Murder in Store

by DC Brod

  “Don’t worry,” I said, resisting an impulse to tell him to take good care of Pam. Then I remembered I wasn’t in any position to talk.

  As I walked to my car, I decided I needed a place to think. The White Hart was open for lunch on Saturdays and that seemed a good spot. Over a plate of shepherd’s pie and a glass of Guinness I debated my next move.

  Griffin? No. I wanted to know more about his friend on Sheridan Road before I approached him. Diana? If what Art had told me was true, she was capable of some pretty strange behavior. Strange enough to put Elaine in jeopardy. Strange enough to kill her spouse?

  17

  AS I DROVE back to Pam’s I debated again whether it was safer for Elaine if I stayed with her or away from her. If I were with her, she might get in the way of anyone trying to kill me. On the other hand, if her association with me had already placed her in jeopardy, then perhaps it was better I stayed around. I’m not exactly a lethal weapon, but I’m better than nothing. Then I decided that maybe I should discuss this with Elaine before deciding her life for her.

  Pam and Elaine were eating popcorn and watching The Scarlet Claw when I returned. I sat on the edge of the couch and reached into the bowl. It was almost empty.

  “I can make some more,” said Pam.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Not for me anyway.”

  Pam looked at me, trying to read my expression, before she asked, “How’s Art? What did he tell you?”

  I knew this question was inevitable, but I hadn’t come up with a good response. “Art’s okay. He was helpful.”

  “Did he break into Elaine’s apartment?”

  Her tone was sharp this time and I felt rotten because I was making her work so hard for information. But there wasn’t much I could tell her.

  “No. I’m sure he didn’t,” I said, adding, “You’ve been good for him Pam.” I told her that partly because it was true and partly because I hoped to derail her from her line of questions.

  She allowed me a small smile, partly, I suspect, because she appreciated the observation and partly because she knew exactly why I’d chosen this moment to say it.

  “Well,” I said, rising, “I’ve got some things to do.” I turned to Elaine. “Do you want to stay here, or can I drop you off at home?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A little legwork. Door-knocking.”

  “I think I’ll join you.”

  “This isn’t going to be exciting, Elaine,” I warned her. “In fact, it probably won’t even be productive.” “I want to go,” she said, shrugging on her down jacket. I looked at Pam. “All part of our madcap life-style.” “Yeah, and all we used to do was go to the movies.”

  “Where we going?” Elaine asked as we got into the car.

  “We’ll start at the bottom of the apartment building on Sheridan Road and work our way to the top, trying to get an ID on this woman. If we’re really lucky, the minute we get there we’ll run into a doorman who will say, ‘Oh, yes, of course, that’s Mary Smith, apartment 5E.'”

  As it turned out, we weren’t lucky, not even remotely. No doorman, and it was a high-rise with twenty floors. The process was very time consuming. We only had one picture, so we couldn’t split up. And even though it was a Saturday afternoon, a lot of people weren’t home. We didn’t get more than a ‘She looks vaguely familiar’ until we hit the tenth floor. It was late afternoon and almost dark. A short man around thirty with receding sandy-colored hair answered the door to apartment 1015. He opened it as wide as the chain would allow.

  After glancing at the picture, he looked from Elaine to me and said, “When are you going to leave that poor woman alone?” and started to close the door.

  My foot jammed it open again. For a little guy, he had a lot of strength and I was glad I wore boots.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Please. Can you just tell me who she is?”

  He studied us for a moment with small narrow eyes that looked like two slashes when he squinted. “Melinda Reichart. And your verb tense is wrong.”

  This guy was going to make me earn every shred of information. “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t you people talk among yourselves? There must have been a dozen policemen down here asking questions.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “You’re not a policeman, are you?”

  “No. Does that make a difference?”

  “It does to me. Now I know I don’t have to talk to you.”

  He applied pressure on the door, pressing it into my boot. “Please remove your foot. I’m not impressed with strong-arm tactics.”

  Elaine, who had been standing behind me, stepped forward. “Please, sir. My sister has been missing for three years now. We think this girl might know her. Won’t you help us?”

  She was so convincing I almost believed her.

  The little man chewed on his lower lip and gave it serious thought. Finally, after heaving a resigned sigh, he said, “You won’t get any help from her. They found her dumped in an alley about two weeks ago. Shot to death.”

  Elaine gasped.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” the little man said. “But you asked.”

  “Do you know if the investigation turned up anything?”

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “It’s not like the police go out of their way to keep me informed, you know.”

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to be civil to this guy. “I just thought you might have heard something, or, seeing as you two were neighbors, I thought perhaps you would have paid some attention to the news accounts of her death.”

  Another sigh. There was a little whine in it this time.

  “Robbery. They said it was robbery. Her wallet was taken out of her purse.”

  “Was anyone arrested?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What apartment did she live in?”

  “Ten-fourteen.” He gestured at the apartment across the hall.

  “Did she have any friends who might be able to tell us something.”

  “How should I know?” he snapped.

  “Please,” Elaine said. “Maybe they knew Marla. My sister.”

