Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  I shook my head. “I guess I don’t. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  She cocked her head and studied me for several seconds. “Are you always this sarcastic, or do I just bring it out in you?”

  She stood defiantly, her weight on one hip and arms crossed, her icy blue eyes doing a number on me. “Diana, all I know is that a man who hired me to investigate

  some threats to his life is dead. Even though I barely had time to begin an investigation, I feel pretty lousy about the fact that he died while I was supposed to be helping him. Although I’m sure Preston would have preferred that I had discovered the identity of the person threatening him while he was alive to appreciate it, I still intend to find him or her. And if it isn’t the same person who killed him, I intend to keep looking. Now, I had hoped you might be able to help me, that you might want to help me, but I could grow very old trying to figure out what version of the Texas-two-step you’re doing.”

  I gave her about two seconds to respond before opening the door. I was a little surprised when she stopped me.

  “That was a long speech for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. In fact I’ve just about used up my allotment of words for the day. So if I’m going to stay, you better be doing the talking.”

  She gave me a brief smile that lingered in her eyes. “All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you about Preston Hauser.” Her eyes had lost their warmth. “You may decide that some obligations just aren’t worth pursuing.”

  8

  SHE WALKED SLOWLY across the room, aware of the way she moved and of the fact that I was watching her, and settled into a soft gray love seat. Patting the empty half of the couch, she gestured for me to join her. I opted for the bench that accompanied the grand piano next to the wet bar. The keys were covered and I rested one arm on the lid and tossed the ball into her court.

  “Okay. Just what is it about Preston Hauser that is going to make me wish I had told him to plant his ten thousand dollars?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Ten thousand?” I nodded.

  She set her drink on a small table next to the couch. The movement was so abrupt, the ice in the glass clattered and I think the liquid would have sloshed over the side if there had been more than a thimbleful left in the glass. She was about to blurt something out, caught her breath and considered me for a moment, then turned away.

  She was composed again when she asked, “What kind of death threats was he getting?”

  “Uh uh.” I shook my head. “You talk, I listen.”

  I sounded like a bad Tarzan impersonation. I glanced at my watch. It was almost one p.m., and I was real tempted to pour myself a drink. Considering the grim turn the day had taken, it probably wasn’t too early. But I didn’t want to give Diana an opportunity to work on her story. I just wanted to listen, take in everything she had to say about Preston

  before she could think too much. There would be time later to worry about how much of it, if any, was true.

  She removed a cigarette from a silver case on the table next to her glass and lit it, inhaling deeply. Then she sighed and gazed at the ceiling. “Where do I start?” She stared out the window at the sky and absently slid a hand under her leg warmer to rub her right calf. “When I met Preston,” she began, speaking with a dreamy quality, “I thought he was the most distinguished, intelligent, gentlest man I had ever seen. He made me feel very special. That’s something most men don’t know how to do, you know.” She looked at me and stopped rubbing her leg, allowing my attention to drift to her face. “Oh sure. A lot of men can make a woman feel good, pretty, successful, or whatever it takes to hold her interest. But some men, like Preston, can make you feel like you always thought it would feel when you were a little girl imagining what it was like to be a woman.”

  As she talked, a Siamese cat—the beige kind with brown on the tips of its ears—with startling blue eyes appeared from behind the couch and approached Diana. She dipped her finger into her glass and offered it, dripping, to the animal. The cat sniffed, then licked the liquid from her finger. It shoved its head against Diana’s hand and ran its body against her palm until all that touched her hand was the brown tip of its tail. Then the cat left the room. Maybe these two had more in common than eye color.

  Diana paused in her speech and turned back to the sky before continuing. “Good as it felt, that’s how bad it felt when it stopped. One day I was a queen, a fairy princess, a goddess, the next day I was trash.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t walk into a room without doing something wrong.” She drained her glass and wiped away the moisture an ice cube had left on the tip of her nose. Then she held her glass out for me to refill. What could I do? I

  poured the liquor. “But he wasn’t consistent,” she went on. “I mean, one day he would be cold and distant, watching me for flaws, waiting for me to do something out of line. And the next day he would be all loving and caring again. I felt like one of those stupid little animals they use in laboratory experiments. You know, the ones that bang the lever to get rewarded with a pellet. They don’t get one every time, or even every other time, but they keep banging away and maybe the fifteenth time or the forty-third time they get this measly pellet. And that’s enough to keep them going another hundred or thousand times, whatever it takes.”

  “There’s a whole system based on that principle. It’s called Las Vegas.”

  She ignored me. “After a while, he stopped the hot and cold treatment and stopped caring, too. That’s when I found out it’s better to be carped at than ignored.”

  “You don’t impress me as an easy person to ignore. Why would Preston treat you like a queen one minute and a leper the next?”

  She gave a little shrug that was more like a sigh. I decided to try the direct approach.

  “Was he seeing another woman?”

  “Who knows,” she said, as if she were telling me she didn’t have the time of day. She straightened her right leg and raised it, toe pointed, toward the ceiling.

  “Were you seeing someone?”

