“How’s Purrsilla?” Doug asked.
“Better. Her supervisor will make sure she gets home safe. We’ll follow up with her later. I’ve asked them to keep this quiet until we can sort out what’s gone on here. What has gone on, Doug? Purrsilla claims it’s Mallory—is that correct? How did she find that out?” I realized I was pelting Doug with questions. The gentleman standing beside him peered at me; his head cocked to one side.
“Meet Homicide Detective Jack Wheeler, Georgie. Jack, this is Georgina Shaw, Assistant Director of the PR Division. We all call her Georgie. You should, too, if you want to stay on her good side.”
I mustered a smile, grateful that Doug could jest though he still wore that “hand-slammed-in-a-car-door” expression on his face.
“Nice to meet you, Detective Wheeler,” I said.
“Likewise, but if I’m going to call you Georgie, you need to call me Jack.” A smile spread across the man’s face, softening the lines that age and a whole lot of days like this one must have put there. His eyes drew me in more than his smile. There was depth in them, as you might expect from a fifty-something homicide detective who’s witnessed the worst in humans. More surprising to me was his steely vibrancy with no hint of cynicism or despair.
“Will do, Jack,” I said, shaking the hand he offered. Then, the oddest thing happened. I heard a funny sound in my head as he grasped my hand. Snap, crackle, pop, or something like that. I let go of his hand, but held his gaze a moment longer, wanting to hang on to the sturdiness he exuded. How did men like Jack Wheeler deal with murder and mayhem and still seem like such solid citizens? Doug’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“Jack’s trying to help us figure out what’s happened. He can fill you in.”
“I can tell you what we know so far, which isn't much. We have a lot of work ahead of us. What I can say at this point is that, yes, it’s Mallory Marley-Marston. She was murdered—stabbed many times. I could be wrong, but I’m guessing whoever committed such a vicious attack had a personal grudge against the woman. Do you have any idea who might have had it in for Ms. Marley-Marston?” My head spun as I tried to make sense of the fact that Mallory was dead and struggled to respond to the detective's question. Images of almost everyone I knew at the office passed through my mind.
“She was a nasty, unhappy woman. I can’t think of a single soul who could abide her. That’s not to say I know anyone who disliked her enough to kill her. Nor do I know much about her personal life, other than tabloid gossip and the fact that her father is the founder of Marvelous Marley World Enterprises.” He watched me intently as I uttered those words. I felt uncomfortable about speaking ill of the dead, but it was the truth—as I saw it, at least. I met his gaze.
“Give it some thought, please, and make me a list of the people who disliked her. I’m asking Doug and others to do the same. Maybe if we cross-reference the lists, one or two names will stand out. It’s a break for all of us that the groundskeepers were in this location early. Probably not long after she was killed, according to the coroner. They called it in, and your team went into action before too many people could tramp through here and destroy any evidence left behind by the killer,” Jack said.
“Unfortunately, we didn’t act quickly enough. Purrsilla found out it was Mallory because she cut through the picnic area before we closed off access from the tunnels on that side.” Doug gestured toward the back of the picnic area close to another of those hidden entrances to the underground tunnels.
“Nice job handling that big white cat’s freak-out. You must have done some fast talking to calm her down and get her out of the way like that.” The detective was peering at me again as he spoke. I found it disconcerting.
“Thanks, but what else was I going to do besides talk fast and act quickly to get her backstage? Slapping her across the face like they do in the movies doesn’t work so well in the real world—especially when that face is hidden behind an enormous polyurethane mask.” As I spoke, the detective’s brow furrowed. Had I sounded snippy?
“Georgie’s not big on receiving compliments. I’m not sure why—a little-red-hen, self-reliant streak. Just doing her job, even when she’s doing it well, doesn’t warrant praise, right Georgie?” Doug had a knowing grin on his face. Nabbed! I don’t mind doling out praise to others for a job well done, but I do have a problem accepting it. A shrink I saw after a devastating personal loss years ago called it “counter-dependency”—an unwillingness to trust or depend on others.
“Doug’s right. I should have just said thanks. So, thanks.”
