Chopping Spree

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I eased over to a table of reduced flannel pajamas and surreptitiously watched Pam go through her routine. She was good. “Don’t you want something for that special weekend?” “Oh, she deserves it! You deserve it!” “We can’t keep these in stock!” Pam was like a drug dealer for the heroin of shopping. Unlikely she’d ever be a guest speaker at Shopaholics Anonymous.

  As Silver Hair smiled and piled items up by the cash register—black lace teddy, pink transparent nightgown, two-piece (very small pieces) nightwear, red satin bustier, feathery mules, push-up bra—he seemed to take on a glow. He told Pam jokes. Her little laugh tinkled. He tilted his silver head close to hers.

  Several times, Pam announced, “Then there’s one more thing you must buy! She is soooo lucky to have you.”

  Silver Hair beamed some more. This man was in a shopping zone. Since I’d first spotted him, he looked taller, more powerful, even happier. Which I suppose was the whole point… while it lasted.

  When he finally whipped out his credit card, I held my breath. Pam’s demure voice said eight hundred and something dollars. Where was that security guard with the smelling salts? The silver-haired man beamed and said that would be fine.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Pam said flatly when I appeared at the counter after Silver Hair had swept away triumphantly with his purchases.

  “You promised you’d talk to me,” I reminded her firmly.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around her department, probably to see if there was anyone more important than Goldy the caterer, which meant anyone who was willing to splurge on lingerie. “OK, make it fast,” she said impatiently. “Thursday is a big noontime shopping period for us, because businessmen usually have lunch with their mistresses on Fridays. Did you know that that’s why Fridays are the worst day to get a table at a romantic restaurant? The guys just can’t stand the prospect of spending the weekend with their wives, and they want to reassure their girlfriends that they really care. So they buy them a sexy present for that special pre-weekend lunch.”

  “And then have sex in the car afterward? Sort of like dessert?”

  Her glare was withering. I smiled innocently. “Sorry. You just hear all kinds of stuff in the catering business. I serve Friday lunches, you know. I’m always wondering what the big rush is to get out.”

  “Maybe it’s your food.” She grinned, sending the blond ponytails trembling.

  I ignored that. “Pam, I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Can’t I take you to lunch?”

  “I told you. I can’t go to lunch because it’s our busy time.”

  “I’ll buy something.” I gestured at the silken heaps around us.

  “Yeah, right. I saw you pawing through the sale flannels.”

  “Sell me a bathrobe, then.”

  Her face brightened. “Lace or sheer?”

  “Er, terry cloth.”

  “I knew it!” she said, her voice scathing.

  She wiggled over to a rack of sherbet-colored terry robes that I thought looked quite cozy. Then she lifted an assessing eyebrow at my short, pudgy self, moved away from the small-size robes, and pulled out three medium-size ones. I put on the first, a pale green with satin edging, and assessed myself in a mirrored column. I looked like a half-eaten lime Popsicle.

  “Pam, a friend of mine has been accused of killing Barry Dean. I don’t think he did it. You seemed to be Barry’s friend—do you think he had any enemies the cops aren’t looking at?”

  Scanning her department unsuccessfully for more sugar daddies, she rolled her eyes. “I wish I knew who those enemies were. I’d kill ’em myself.”

  I unwrapped myself from the green robe and put on the blueberry-colored one. “Ellie McNeely is my friend. I’ve heard a lot of stuff lately about how jealous she was of you.”

  Pam sniffed and scowled at the blue robe. “You look like you’re wearing a sleeping bag.” When I reached for a lemon-colored robe, she said, “I don’t know what Ellie’s problem was. Barry preferred me. Maybe he would have married Ellie, but so what? I didn’t want to marry Barry. My sister’s married, and she’s miserable. I just wanted to … you know… do stuff with him.”

  Like have sex in the car, I thought, but did not say. I did want to hear about Pam’s sister, but I also needed to dig a bit more on the topic of Ellie. “So,” I asked noncommittally, “did you read in the paper about Barry’s steamy love life?”

