by Leslie Caine
“Huh?” he muttered.
“Tell you what,” Hannah said, her tone now patronizing. “Why don’t you come to my office first thing tomorrow morning? You can air all of your grievances regarding Paprika’s merchandise to me personally at that time.”
He harrumphed and, again, seemed to deliberately turn his face when he felt Laura’s gaze on him. “You don’t sell these crappy chairs here, do you? ’Cuz someone’s likely to fall out of one and break their neck.”
“I’d be happy to get you a better chair, sir, in exchange for your promise that you’ll listen quietly to the presentation. Please, just for tonight, keep your personal opinions about how we Americans should spend our money to yourself. Okay? Would that be too much to ask?”
I cleared my throat, hoping that I could catch Hannah’s eye and give her a wink. She might want to let this all slide. The attention of the sixty or so people had shifted from Audrey to Hannah and Dreadlocks’ conversation, which, to my mind, was defeating her purpose.
“Look at this!” As if to demonstrate his concern about the chair, he wobbled from side to side, the chair legs clanging against the tile floor with each motion. “This chair’s totally useless.” He then hopped to his feet and bent to examine the offending leg.
As he leaned over, the back of his shirt lifted a little, and I caught sight of an object tucked into his waistline. I stared in alarm as the man continued. “See? Here’s the problem. This chair leg’s busted.”
Cupping my hand over my mouth so that only Laura could hear, I whispered, “Look! The guy’s got a gun!”
Laura gasped. The sudden sound caught Dreadlocks’ attention; he turned, and the two stared at each other. Laura yelled, “Get a grip on yourself! Stop hassling the poor woman! She made a perfectly reasonable request that you speak to her tomorrow!”
Why on earth was Laura so aggressive to an armed man? I shot a pleading look at Audrey, who cried, “Goodness! Look at the time,” and rushed forward. “Let’s all take our seats”—she nodded to the still-standing dreadlocked man—“such as they are, and we’ll begin talking about table settings.”
As much as I wanted to set the tone by facing forward in my seat, Laura maintained her attempt to stare down the armed man. She and I had to get out of there right then, I decided; Dreadlocks wouldn’t dare follow us with this many witnesses.
“Here,” I said, offering him my chair. “Why don’t you take this one, and—”
“You need to leave,” Laura snarled at him. “Now!”
“Take it easy, miss. I’m just minding my own business, trying to learn about table settings. If someone could just get me a freakin’ chair with four legs and same height, you won’t hear another—”
He made a broad gesture and accidentally smacked Hannah in the chest. She gasped and stepped back.
Laura cried, “That does it!” Kicking her seat aside, she grabbed the man’s arm and in one swift motion flipped him onto the floor, upsetting a display of cutlery in the process.
The store patrons gasped and shrieked. As for me, I couldn’t help but stare at the man’s hair. It had shifted. As if merely checking his skull for injuries, he grabbed his head with both hands to center his wig. He struggled to his feet, and the weapon fell from his belt. A middle-aged woman in the seat next to his cried, “Oh, my God! He’s got a pistol!”
Everyone began to clamber to their feet. Already racing for the exit, Laura whipped out her cell phone and cried over her shoulder, “I’m calling the police! I’ll be right back with them!”
Audrey’s crowd, shrieking, followed her. The man stuffed the gun into the back of his pants and shouted over the pandemonium, “Wait! It’s okay, everyone! I’m an undercover cop!”
The panic eased a bit.
“Ladies. Please. As an officer of the law, I have no intention of firing my gun, I assure you.” His voice was authoritative even as he made placating gestures. “If everyone could please just take their seats . . .” The patrons began to honor his request, shuffling a trifle nervously back toward the chairs. The man glanced at Audrey. “Real sorry, ma’am. I’ll get out of everyone’s hair now.” He left in the same direction that Laura had gone.
In the front of the room, Audrey rang a small brass bell. “I hope everyone enjoyed my pre-show entertainment, provided to you courtesy of the Free-for-All-Players of Piedmont, Colorado. Be sure to check your local papers for their next performance. I hear their ‘Instant Shakespeare’ is especially enjoyable. But right now it’s time to talk table settings.”
Everyone chuckled with relief and began to reclaim their seats in earnest. There was no way I could simply sit down and listen to Audrey’s presentation. Much as I wanted to believe that the wig-wearing man was truly a police officer, he hadn’t shown his badge, he’d called attention to himself despite claiming to be undercover, and he was following Laura again.
As I started to make my way toward the exit, past Hannah, she grabbed my elbow. “Are you all right, Erin?”
“Fine. But I’d better go check on my friend. Even though she’s probably already on her way back here with a uniformed officer.”
Hannah clicked her tongue and grumbled, “You obviously don’t know Laura very well. There’s no way she’s coming back, let alone with a cop.” She turned on her heel and stepped beside Audrey to introduce her to the audience.
I furrowed my brow, mouthed “Sorry,” to Audrey, and left.
I trotted in the same direction Laura had headed and circled the entire pedestrian mall twice. She had vanished. So had the “undercover cop.”
DEATH BY INFERIOR DESIGN
A Dell Book / November 2004
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2004 by Leslie Caine
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eISBN : 978-0-307-42286-6
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