  “It’s not like I knew the woman or anything.” Elaine’s pleading look must have begun to wear on him. “Look. She only lived here for a couple months. She kept to herself. She had a pretty regular gentleman caller, but I don’t think she spent much time socializing with her neighbors.” He shrugged. “I asked her over once. She just said no. Didn’t bother to make up an excuse or anything. Just no.” He added, more to himself than to us, “Why is it that people who are that good looking are always so unpleasant?”

  “You don’t have to be good looking to be unpleasant,” I said. “Can you describe her ‘gentleman caller'?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I didn’t pay much attention. He usually came late at night and only stayed a few hours. Probably married.”

  “Probably. Well, thanks for your help.” I removed my foot from the doorway. He continued to peer out at us, nose barely above the chain.

  We tried 1012. No one was home. But we had better luck at 1016. A tall, plump woman in her thirties with wire-rimmed glasses and long, straight brown hair answered. That was when we heard our little friend from across the hall close his door. The woman peered past us toward the noise.

  “Nosy little asshole,” she said. “If you’re sellin’ something or spreading the good word, I warn you I’m an atheist with all my cash tied up in stocks.”

  I said, “We’re just looking for information. Did you know Melinda Reichart?”

  She was chewing a large wad of bubble gum and snapped it a couple times before answering. “Not so’s I’d care to admit it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was a snotty little bitch. I’m sorry she’s dead, but she didn’t add much to the quality of the human race, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess I don’t. What were her less than endearing qualities?”

  She
looked from me to Elaine, then back again and opened the door farther. “Why don’t you two come on in. This might take a while.”

  We walked into the place, and I thought I must have stepped back two decades. Plastic, colored beads separated the kitchen from the living room. Black-light posters and a reproduction of a Grateful Dead album cover were the focal point above the couch. The room smelled of incense, and a string of smoke rose from a cone-shaped piece of the stuff sitting in an ashtray next to a marijuana cigarette. The woman caught my observation and smiled, apparently unconcerned. The couch was piled with books and computer printout paper. Elaine and I sat on two of the many large cushions covering the floor.

  “Why do you want to know about Melinda?” The woman interrupted my inspection.

  Elaine jumped in. “We’re trying to locate my missing sister. I think she knew Melinda.”

  The woman studied Elaine for a moment. I wasn’t sure whether she believed her, but she was apparently satisfied with the story. “Melinda said she was a model. I think she

  was probably a hooker. Too skinny to be a model.”

  I didn’t think that was possible, but the point wasn’t worth arguing.

  She continued without my prompting her. “She used to have all sorts of men over there. All hours of the day and night. Now I really don’t give a shit if she was getting laid by the Bears’ entire defensive line, but she had this holier than thou attitude that really grated on me. Never acknowledging your presence unless she needed something. Like once her phone was out of order and she came over here, sweet as can be, and asked to borrow mine.”

  “Did you let her?” Elaine asked.

  The young woman shrugged. “Why not? Just ‘cuz she’s a bitch doesn’t mean I have to be one too.”

  “I don’t suppose you happened to hear what the call was about?” I asked.

  She smiled conspiratorially. “It’s a small place. Hard not to hear.”

  “And?” I prodded.

  “Probably one of her johns. Or tricks. Or whatever they call them. Must a’ had a scheduling problem. She was saying something like ‘No. You can’t come over. He’ll be here. I can’t tell him not to come. I told you how he is.’ Somethin’ like that.”

  “When was that?”

  “Couple weeks ago.”

  “Right before she was killed?”

  “Around then.”

  “Did the police ever ask you about her?”

  “A cop came by and I told him she had some boyfriends but couldn’t be specific. The cop was kind of a jerk.” She shrugged to herself, as if that were a given. “A lot like Melinda, in fact. Stuck up.”

  “Do you know what guy she was referring to when she made that phone call?”

  She considered the question before answering. “There was some guy who came over that she used to fight with. Couldn’t tell what they were saying. Just loud voices.”

  I showed her the picture of Melinda and Griffin. “Was that him?”

  She studied it, then handed it back to me. “Might’ve been. That’s not a very clear picture. I mean you can see her highness all right, but that guy … well, that could be him. I mean, he looks like one of them, but I don’t know if he’s the one she used to go rounds with.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  Opening the door for us, she turned to Elaine. “You really looking for your sister?”

  Elaine met her gaze. “No. But it is important.”

  “That’s what I figured. Good luck,” she said and we left.

  We drove back to Elaine’s place in silence. I was thinking about what Art had told me and what we had just learned about Griffin’s girlfriend. This was getting to be a very uncomfortable situation. Diana Hauser could be more of a case than I had figured, and Griffin was keeping company with a woman who wound up dead in an alley. Maybe it was time to see if the police were interested in what I’d turned up. Maybe the police had turned up something I could use. Maybe it was time to give Griffin a call.

  Elaine broke the silence. “You think Griffin killed her?”

  “I don’t know. But even if he didn’t, I’ll bet he’s not too anxious to publicize the fact that he was keeping company with a future murder victim.”

