Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  “Get out,” Griffin said.

  “I was just leaving.” I straightened up. “Have fun counting the lingerie.”

  9

  LOIS, THE SECRETARY for my office group, avoided my eyes as I walked into my office for the last time. The gossip lines had been fast and, this time, accurate.

  I stopped in front of my desk and just stared at it, not really thinking anything. “Can I get you something?” It was Lois. She stood outside the door.

  “No. Thanks.”

  She hesitated. “A box?”

  I looked at the sum of my personal effects. I’d stowed my briefcase containing the files in the trunk of my car before I’d driven out to the Hausers’ condominium. There wasn’t much left—a stained bar towel, a battered baseball, a knife, and a chipped coffee mug. I told her I could manage without a box. I didn’t hear her leave, but when I looked back at the door, I was alone. It occurred to me that I would miss Lois’s quiet efficiency. And her Christmas cookies.

  I put the baseball on the mug and the mug on the towel and wished I had taken Lois up on her box offer. I sheathed the bird-and-trout knife, which had never been close enough to either of those species to pose a threat. It had served me well, though, as a salami slicer and letter opener. I stopped to admire its rosewood handle before sliding it into my sports jacket pocket.

  “Quint?” It was Art Judson. When I turned toward him, he approached me. “God, Quint, I’m sorry. What a rotten, rotten break.”

  “Compared to Hauser, I guess I got off easy.”

  He managed an uncomfortable laugh. “Yes, I guess so.” He looked around my office. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “No.” I gestured toward my pile of belongings. “I travel light.”

  “Listen, Quint,” Art said and, before continuing, stared out the window for several seconds.

  He looked, as always, like he’d stepped out of GQ. It occurred to me that I could not imagine this man looking sloppy. I couldn’t even imagine him eating a hamburger. Every thread of his custom-tailored suit was immaculate, his shoes gleamed, and even though his hands were in his pockets, I was sure his shirt bore the Arthur Judson trademark—monogrammed cuffs. I was able to confirm my theory when, in a gesture of frustration, he ran a hand over, not through, his hair.

  Finally he said, “You really must have done a number on Griffin.”

  “How insensitive of me.”

  He smiled. “You’ll like this. He usually doesn’t forget to collect the keys from someone he just fired.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Of course, you don’t have to give them to me. You could hand deliver them to Griffin himself. It might do you some good.”

  I thought about that, then decided it was a bad idea I handed Art the keys. “No. I don’t think I want to see him again. Not right now anyway. Tell you what, though. Why don’t you tell him I’ll send him the key to the executive washroom?”

  Art looked puzzled. “But we don’t have an executive washroom.”

  “I know. But maybe just for a second Griffin will think he’s been locked out of it all these years.”

  He chuckled. “You’ll do okay, Quint.” Then he added, “I hear you were working on some kind of investigation for

  Hauser. Was he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Are you sure all Griffin sent you for was the key?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I couldn’t tell if Art was genuinely hurt or just faking it.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little touchy today. I really can’t tell you anything about the investigation. It’s confidential.”

  He nodded and paused. “Did it have anything to do with me? Was Hauser investigating me?” He looked right at me when he asked that question.

  “Not exactly. Although he did mention that you owed more than a few bucks to some rather unsavory characters.” When Art didn’t answer, I said, “Are you beginning to wish you had taken him up on his loan offer?”

  His laugh was bitter and that surprised me a little. “There are worse things than being in debt to the mob.”

  “If there are, I don’t think I want to imagine them.” Art was silent, so I added, “Like what?”

  “With a loan shark, at least you know where you stand. Pay up or you die. But with Hauser, he made sure you kept owing him. He never let you pay it off.”

  I tried to let that sink in for a minute and when that didn’t help I said, “Can you be a little more specific?”