“Since you’re being polite, I’ll tell you that I especially liked the grab you made for the big white cat before she plowed into a bunch of kids. Nice move!” He was smiling now—testing me a little, I think.
“I am just doing my job, but thanks again.”
Doug shrugged in a “told you so way.” The detective shifted gears, as he got back down to business. Unpleasant business, by the glance Jack exchanged with Doug.
“I hate to ask you to do this, but I need you to look at something.”
I gulped, recalling the mad dash Purrsilla had made. I wanted to say no. Instead, I nodded and followed the detective. Doug made no move to go with us. We walked a few yards toward a scene that was buzzing with activity. Markers had been set out, photos were being snapped, and gloved officers were collecting items and putting them into an assortment of containers.
There, sprawled out on the ground, lay Mallory. I felt faint. I couldn’t recall having seen a dead body before, except at a funeral. Nothing so brutal—this was far more gruesome than the corpses on Murder She Wrote or Monk. Worse even than one of those CSI shows. A sense of unreality about it kicked in—perhaps a natural defense mechanism had been triggered. Or some mental safeguard put up long ago in reaction to that past trauma in my young life. I hadn't seen the dead body back then. At least as far as I could remember, and I’d tried mightily over the years to recall what had happened.
“You’re right! Someone had it in for Mallory.” I didn’t even realize I’d spoken those words aloud, so I jumped out of my skin when Jack responded.
“We call that overkill.” He reached out and placed a firm hand on my arm, perhaps to steady me, as he pointed out an item on the ground with a numbered tag next to it. “That’s what I wanted to ask you about before we take it into evidence. Have you ever seen it before?”
“Why yes, of course—it’s mine!” That woozy, out of body feeling flooded me again. “What’s going on?” I asked in a bewildered tone as we walked away from the awful scene at the foot of Catmmando Mountain.
“I have no idea yet, but I intend to find out.” As he spoke, he eyed me in a way that made me feel a little like a specimen under a microscope.
“The sooner, the better, if you don’t mind,” I added. “The idea that someone capable of ‘overkill’ is roaming around Marvelous Marley World is terrifying. And quit looking at me as if you’re trying to picture me with a knife in my hand. I didn’t do it!”
“That’s what they all say,” Jack responded with a grin that I hoped meant he was kidding.
Who did do it? I wondered, trying to imagine anyone I knew wielding a knife or any other weapon that could have been used to kill Mallory.
“Oh, shoot! Now you’ve got me doing it,” I said, shaking my head to make those pictures go away.
“Welcome to my world, Georgina Shaw!”
4 Character Problems
“Dale,” I said, speaking in a firm tone and trying to make eye contact with the guy in a Catmmando Tom suit standing in my office. “I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t accept your dinner invitation.”
I still felt shaken, as I had all day long, by the horrible scene this morning, including the fact that my gorgeous cashmere scarf had been lying in a pool of blood not far from Mallory’s dead body. I had been going over the whole dreadful scene again in my mind when Catmmando Tom barged in. Jack Wheeler had seemed to believe me when I told him I had no idea w
hat my scarf was doing there.
I had done my best to answer his questions. No, I hadn’t noticed that it was missing. Yes, I was pretty sure I knew when I had last worn it—about a week ago, to a large meeting of company staff. I remembered the situation because Mallory had poked at me with one of her bony fingers as I removed the scarf.
“Versace, right?” she had asked. When I replied yes, she had issued a nasty follow up. “How much are we paying you people in PR, anyway? I’ll have to talk to Daddy about that.” With that, she had swished away on sky-high heels, tsk-tsking as she tossed her head and flipped her hair. Thanks to that gruesome scene in the park, I now knew she had worn a wig that day! A similar one had come off during the struggle, revealing a head covered with nothing but tufts of hair.
Thinking back on that confrontation and her snide remarks, I couldn’t remember seeing my scarf after that. I had put my scarf on the same hanger as my coat, tucking it part way into one sleeve. By the end of the day, it had warmed up. I had grabbed my coat but hadn't bothered to put it back on when I left the retreat. Had the scarf still been with it? I couldn’t say for sure, especially then at the scene when Jack asked, and I was feeling so disconnected and light-headed. I had promised the detective I would try to remember, once my poor trauma-addled brain settled down.