  Pam’s eyes lit up. “You bet I did! That article even brought me business. See the sexy other woman, that kind of thing.” She shook her head dismissively. “Ellie was a bitch, and she only got worse. She was so mad at Barry, it was scary. What’s that famous quote? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned….’”

  “Did you ever see her argue with Barry?”

  “Are you going to buy a robe or not?”

  “The pink, I think.” I pointed to one I hadn’t even tried on. Pam assumed a disgusted expression, tugged it off its hanger, and quick-stepped to the counter.

  “No, I never saw or heard Ellie argue with Barry,” she told me as she scanned the robe’s tag. “I heard plenty about how they didn’t get along, but it was all gossip.”

  “Oh, speaking of gossip,” I said, as I handed over a wad of bills, “I heard some about your sister Page.” I lowered my voice. “Something about how jealous she was of stuff Barry gave you? How she inventoried each of his gifts to you, then bought things just like them for herself, only in a bigger and more costly version? I heard she couldn’t keep up, and that she really hated Barry, as a result.”

  How about that—I had undone Pam Disharoon. She stood stock-still, her cheeks vermilion, her eyes ablaze, her blond ponytails quivering. If a dozen sugar daddies had flooded into the lingerie department at that moment, I don’t think she would have seen them.

  She shrilled, “She inventoried what Barry gave me?” She cleared her throat and handed me the receipt and the bagged bathrobe. “Just leave me alone now, OK?”

  I nodded to her and grasped the bag. Pam might have been convinced that Ellie was furious with Barry, but in her heart, I was pretty sure Pam now realized someone else had hated Barry even more. Someone who was family. And she couldn’t face it.

  Back in the van, I turned on the engine and let it idle while I reviewed what I’d learned in the mall. Barry had been a seductive, gift-giving two-timer. OK, I’d already pretty much figured that one out. Hearing more details hadn’t contributed much. I was still very skeptical about the Ellie-shoving-Barry-into-a-ditch scenario, and I couldn’t believe that two sisters would go to war, take no prisoners, and kill a mall manager, over the eviction of a husband and stuff given to the other sister.

  Next: Barry had, in his weird way, sought my help in finding his missing construction manager. In addition, Barry had left me, in the cryptically named “dog file,” a clumsily clipped article about Teddy Fury’s thievery. Three days after Barry had been murdered, Teddy Fury was still AWOL. Barry wanted me to have the editorial decrying the mall’s contribution to materialism. In the anti-materialism department, I doubted Barry’s death had been staged by a group of rehabbed shopaholics.

  The van’s heat had not yet kicked in. I shivered from cold, from frustration, from hunger—the sugar high of pastries is woefully short-lived—and from the fact that my vow of abstention had utterly collapsed. I hadn’t had any caffeine for several hours! Agh!

  I squeezed back sudden hot tears. Try as I might, I couldn’t see how any of my recently acquired information was going to help Julian.

  Scolding myself aloud, I dabbed my eyes and applied some makeup—not from Barry’s compact—to my nose and cheeks. There was at least one of my problems that I could solve right away. I put the van into Drive and eased out of the mall parking lot. The Westside Buzz, the espresso place that Barry had taken me to, was only a few blocks away.

  As I was pulling out of the mall parking lot, a brittle flapping sound caught my attention. I made a quick turn back into a parking space; the sound ceased. I checked the bac
kseat and found nothing. There were no loose papers, no open window…Wait a sec. A piece of folded blue paper was wedged into the right rear window. I powered down the window, which made the paper fall out. Sighing, I jumped out, rounded the van, and picked up the fallen sheet.

  On one side of the turquoise-colored paper was a printed advertisement extolling the virtues of having your oil changed at Westside Lube—While U Shop! Virtually all the vehicles in the lot, I now noticed, had blue sheets stuck under their wipers. Then why hadn’t the ad-placer put mine under one of my wipers? The answer lay on the back side of the sheet.

  Someone using a black felt-tip pen had scrawled an indecipherable message in what looked like Spanish. Whoever had written it had been in a hurry, that was certain, as the tip of the pen had dragged from word to word. I raced back into the driver side of the car, locked the doors, and stared at the sheet. Of course, I realized glumly, I should be worried about fingerprints and all that. But someone had left me a note. And Julian was being arraigned the next day.