  He hesitated, as if weighing whether he should tell me anything. “I borrowed ten grand from him last year. Gambling debts again.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m a slow learner. Anyway, he loaned me the money—no interest—said he just wanted to help me out. Everything was fine for a couple weeks. Then he starts asking me to do things for him.”

  “Do things?” I said when he stopped. “What kind of things?”

  “Fix him up with women—beautiful young women. He was very particular. At first I didn’t mind. I know these things go on. I’ve been a party in a number of extracurricular

  relationships. I didn’t think much of it except I guess I thought he was kind of crazy. I mean, he’s got Diana waiting for him at home. Why does he need something extra?” Art started cracking his knuckles. One at a time. “But I’m not a procurer. I wouldn’t have minded introducing him to a woman now and then, but he made me feel like a pimp.” Art stopped here and folded his arms across his chest.

  I waited.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and continued. “Like I said, Hauser liked them young. And innocent. No whores for him. He liked to pick from the Hauser Foundation scholarship candidates. Several of the winners are studying somewhere without a shred of talent.” He shook his head and stared out the window before he continued. “I felt like a real lowlife. I’d get friendly with these women—girls really—you know, big-brother like, and then I’d tell them Hauser wanted to see them alone. Some of them didn’t even know what was happening until it was over. Some of them knew exactly, but figured it was worth a scholarship.”

  I thought about what he had just told me, then said, “I’m missing something here. Why didn’t you just tell him to take a hike? What was he going to do? Take the ten grand back from the loan shark?”

  “It wasn’t that simple. By the time I wanted out, I was in debt to him for a whole lot more than ten grand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gambling wasn’t a pleasure to me, it was a compulsion. I couldn’t stop. Hauser kept giving me money, feeding my habit.” He shrugged. “It was expensive for him, but I guess money wasn’t a bad exchange for having someone to manipulate. It was a power thing with him.”

  “But you did stop.”

  “Yeah. I met someone who introduced me to Gambler’s Anonymous, and I finally got the nerve up to tell Hauser he’d have to find another dating service. He laughed at me,

  said I’d never last. He was going to fire me, but never did. I threatened to tell a few select individuals about his bad habits, but I don’t think that worried him any. Hauser considered himself pretty much impenetrable. You know, he hated flying but made a big show out of doing it. Like he wanted everyone to see that he wasn’t letting it control his life. He was in charge.” He reflected on that before saying, “I wonder who had the last laugh. Anyway, before he got around to canning me, Griffin put in a word for me. I don’t know how much difference it made, but I guess it didn’t hurt.”

  “Griffin. Salt of the earth, isn’t he?” Art shrugged and chuckled. “Whatever.” “Have you paid off your loan officers yet?” “I’m working on it.” “What about Hauser?”

  He studied me, trying to read behind the question. “I still owed him.”

  We both must have heard the noise, because simultaneously we turned and saw Fred Morison standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long he had been there. Apparently Art didn’t either.

  “Listen, Quint,” Art said, straightening his tie and adjusting his jacket. “If you need anything, let
me know.” I wondered if he appeared as awkward to Fred as he did to me at that moment.

  “Let’s have a drink sometime.” If there was more to Art’s story, I wanted to hear it.

  “Sure,” he said and walked out.

  “What was that all about?” Fred said after Art was out of earshot.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Are you my replacement?” Fred tried to appear modest. “Yes. I am.” That news brought my situation home harder than the actual firing. It wasn’t so much that I felt bad about losing

  this job. It was just that I didn’t feel like starting over. I realize that some overachievers begin law school at forty-five and have a thriving practice going by the time they are fifty. What would Sunday supplement editors use for feature-story material without them? But not me. The day I stopped aspiring to greatness and decided it was okay to be average was a great day for me. I found a lot of freedom in the relief I felt. Who knows; maybe that’s why Maggie dumped me. Why latch onto a guy who doesn’t care whether or not he makes Encyclopaedia Britannica when you could have someone who wanted nothing less than chief justice of the United States? Now they were telling me how much they thought of the job I did at Hauser’s by replacing me with Fred Morison. What an epitaph.