Fat chance that was going to happen anytime soon. My recollections of that unfortunate episode with Mallory revved me up even as I considered the long list of people with an axe to grind with Mallory. If I were Jack, I’d put me at the top of the list. Not just because they had found my scarf at the scene, but because Mallory had taken the top spot I coveted in the Food and Beverage Division. My aspiration to hold that position was no secret. Nor had I hidden the fact that I disliked working for Mallory. Her comments about my scarf weren’t the only public remarks that revealed her antagonism toward me, either. The fact that the murder had taken place before Arcadia Park was open for business pointed to an insider.
As a single woman, who made coffee, fed the cat, dressed for work and commuted alone, there wasn’t anyone to vouch for my whereabouts this morning. In my defense, I’d like to think that if I took up homicide to advance my career, I’d have the good sense not to leave my belongings behind. Why not just leave my business card and the murder weapon, too? Stabbing Mallory twenty or more times wouldn’t have been my modus operandi. Poison would have been much tidier and involved less drama. With all the little pills she carried around, it wouldn’t have been too hard to make it look like an overdose.
It had been almost lunchtime when I returned to my office, but I was in no mood to eat. Instead, I drank vitamin water, more coffee, and got to work. There had been a lot to do in the wake of this tragedy, apart from my personal concerns. I put together a brief statement as a press release. Doug would deliver a similar message at a press conference scheduled for later in the afternoon. I also developed a set of talking points he could use to respond to questions from reporters. I hoped Doug could handle the job. He was a wreck.
I handed out those documents at our crisis team meeting for review and used them to get us all on the same page in case one of us got cornered by the press. “No comment” was always a good play, too, along with a referral back to Doug or me. Together we outlined a plan to deal with the fallout from what the press had, indeed, already headlined as “Murder at Catmmando Mountain.” No, make that “Grisly Murder at Catmmando Mountain.”
Details had leaked out about how gruesome the murder had been. Information that the victim of the crime was a high-ranking, much maligned senior female executive at Marvelous Marley World had also found its way into the hands of the press. Mercifully, the media had agreed to withhold the name, pending notification of family. Not a word, yet, from Max Marley about the death of his daughter. I felt sorry for the guy, but anxious, too. He was such a loose cannon and always unpredictable! I could imagine the man reacting with dignity, asking the public for space to deal with the loss. On the other hand, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had a very public meltdown—a crying jag or a tantrum haranguing the press or the police for some imagined misdeed.
We spent a little time at our crisis team meeting trying to guess who had fed information to the media, but eventually, we gave up. That was the least of our worries. Besides, after a huge, white Persian cat character ran from the area screaming, “Cruella! It’s Cruella!” it wouldn’t have taken much digging to put two and two together. Mallory did not keep a low profile, and she made no more effort to court favor with the press than with anyone else. Members of the media might have noticed her resemblance to that cartoon villainess on their own.
Doug worried me. He should have stepped up to the plate and taken the lead managing this fiasco. Instead, he was distracted, said little, and let the rest of us struggle on. During that meeting, members of the team paused several times, waiting for his input. I tried to cover for him by jumping into those awkward pauses and asked the rest of our team to bear with us, given the shocking scene we had witnessed.
When Catmmando Tom waltzed into my office late in the day, unannounced, I wanted to toss him out on his oversized feline ear. This impromptu visit was not the first time Dale Kinkaid had put me in an awkward situation. He had retired early and started working as Catmmando Tom to supplement his pension. Or so he said. I figured he was just lonely. That’s why I had tried to soften my rebuffs of past invitations for more than business socializing. Today, Valentine in hand, he had crossed the line by asking me out to dinner. I was too worn out from my close encounter with the dark side to mince words, so I bluntly refused.
“I don’t get it—I’m not that much younger than you. What’s five years or so at our ages?” He removed the big cat head as he asked that question.