  I took a pen and an index card out of my purse and tried to copy the note. It was a question, actually. It only took a few moments of staring at and copying letters before I was pretty sure I had the right words in front of me.

  Porque tuvo dolores de cabeza?

  I plugged in my not-brilliantly-remembered Spanish vocabulary, and eventually honed in on the question as a whole—not that it made any more sense than when I’d received the anonymous phone call.

  Why did he have headaches?

  Oh, man, I was getting tired of this. Why don’t you just tell me? my mind yelled back. He was pushed and fell into a ditch. Aside from that, you’re going to have to fill me in.

  My own head was beginning to ache. I needed caffeine now more than ever, so I gunned the van in reverse. The brakes squealed and sent up a cloud of dust as I raced to The Westside Buzz.

  On the way over, I left a message for Tom, telling him of all the developments and asking again about the women’s alibis and how Arch was doing in the gift department. I also called Marla again. She was not at home. Into her machine, I asked what time she had driven away from Westside on Monday night. Specifically, I went on, for what part of that crucial half-hour, from eight-thirty to nine P.M., had Page and Ellie been with her? Did she have any idea whether either or both of them had actually left the mall when they said they were leaving? The digital clock on the van dashboard said it was just past three o’clock. Good old Marla was probably down visiting Julian.

  There was no line at The Westside Buzz. Usually by three in the afternoon, folks are trying to lay off caffeine. In my present state, this was definitely out of the question. I ordered an extra-hot four-shot latte made with—decadence!—half-and-half, and two cinnamon cookies. I took a sip of the rich, creamy drink, decided the barista deserved a two-dollar tip for her exquisite creation, and slotted the cup into the van’s plastic cup holder.

  It was when I was driving away that an insight hit with such force that I slammed down on the brake. Latte slopped out on the mat. I stared at the creamy liquid and told myself I was insane.

  But I didn’t think I was.

  I may not have completely answered the question of why Barry had crippling headaches. I certainly did not understand the meaning of the cosmetics items Barry had left for me. But I had deduced something.

  I’d just figured out why Barry Dean had left me his dog.

  I had to get back into Barry’s house. Tom had said the department had pulled their detail off the place. Would Darlene be home next door? Would she give me a key?

  I hit the accelerator again and wove through traffic. There’s something else, I promised myself. I know it. If I could find whatever it was before the next morning, Julian could be freed. I felt giddy. He’d be out for Arch’s birthday! This thought, combined with greedy chugs of latte, made me speed up even more.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I pulled up behind Darlene Petrucchio’s old pink Cadillac, one of the consignment items she’d never been able to sell and so had bought herself. Covered with five inches of crusty snow, the Caddy looked forlorn.

  “OK, here’s the deal,” Darlene said, once I’d reassured her I wasn’t returning Barry’s basset hound. She invited me into her kitchen, where I declined a beer. This day, she was clad in a crimson cashmere sweater sewn with bugle beads and a matching pleated skirt—an outfit dating from circa nineteen-fifty-six. “Barry always relied on me when he went on trips,” Darlene went on. “I told the cops ‘bout startin’ his cars once a week, waterin’ his plants, walkin’ an’ feedin’ that dog. While the lawyers do the will, the cops axed me to watch over Barry’s stuff. They said because he has no next of kin, I’ve got, y’know, a proprietary interest. Doesn’t mean I get anything,” she added as she lit a cigarette. “It just means the cops can’t take care of the stuff, and Barry trusted me with it when he was alive, so why not now?”

  “I understand,” I said, then launched into a spiel I’d rehearsed mentally all the way up the mountain. “It’s just that I seem to have left a computer disk full of menus over in his house. I simply have to have it. Barry loved menus, and he asked if he could borrow a bunch of mine. But now my computer’s crashed, and all I have is that disk, dammit.”