  She smiled. “If you believe the rumors, I have the morals of an oversexed alley cat. I’ve made the rounds of buyers and junior executives and performed feats with the board of directors that would make the Guinness Book of Records.”

  “Should I believe the rumors?”

  “I think that people who believe rumors like that are hoping to become part of the legend. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said, ignoring the insinuation. “I barely know you, and the few things I do know about you don’t exactly fit the classic devoted-wife mold. You shoplift items out of your husband’s store. You walk and talk like you’ve got more on your mind than a good conversation. And, upon learning of Preston’s untimely death, you dissolve into a nicely staged fit of giggles. You tell me. What am I supposed to think?”

  She lowered her leg from its flexing position. One or more parts of that speech hit the mark. She stood slowly, allowing the towel to slip from her shoulders and onto the floor. Her eyes narrowed. “Get out.”

  I shrugged and stood. “Whatever you say. But you had better do a little more work on that misunderstood-widow routine. Your next visitor will probably be a police sergeant who is definitely not a game player.”

  “The relationship I had with Preston is none of your business.”

  “I know. I just thought you needed to talk.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and studied me for a long moment. Then she said, “He got tired of me, okay? Just like he eventually got tired of all his toys and tossed them aside to make way for the new ones. You know, it used to be my picture that was in the middle on his desk. My only consolation in this game we called a marriage was knowing that some day that damned horse would lose the center position.”

  “Was he seeing another woman?” I asked again, hoping for a straight answer this time.

  She let out a frustrated sigh and pushed her hair back in an impatient gesture. “There were a lot of them. N
o one special. He didn’t try to hide it from me. Sometimes he’d even be really brazen about it.”

  “Is that why you come on the way you do?”

  She shrugged and said nothing, but held my gaze while a

  slight smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

  The moisture on her face had dried, leaving behind a kind of glow, which struck a note of discord. Brides glow. Widows don’t. She gazed up at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there, then looked directly at me—or maybe it was through me. I wasn’t sure. Once again, she said nothing.

  Without breaking her gaze, I asked, “Did you send him those letters?”

  “No,” she answered immediately and then, just as quickly, realized she had fumbled at a very crucial point.

  “How did you know about the letters?” I asked.

  “Preston showed them to me.” She avoided eye contact as she spoke, then looked at me, daring me to challenge her.

  I didn’t want to disappoint her. “They were mailed to his office and he told me that Irna and Grace were the only other people who knew about them.”

  “He lied.” She didn’t even blink.

  “Someone lied,” I allowed.

  I have no idea how long we would have stood there, staring at each other, so I don’t know whether to bless or curse Sergeant O’Henry for his timing. I do know that I was more than a little disappointed when the doorman rang Diana’s apartment, announcing the detective’s arrival.

  As we waited for O’Henry to find his way to the apartment, I wished Diana would change into something that would make her look a little more like a grieving widow and a little less like an aerobics instructor. But I didn’t say anything for fear she would just throw a robe on, leaving O’Henry to speculate what, if anything, she wore underneath. I had to settle for being grateful I hadn’t accepted her offer of a drink. O’Henry might have been inclined to

  lock us both up for lack of decorum.

  “Look, Diana. There’s a lot that hasn’t been said here, and I can just about promise you that things are going to get worse for you before they get better. So, if that happens, and you decide you really want to talk—not spar, talk—then let me know.” There was a knock at the door before she could respond.

  When O’Henry entered the room, he didn’t speak at first. He looked from Diana to me then back again, trying to figure out whether we added up. He was holding the small notebook he had been using in Hauser’s office. He gave Diana a solemn nod.

  “I am very sorry about your husband, Mrs. Hauser. I would like to ask you a few questions, then I’ll leave you two to your commiserating.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, pretending to ignore the bite in his tone. “I have to be going.” I took my coat from the brass rack. It would be interesting to stay around to see how these two handled each other, but I needed to get back to the store.

  “Don’t go too far,” O’Henry suggested.

  “I’ll try to keep a tight leash on myself.” I turned to Diana and said, “If you need anything, be in touch.” The hell with O’Henry. Let him think what he wanted.

  “Quint.” She stopped me halfway out the door. I turned to her. She had paled a little, as if the enormity of the situation had finally begun to have an effect on her. She said, “Thank you,” but I think she wanted to say a whole lot more.

  When I had left the office to give Diana Hauser the news, I’d handed the reins over to Fred Morison. At the time it seemed easier than finding someone else. I should have gone to the trouble. When I got back to the office, I found that Fred had taken his temporary elevation of duties

  to heart. He was seated at my desk, sipping out of my coffee mug, deep in conversation with Irna Meyers. When I walked into the room, it was like someone had suddenly turned their sound buttons off. Irna straightened her skirt and Fred slurped some coffee. They stared at me as I approached my desk. “Fred, thanks for watching things,” I said.

  “Anytime, Quint.”

  “Are they finished upstairs?”

  Fred nodded. “All over except the questions.” Then he added, “Who do you think did it?”