  “What did Art tell you?”

  I didn’t answer her right away. Then I said, “I need to sort this out first.”

  Elaine nodded and turned to watch the scenery. “I have to pick up a few things at the grocery. What do you feel like for dinner?”

  We felt like red meat so we selected a couple of good cuts of tenderloin that would go nicely with a bottle of Cote du Rhone Elaine had been saving for a special occasion.

  She smiled and said, “Last night was special. I don’t want to put you under pressure or anything, but I expect tonight to be even better.”

  I told her I’d try to live up to her expectations.

  When we got to the apartment building, we parted temporarily. Elaine took the bottle of windshield-washer fluid down to her car in the heated garage and I brought the bag of groceries up to the apartment.

  The phone was ringing as I put the key in the lock and, just like it could see what I was doing, stopped as I reached for it.

  I put most of our purchases away, leaving the steaks out on the counter, and decided to give Frank Griffin a call. I found his home phone number in the file that the late detective Keller had compiled. It was six-thirty on a Saturday night. Maybe I’d interrupt his dinner.

  A woman answered.

  “Frank Griffin, please,” I said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  I told her and there was silence for almost a minute. Finally she came back. “I’m afraid Mr. Griffin is unable to come to the telephone. Can I take a message?”

  “This is very important.”

  “I’ll ask him to return your call as soon as he is able.” God, the woman was as spontaneous as an answering machine. I gave her my number, confident Griffin wouldn’t even have to bother throwing it away.

  “Damn.” I hung up the phone.

  I opened a beer and carried it to the window that only yesterday I had discovered overlooked Wrigley Field. Three more months till the season starts, I reminded myself, then realized that in just over a month they’d be

  starting spring training. I allowed myself a moment of nostalgia.

  “This was in my car,” Elaine announced as she entered the apartment. She carried a container roughly the size of a shoe box, bound by heavy twine and tied on top in a crude bow. I set the beer down and took the box from her.

  Elaine’s full name, last name misspelled, was printed in black marker on the top. The box was fairly light and as I shook it gently, something shifted inside.

  “It’s not ticking,” I said.

  “I don’t think I like this,” Elaine said, then rummaged through a kitchen drawer until she pulled out a pair of scissors.

  I held my hand out and she slapped them into my palm. We stared at the box. I had set it on the dining room table. It wasn’t moving and seemed to stare back at us, taunting and menacing.

  “Maybe it’s just my cosmetics order,” Elaine suggested.

  I cut the twine and removed it. Then we looked at each other and simultaneously held our breath. I counted to three and removed the lid. Elaine’s reaction was instantaneous. She clapped her hand to her mouth and turned away.

  “Oh, God,” she gagged. “Get rid of it.”

  I slammed the lid down and held it there for several seconds, then removed it again slowly, wanting to confirm what I’d seen. I was right. Maybe I can’t tell a gerbil from a guinea pig, but I know a rat when I see one, even when it’s been partially eviscerated. The creature, in its day, had been a big one. This bloodied, disemboweled condition could have been the work of a cat. The carcass lay on a bedding of grass and straw and it reminded me of the sort of coffin a child would rig for a deceased pet, sending the animal on its way into eternity in comfort. The s
tench was overwhelming. I replaced the cover once more.

  Elaine stood with her back to me. “When I turn around, I want that thing to be out of here, and no sign left that a gutted rat was on my dining room table. You got that?”

  I briefly considered arguing for a fingerprint analysis, but Elaine read my mind. “I don’t care if Preston Hauser’s prints are all over the damned box. I’m counting to ten and it better be gone by the time I get there.”

  I was out of the door before she reached three and out of earshot when I dumped the creature and its cardboard coffin down the trash chute, with probably a couple digits to spare.

  When I closed the apartment door behind me, Elaine was standing in the kitchen, arms folded across her chest like she was trying to get warm. “Shit,” she said, “I hate those things.” The phone rang and Elaine, still wrapped in that thought, answered.

  “Hello,” I heard Elaine say. A few moments of silence. “Hello. Hello.” Elaine gave me a puzzled look. “Is anyone there?”

  She shrugged and turned to hang up the receiver. I made the distance across the room in three steps and grabbed it from her hand before she replaced it on the hook.

  “Listen, Diana,” I said and heard a click.

  I fumbled for my wallet where I’d stored Diana’s phone numbers. I dialed her Chicago number first, not sure of what I was going to say if she answered, but as sure of the identity of the person behind the gift as I’d been sure of my photographer. There was no answer.

  “Who are you calling?” Elaine asked. “What’s going on?”

  Without responding, I dialed the number in Wayne.

  Grace answered. “I believe Diana is in the city tonight Can I help you with anything?”

  I hesitated, tempted to tell her about tonight’s incident, but I wanted to cool off first. “Maybe. But it can wait”

  “Perhaps after the funeral tomorrow,” she suggested, and I agreed to talk to her then.

  I hung up and turned to Elaine, who was waiting for an explanation. She deserved one, but I wanted to relax the mood a bit before we started talking about Diana Hauser.