  Darlene hesitated, and my heart sank. She pulled noisily on her cig. “You sure you don’t wanna beer? ‘S almost five.” I shook my head ruefully. She took a long sip of hers, then, to my delight, snagged a key ring from a drawer. “I don’t mind if you look in his house. Jes’ don’ take anythin’. The cops said they’d finished their processing. Finished their processing? What were they doin’, smokin’ hams in the livin’ room?”

  A moment later I was ducking long icicles hanging from the Swiss-style gingerbread on Barry’s front porch. Behind me, the street was almost completely hushed, with only a slight breeze whisking the freshly fallen snow. I unlocked the front door, which featured a massive brass door knocker in the shape of a basset hound’s head.

  Get in and get out, I ordered myself. You still have a birthday cake to make. Problem was, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. Which was the way with scavenger hunts, wasn’t it? Especially when the person who’d set the hunt up was dead.

  Contrary to what I’d told Darlene, I’d never been in Barry’s house. Once inside, I put the key ring in my pocket and leaned against the door, taken aback.

  A decorating magazine would have entitled the living room in which I now stood Homage to the Basset Hound. The color scheme was entirely devoted to gold, white, and black. Gold walls were lightened with white trim and chair rail molding, in front of which Barry had placed a black lacquered liquor cabinet and long buffet. Black-, white-, and gold-upholstered sofas and chairs were grouped between black lacquered tables and around black braided oval rugs. Wide, narrow, rectangular, and round needlepoint pillows graced the couches and chairs. Every one of them pictured a basset hound.

  As I looked for the kitchen, I noticed a faint but pleasant smell of dog still hanging in the air. The scent made me unaccountably sad. When I finally found the kitchen, it was a small, plain oak-and-tile affair that didn’t look as if it had been used much.

  “Latte,” I said aloud. “So, Barry, where’d you put your coffee stuff?” I began opening cupboards.

  Because that was what it had to be, I’d suddenly realized at the espresso place. After the attempted-murder-by-truck, Barry had realized he was in terrible danger. So that was why he’d raced back to his office—to call his neighbor and finish setting up a trail of clues, a scavenger hunt of crime, in case he didn’t make it.

  Why would he do that? my mind demanded. Why not go directly to the cops? Or at least to the mall owners? But I thought I knew the answer to that one, too. Barry had bent the rules for himself and his own appetites, the likes of which I’d seen with the sexy, gift-greedy Pam Disharoon. Any kind of official investigation would have unearthed the fact that Barry had obtained goodies from vendors, reps, and who knew who else. If he made it ho
me, and the truck driver was arrested, he’d be OK. If not, he’d left a scavenger hunt for me, his old coffee pal, to figure out what was what. Maybe he’d been planning to leave the state, or even the country.

  Anyway, he’d called Darlene. He said if he didn’t show up after work, she was to give his dog to me. He’d told Darlene how to spell the dog’s “new” name, and instructed her to tape the coffee moniker onto the canine food dishes. In her world of beer, cigarettes, and old Caddies, Darlene did not know from espresso drinks: She’d simply thought Barry had misspelled Late.

  But the word Latte had meaning for yours truly. Correction: It had meaning for us, Barry and me. But what exactly was that meaning? We’d drunk the dark stuff together in college; we’d had some together in the last month. And somewhere in that common experience, I was absolutely convinced, he’d pounced on a detail that he now wanted me to ferret out.

  I located a pair of scissors and a white plate, which I put on the counter before retrieving a fresh trash sack from under the sink. I opened the sack, set it aside, and pulled out every bag of coffee beans I could find, from the cupboards, two canisters, and the freezer. These I methodically cut open and dumped onto the plate. I was looking for anything remarkable, anything out of place, and most importantly, anything that would somehow clear Julian. After sorting through the beans, I tossed each examined lot into the trash. Eight bags of coffee later, I gave up.

  His computer, I thought. Maybe he had a special “latte” or even another “dog” file with information. I pushed open the door to Barry’s study, which felt much colder than the rest of the house. I booted his PC, but wasn’t blessed with any luck in that department, either. Lots of files on 1st Quarter Profit Projections, Advertising Budget Breakdown, Lease Schedules, and the like, but no dog or latte file.