  “I think I’ll leave any speculating to the police,” I lied.

  Fred shook his head, smiling to himself, apparently reveling in the fact that he could be a part of anything so exciting as a murder.

  “How is Mrs. Hauser?” Irna asked.

  “As well as can be expected.” I thought that sounded noncommittal enough. I really didn’t know how to answer the question. What could I say? “Well, Irna, first she laughed, then she felt sorry for herself, then she got reflective. I thought she was going through puberty.”

  “They asked me how someone could have gotten in there to replace those pills.” Irna assumed a defensive position, head high, chest out, hands clasped behind her back. “I told them that Hauser’s employees trusted one another. No one felt that locking doors and filing cabinets was necessary.”

  “Who are they?”

  She cleared her throat. She didn’t want to have to repeat this. “Detective O’Henry and Mr. Griffin.”

  I looked from Irna to Fred and detected a certain smugness that I had not previously been aware of. I should have been suspicious. “Is there a punch line here?”

  The phone rang. Fred answered and, smiling, handed the receiver to me. It was Griffin. He wanted to see me.

  I hung up the phone and, without looking up, said, “I can take it from here, Fred,” hoping they would both take the cue.

  They did. I waited until they both filed from the room before cringing and collapsing into the chair Diana Hauser had occupied the day before that seemed like such a long time ago.

  “Quint, thank you for coming.” Griffin gave my hand a firm shake before gesturing me into the chair across from his desk. I sat and he straightened the knot in his tie and cleared his throat. I had never noticed how smooth and immaculate his hands were. I wondered if he had them manicured. Somehow that fit.

  He folded his hands in front of him and stared at them, shaking his head. “Terrible, terrible waste. Senseless. Why?” Then he shifted his gaze and stared at me. I had the feeling he was testing me rather than looking for an answer. Then he snapped out of it and was business as usual again.

  “I understand you were involved in some kind of investigation for Hauser. Something about some letters he was getting. What was that all about?” He asked the question casually, like there was no doubt in his mind that I would fill him in on every detail. He was wrong.

  “Hauser hired me as a private investigator. One of the reasons he hired me was because he thought I could keep my mouth shut. He was right.”

  Griffin leaned forward in a predatory manner and said very slowly, “He’s dead now, McCauley. You won’t be betraying his trust.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I have to respect Hauser’s request.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I have other ways of gathering my information.” “That’s fine,” I said, sure he was speaking the truth.

  Griffin’s composure cracked for a second and a little irritation seeped out. Then he leaned back in his chair, once again totally composed. “Well, I think you know what I have to do now.” From the tone of his voice, he might have been discussing the weather. “We’ve got a problem here. I don’t think I have to tell you how ludicrous this situation looks. Not only is our security so lax that someone was able to replace Preston Hauser’s vitamins with God knows what kind of poison, but the head of security happened to be sitting right in front of Preston when he took those pills.” Griffin shook his head. “Doesn’t look good at all. What do you think I should do about that?”

  I sensed this wasn’t the time to ask for a raise. “I think you’ve got that figured out.”

  Griffin nodded to me, acknowledging my perceptiveness. Then he said, “Don’t get me wrong, McCauley. I don’t blame you personally. Hauser liked to look at this store as a big happy family. He never gave security mu
ch thought. But, someone has to be held accountable here, and I’m afraid that someone is you.”

  When I was fourteen, I was fired from my first job as stock boy at the local grocery. The manager, Mr. Sekera, thought I was helping myself to fresh produce. I felt exactly the same way now as I did more than twenty-five years before—ashamed, hurt, and more than anything, angry. Back then, I was angry because it hadn’t been me stealing the fruit and I knew I’d been railroaded. The same bad deal didn’t feel any better this time.

  “So, I’m elected scapegoat. I think it stinks but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Quint,” he said. “You disappoint me. I thought you’d bear up.”

  “Griffin, you’re an ass.” I needed that. “Well,” I said, rising, “I guess this will give me time to concentrate my efforts on the investigation.”

  Griffin leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “McCauley, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I just fired you.”

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. You didn’t hire me to investigate those letters you’re so curious about. Hauser did.”

  “Why don’t you leave the sleuthing to the police. You’re out of your league.”

  “Maybe. But you’re not the one to knock me back to the minors.”

  The color was beginning to rise in Griffin’s face. “Don’t be so sure.”

  “You know what I find really satisfying about this whole thing? I get this warm feeling inside me knowing that you might wind up working for a woman who steals lingerie out of her own store. I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall at your next board meeting.”

  “People swat flies. They are disposed of that quickly and there is never any call for remorse.”

  I placed both hands on Griffin’s desk and leaned toward him. “Your mother could drop dead in this store’s everyday-china section and you’d only feel remorse if she took down a display with her.” Griffin’s jaw muscles were tight so I pushed a little harder. “And don’t expect me to get all wobbly-kneed at your veiled threats. I don’t jump when you tell me to, I don’t buy into your corporate climber bullshit, and”—I smiled—“I don’t answer to a woman who is her own store’s number-one enemy.”