caterer for the tenants’ lunch later in the week, and they asked me to find out when Victor was going to give the go-ahead to occupy the new stores.”
Several workers shook their heads and backed away. It was clear they weren’t going to help me. I turned to the remaining workmen.
“Anybody know when the new stores are going to be ready?”
Silence. A short, heavyset Hispanic man carrying two paint cans ambled up. I smiled at him and he grinned back, more than I could say for any of the other fellows. Before I could repeat my request for info, a long, lanky crew member, perched on one of the ladders by the new Il Fornaio, yelled in a Southern accent that Victor wasn’t coming in that day. I exhaled and told myself to be patient.
I lowered my voice and addressed the remaining workers. Had anybody seen the accident with the truck yesterday? One or two nodded. That was going to set back the construction schedule for sure, I said, shaking my head. Ah, I asked, had anyone seen who was driving that truck? No, no, they shook their heads and avoided my eyes. We didn’t see. Not a thing. Uh-uh.
The workers began to disperse around the Dumpster. I felt suddenly desperate. “Do any of you know who told the police that my assistant was driving the truck?”
The heavyset fellow grinned. The name Raoul was embroidered on his workshirt.
“Yeah,” said Raoul, “I know who told ‘em and—” Raoul registered that the few remaining workers were staring at him. Abruptly, he closed his mouth.
“Who was he, though? Who told them?” I demanded. My voice had become shrill.
“He weren’t nobody, lady,” said the lanky fellow, as he stepped down the ladder. He had sand-colored hair and skin the color of a pecan shell. He moved in my direction and spoke like someone in authority. “He was a temporary worker. He just quit.” He jest quee-at.
“But who was he?” I persisted. “He told the police that lie, and now a friend of mine is in jail.”
“Lady, that guy is gone. Does anybody remember his name?” Pecan-shell turned to the remaining workers.
No, no, no, came the chorus of denials. No lo conosco. Don’t know him.
What was going on? Were these guys covering for a buddy who stole big trucks and tried to mow people down with them? They clearly had lots of sympathy for him, even if his quitting had left them a worker short.
This project is cursed, I asserted silently. The workers, avoiding my eyes, picked up their cans and walked away. These guys, I decided, are not happy campers. First their construction manager walks out, then one of their trucks is swiped and run into a fresh berm, then a worker lies and vanishes, and now nobody knows the whereabouts of the boss-guy who is supposed to be running things. Emphasis on the supposed to. Maybe some answers would be forthcoming if the Furman County attorney could get here and serve a handful of subpoenas, but it was unlikely that I would be able to extract any more information.
I reached into my purse, pulled out a handful of cards, and handed them to Raoul. At least he’d graced me with some kind of answer. His paint-stained fingers closed around my offering.
“Look, Raoul,” I implored, “if you do happen to remember the name of the guy who told the cops who drove the truck, I’d really appreciate a call. Please—it’s very important.”
I made my way across the rickety makeshift bridge that spanned the icy drainage puddle. At the glass-prismed doors, I glanced back at the construction crew. To the amusement of his coworkers, Raoul was flinging my cards one by one into the Dumpster.
Furious, I marched into the mall. My injured right side rebelled and shot an arrow of pain into my lower abdomen. I clutched my side, leaned against one of the marble walls, and took a hacking, uneven breath. The few beautiful people shopping that day passed me by.
What was I doing here? I was supposed to be resting; I’d promised the doctor and Tom that I would. Worse, I was at one of the two places—the other being the jail—that Counselor Hulsey had ordered me not to go. Could my lawyer refuse to represent me if I didn’t do what he said? Might the construction workers call the cops and say the caterer from Monday was bothering them with her nosy questions? Didn’t she have enough catering work to keep her busy?
I gripped my side and soldiered on, trying not to think of the wedding reception I’d been booked to do that day, trying not to think of Liz and her crew working while I was here at the mall. I also veered away from reflecting on the work-intensive events I was scheduled to cater over the next two days.
And then, suddenly, I was trying not to think of Julian. Someone had set up our old family friend, of that I was sure. But who? And why? This person was violent, no question about it. Paranoid, I looked all around. Nobody appeared to be following me. I limped forward and tried to ignore the image of Shane Stockham’s enraged face as he’d rushed forward in attack mode.
Oh, my God. Shane Stockham. He was Elk Park Prep’s lacrosse coach. Arch’s lacrosse coach. As I hobbled along, I punched in the numbers for my son’s cell phone.
“It’s Mom,” I said into his voice mail. “Don’t go to lacrosse if Shane is there. Call Tom or me instead. This is very important. One of us will come and get you. Call me on the cell. Arch, this is important.” I blocked out an image of my son making a disgusted face when he listened to the message.
My first stop was the Prince & Grogan lingerie department. No, Pam Disharoon was not working that day, a scarlet-haired clerk informed me. Pam’s only in on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, or I could leave a message…. On another one of my business cards, I scribbled a note asking Pam to call. I hoped this card wouldn’t get tossed, but with my luck… No, better not reflect on that, either.
I pushed past an exit sign and headed down the narrow hall that led to the mall manager’s office. If I couldn’t get any answers there, this trip was going to be a complete bust.
I spotted Westside’s assistant manager, whose name I now remembered was Rob Eakin. He was behind the glass surrounding his office by the tiny reception area. I’d met Eakin once. He was a short, wide fellow whom I judged to be in his forties. Now, his brow glistened with sweat as he listened to two people whose raised voices penetrated the glass separating them from me. With Barry gone, Rob Eakin must have been named acting mall manager. He didn’t look too good.
I nodded to the reception
ist and moved to the chair closest to Eakin’s office. Right before I filed for divorce, I’d overheard The Jerk boinking a nurse in an empty hospital room. After that, no amount of righteous eavesdropping bothered me. Still, try as I might, I couldn’t quite make out what the people in the office were squabbling about.
I sighed in frustration.
The plumply padded receptionist—whose name I struggled to recall—watched me intently. Her cheeks were puffy and mottled, her eyes bloodshot. Her French-twisted blond hair resembled an unkempt haystack. Crumpled tissues lay scattered across her desk. A multibuttoned phone blinked and buzzed. She ignored it.
“I remember…you,” she told me. Her wobbly voice indicated she’d been weeping. “You’re the… caterer. The one who solves crimes.”
“The very one,” I replied amiably. “How’s it going?”
“Awful.” It came out like a sob.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? Poor Barry. Um, why didn’t you take today off?”
She pressed a tissue to her eyes, unable to respond. Two of the blinking phone lines went dark.
“Sorry,” I said gently, “but I do have a catering question that needs an answer. It’s about the lunch event Barry hired me for, this Thursday, the one for the potential tenants.”
The receptionist—her name was Heather, I finally remembered—stifled another sob. “I wish you could find out what happened to him!”
“I do, too,” I said softly. “I… I miss him. Barry and I used to be friends, back in our college days.”
“Really? Way back then? That’s sweet.”
I bit down on telling her that less than two decades—not glacier-forming epochs—separated me from my college days. Instead, I waited while she reached daintily for more tissues. Truth to tell, Barry’s and my friendship had lasted only a semester, which was four months. Then, after years of silence, he’d hired me to cater at the mall. We had been friends; then we’d gone our separate ways.
Chopping Spree gbcm-11 Page 14