  Fred didn’t make it any easier for me when he said, “Can I help you move anything out?”

  “No thanks, Fred. I think I can handle it.”

  He was looking at the walls now. “My wife made a really nice latch-hook rug that would look great in here. What do you think, Quint?”

  “Sunset over the west rim of the Grand Canyon?”

  “No.” He thought very hard for a moment. “I think it’s a Rocky Mountain scene. Real nice though.”

  I nodded. “I’ll bet.”

  “You never did much with this place—you know, to make it personal, your own place.”

  “Very perceptive of you, Fred.”

  “I’m gonna let people know this is my office, I work here, I run this department. When someone walks in here, they’re gonna know that Fred Morison runs this place.”

  I tried to imagine what devices Fred would use to spread his image, what his individual stamp would be. He often talked about all the hunting and fishing he did with his brother-in-law and how the two of them belonged to a survivalist group that met monthly somewhere up near

  Lake Geneva. He bragged about the deer, foxes, and rabbits they hunted. I pictured the walls studded with the heads of creatures out of Disney films. Bambi, Thumper, the whole lot of them, doomed to spend eternity watching Fred Morison clean his nails with a pocketknife and pack his pipe tobacco with a large-headed nail.

  “Well, Quint, it’s been—”

  I held up a hand. “Please, Fred, spare me.”

  “I just don’t want any hard feelings,” he said.

  “There are none. Trust me.” As I walked out the door I added, “Take care of yourself, Fred, and don’t forget to take your vitamins.”

  I was trying to leave the place behind me as quickly as possible, so as I walked out onto Michigan Avenue, I didn’t notice the stretch limousine pull up to the curb about a quarter block ahead of me. By the time I reached it, a uniformed man had one hand on the rear-door handle.

  “Mr. McCauley,” he said and I hesitated, not sure, even though I had heard my name, that he was speaking to me. He opened the door and, with a wave of his hand, gestured me into the backseat. I remember what my mother said about getting into strange cars, especially ones with darkened windows. So, even though it was a limo, a white one at that, and I was feeling pretty fatalistic, I peered into the car before taking the plunge.

  A handsome, elderly woman wearing large-framed glasses and a red beret sat alone in the backseat. I’d seen her earlier that day coming out of Preston’s office.

  “Mr. McCauley, I’m Grace Hunnicutt, Preston’s sister. I must talk with you. Can you give me a few minutes?”

  I glanced at the chauffeur. If the two of them were planning to execute me gangland style and dump me in the nearest landfill, the hired help’s expression wasn’t giving them away.

  “Well,” I said to the woman, “time is one thing I have plenty of now.” I slid into the backseat, stacking my belongings in the corner. I was facing her and would be riding backward through traffic.

  Her smile was strained but gracious. We shook hands. It was warm and dry, and her grip surprisingly firm.

  “I’m sorry about your brother, Mrs. Hunnicutt,” I said.

  She glanced quickly out the window, her eyes blinking rapidly behind the bifocaled lenses. “Thank you. And please call me Grace.” She paused, and cleared her throat. “It’s never easy to lose a sibling. But when it is the little brother you spent a large portion of your youth getting out of scrapes, well, it seems as though I let him down.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said.

  “Yes,” she regarded me, “you would, wouldn’t you?” Then she quickly added, “Don’t misunderstand me, there was nothing you could have done. I realize that.”

  Then she said, “Drive, Marshall,” and we pulled away from the curb.

  “Does he know where he’s going?” I asked.

  “It’s not important,” Grace said, smiling, and added, “Would you care for a drink?”

  She pushed a button and a well-stocked bar appeared. A couple hours ago it had been too early in the day to drink, especially with Diana Hauser, but a lot had happened since then. I poured myself a scotch.

  “I’d like a vodka, please,” she said.