“More like ten years. That’s not the point. I don’t date men from work. Period! You know that’s company policy. Even if it wasn’t, I’m not comfortable mixing my personal and professional lives.”
“You go out with employees for happy hour all the time.”
“Associates, Dale, we’re all associates. I enjoy our friendship, Dale, and the time we spend with others socializing as a group at company events.”
Uncle Max encouraged get-togethers and sponsored regular social events throughout the year. Departments rotated planning and organizing happy hours, too. All of that was still about business: building camaraderie, boosting morale and celebrating milestones. Anything beyond that was a problem—a problem of character or the lack thereof! Right now I faced an altogether different character problem, pun intended. The human part of Catmmando Tom stood staring at me in a way that made me feel vaguely uneasy, like prey.
I was trying to figure out what to say next when Carol rapped on my open door. She saw me standing by my desk in the stance I adopt when I’m about to walk someone out. That’s a polite way to get a person to leave. It’s a tip I had picked up in an executive development session years ago, and it works like a charm, usually. She must also have picked up on the tension in the room. Carol eyed me and then Dale, before settling on that tiny gold box of chocolates and large, red envelope on my desk. Valentine’s Day gifts from Dale that accompanied his dinner invitation.
“Uh, sorry to barge in, but you have a visitor. His name is Detective Wheeler. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says it’s important.” Dale had not moved a muscle until Carol mentioned Detective Wheeler’s name. I saw a sudden jolt of annoyance, or maybe even dread, cross Dale’s face.
“I should go. You can keep the chocolates and the card—friend-to-friend, okay?”
“Sure. I’m glad to accept them, friend-to-friend. Thanks.” My “thanks” was more about the fact that he’d agreed to leave. I felt relieved by that peaceful end to what had become a tense interaction. Carol moved to my side, clearing the doorway to make room for Dale to exit.
“Aw, meow,” Carol whispered under her breath in mock pity as Catmmando Tom left. She made a little clawing gesture at his back. Her dislike surprised me. This incide
nt with Dale wasn’t the first time she had been there when I tried to deflect Dale’s interest, so maybe she was fed up, too. He shuffled his feet as he left, chin to his chest, with the enormous Catmmando Tom head dangling at his side.
Once in the hall, he reassembled his costume just as Jack Wheeler came around the corner. They almost collided before the detective stepped aside. That got Jack a two-fingered Catmmando Tom salute from Dale as he left, his cape catching a bit of a breeze from an open window or a fan. Detective Wheeler turned to watch the character exit. Then he shook his head and turned back toward me.
“Have you got a minute, Ms. Shaw?” As he spoke, Jack gave me the once-over. Despite the efforts to end the catcalls and unsolicited input about our bodies, men still act that way. It bothers me sometimes, but there was more appreciation than evaluation in Jack’s gaze. Besides, who was I to object? I found myself doing it too—taking in the man from head to toe. Carol did not miss the exchange.
“Meeeeooww,” she whispered again—almost as a purr this time. I snapped out of it, gave a barely perceptible nudge meant to shush her, and went back into corporate exec mode. That included a step behind my desk, putting more distance between the handsome homicide detective and me. I didn't stop checking him out, though. A touch of grey at his temples gave him an air of authority that went well with a firm jaw, regular features, and dark eyes. Those eyes glinted with good humor and curiosity. After a day like today, I couldn’t imagine how that was possible, but it was contagious. I felt the burdens of the day lift.
“Yes, Detective, please have a seat. Carol said you needed to speak to me. I had to wrap up a previous meeting.” I glanced down at the red envelope and ribbon-wrapped gold box in the middle of my desk. Awkwardness returned. A smile appeared on the detective’s face.
“I was willing to wait my turn, but then I figured I’d better see for myself whether you were in or not. Carol strikes me as an excellent administrative assistant, skilled at running interference for you. You wouldn't believe how many times I get ditched by corporate bigwigs when I show up to ask questions.” He winked at Carol as he spoke. She beamed back at him.
Georgie Shaw Cozy Mystery Box Set Page 3