  We sipped on our drinks and gazed out the window at the passing scenery. Watching the traffic and the pedestrians through shaded windows was like standing behind mirrored glass. It evoked a curious blend of omnipotence and voyeurism. I turned to Grace. She was definitely a Hauser, those same cold, gray eyes and the Hauser carriage. Even seated, you could tell she was a tall woman, and although she might never have been conventionally beautiful—her

  nose was a bit too broad and her face too long and narrow—she had an elegance about her that stood up pretty well to time. She wore her silver-gray hair short and feathered beneath the red hat.

  She finally broke the silence. “I know you were working for my brother and I know why. In fact, I was the one who suggested Preston hire you. I’d like you to continue investigating those letters. I will, of course, pay you.”

  I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. Preston paid in advance. I don’t think I’ve exactly given him his money’s worth yet.” She nodded.

  “I only wish I had been able to convince Preston earlier to get help.” She sighed and looked out the window. “I want to assist you. I will do anything I can to find the person who did this.” She turned back to me and smiled. “I can be very useful. There was very little about my brother’s affairs that I didn’t know. For that matter, I’m sure I know more about the store and its people than Preston ever cared to.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Were those your notes in the suspect employees’ files?”

  She looked away briefly and I’m not sure whether the smile was triggered by pride or good-natured embarrassment. “Preston used to tell me that I have more sources than a gossip columnist. Perhaps I do. At any rate, that inept detective Preston hired needed all the help he could get. You will find that I have a great deal of knowledge that will also be very helpful to you. I only ask that you keep me informed.” She looked out the window again. “When Preston died, the Hauser name died. Whoever is responsible must be made to pay.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” I asked.

  She smoothed the suede on her handbag, watching the nap go light, then dark again. Finally she said, “Let’s just say I have my suspicions. But I have no proof and, at this

  point, I would rather not influence your investigation.”

  “What is your opinion of Diana Hauser?”

  She looked up from her purse. “My dear sister-in-law? Diana is very much like a pedigreed Blue Himalayan cat I used to own. Lovely to look at, but
adept at very little aside from preening. That is not to say, of course, that my brother’s wife is not capable of doing whatever is necessary to make her happy.”

  “What makes Diana happy?”

  She drained her glass of vodka and said, “If you have to ask me that, you’re not as smart as Preston thought you were.”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But I don’t think Diana is that simple to classify.”

  “Perhaps not,” Grace conceded. “I do tend to give her credit for very little aside from taking up space.” She sighed. “When Preston married her, it was all very sudden. They met in California and were married within a few weeks. When he brought her home, I was very hopeful. I thought perhaps the reason he had married a woman so young was to ensure the continuance of the Hauser name. It wasn’t long before I realized that Preston’s wife was not exactly brimming with maternal instincts.” She paused. “There isn’t very much left to the Hauser family name, Mr. McCauley. I want to know who threatened my brother and who carried out that threat.”

  “What about the police?” I asked. “Are you going to have the same talk with them?”

  She gave me a curious glance, as if she were trying to tell if I was being a wise guy. I did my best to imitate the chauffeur.

  “Having the police prodding into one’s personal life in order to solve a crime is, at best, a very awkward situation. It’s like …” She hesitated, searching for a comparison.

  I tried to help. “Sort of like using nuclear weapons to rid

  your garden of gophers.” Grace lifted one eyebrow. “You accomplish the initial objective, but the side effects can be brutal.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. “Precisely. I’m glad to see that you understand, Quint. Also,” she continued, “I don’t know whether I can count on the police to keep me informed.”

  “You seem pretty certain that I’m going to need your help.”

  She laughed slightly. “Perhaps I’m a bit overconfident, but I think you will realize that I’m your best and only reliable source for information concerning the Hausers.” Reaching into her purse, she said, “I can either be reached at the store or at one of these numbers.” She handed me a card with her name and two numbers written on it. “One is my apartment and the other is Preston’s estate in Wayne.”