Death on Covert Circle

by Patricia McLinn

  We timed covering the distances, but on the store side, instead of through the back room.

  Clara noted each of our multiple trips.

  “This was probably all useless,” she grumbled at the end. “We kept needing to go around display cases and people with carts who suddenly stopped in the middle of the aisle.”

  “The back room path must have obstacles, too. I can’t imagine it’s a straight shot. Probably crates and freezers and such in the way.”

  She clicked her tongue. “So doing this was totally useless.”

  “Not at all. I don’t know about you, Clara, but I’m impressed with how little time it took, even when we weren’t walking fast. Walk to the door by dairy, walk across the back of the store, hit Birchall on the head, then return the way he or she came. Or come out another door. And if Foster or Jacqueline or the guy in jeans was alone for even a few seconds by the produce door it would take them hardly any time.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “It keeps us from eliminating someone, thinking they didn’t have enough time.”

  She gusted acceptance, mixed with irritation. “I suppose that’s a help in a backward sort of way. Let’s go see if we can find Kurt Verker now. Maybe that will be more useful.”

  “First, I have an experiment to try.”

  * * * *

  Mine wasn’t nearly as interesting as Clara’s.

  It consisted of walking up and down aisles looking at packaging.

  “Is this it?” Clara asked for at the four-hundred-and-fifty-seventh time.

  “No.”

  We’d made good time through aisles with laundry detergent, canned soup, pasta, but this snack aisle was slow-going. There were so many similar to—

  “That’s it.”

  I pointed at the package resembling a power bar in a plastic wrapper with a red ribbon, edged with yellow.

  According to the package, it was a sesame snack bar.

  Clara and I grinned at each other, then each grabbed a couple.

  * * * *

  As we turned toward the front of the store, we practically ran into Belinda as she stood watching us.

  “You, too?”

  “Us two, what?” Clara asked.

  Belinda jerked her head to the packages. “You and the deputies, getting those sesame snacks.”

  Clara and I looked at each other, as we realized she’d said “too” not “two,” that meant we were behind the sheriff’s department, but confirmed we had the right idea and the right wrapper.

  “Hope they’re good,” Clara said with a smile.

  Belinda looked uninterested. Yet she didn’t move away.

  I tried, “That was quite something that happened yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  She didn’t respond.

  More direct?

  “Belinda, what’s the snack in that sample tray by the deli?”

  “What do you think?” She shook her head. “You and those deputies.”

  “Sesame?”

  “Duh.”

  “Is that what’s always there?”

  “No. Changes all the time.

  “Have the deputies been questioning people today?”

  “Some. Want to know if we turned off the cameras up and down this aisle and other places. Like Verker wouldn’t go ballistic if we did.”

  “Have they questioned Jacqueline again?”

  “No idea. She’s off today.”

  Clara frowned me quiet. “That must be unsettling. This store’s so lucky to have you to step up when things go wrong.”

  “Not that it’s appreciated.”

  “Isn’t that the way. The most hard-working person gets overlooked.”

  “Too busy looking at a young blonde,” Belinda grumbled. “Old fool. She’s got a live-in boyfriend. Hear her talking to him all the time. Poor Wade.” She sneered in a falsetto that didn’t sound at all like Jacqueline.

  “Wade,” Clara repeated in apparent disgust.

  Me? I wasn’t saying a word after that frown.

  “Wade Edwards, something like that.” Belinda made it sound like it confirmed all her worst thoughts about Jacqueline. Then she added, “Or Will or Walter or something.”

  Clara shook her head.

  Apparently satisfied, Belinda said, much more cheerfully, “Got work to do.”

  She passed us and was gone.

  “Can I talk yet?” I asked.

  “You were going to blow the whole thing. Could tell you were getting fed up with her.”

  “What whole thing? She’d already confirmed we had the right package. And that Birchall took a sesame snack from the sample tray. That’s what matters. And now we know Jacqueline has a boyfriend. That’s not exactly shocking. She’s a good-looking woman.”

  “It’s a bridge to get Belinda to talk later if we need to and we could ask Jacqueline about it.”

  “Oh goody.”

  “You don’t like talking about romantic relationships?” she said with great significance.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  We found the manager in his office.

  Better yet, he didn’t see us coming, so we got inside and had the door closed, with us in front of it, effectively blocking his escape, before he knew he wanted to escape.

  “You can’t come in here.” Even he appeared to realize that was a futile complaint since we were in there.

  The Haines Tavern Jolly Roger store manager was a sway-backed man who resembled a penguin in shape and walk, except he wasn’t as colorful. Gray hair, gray face, gray clothes, gray shoes (they might once have been black), made even the black vest a relief. He was half a head shorter than me, which made me wonder if he’d hired Petey to feel tall.

  “Mr. Verker, my name’s Sheila Mackey.”

  “And you know me — Clara Woodrow.”

  “We were both here yesterday during—”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  “We know. But we also—”

  “I don’t know anything. I told the deputies that. Nothing.”

  “You told the deputies you didn’t know anything?”

  He licked his lips at my emphasis, but still went for bluster. “Yes, because that’s the truth. I wasn’t here. I don’t know anything about the events.”

  “But you knew he was coming. Someone called and told you Rod Birchall, the CEO of the Jolly Roger chain, was coming here to your store yesterday, didn’t they?”

  His small eyes tightened to near pinpoints with the playing-possum frozen pose of the fearful.

  Yes, I’d shifted from penguin to possum. Penguin was entirely too cute for this guy. Possum suited his coloring. Also his beady eyes and pointy nose.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. No way I could know about a surprise visit. I was taken ill and I went home.”

  “That’s what you told the sheriff’s department? Because they can check phone records, you know. Especially if somebody gives them a hint there’s a specific reason to check.”

  His gaze darted from me to Clara, possibly looking for a way out.

  He didn’t find one.

  He shrank into himself, resembling a possum curling up, preparing for the full playing-dead act. Except the protrusion of his belly prevented him from getting very tight.

  “We could mention to the deputies our reasons for thinking they should check the phone records—”

  “No. No.” He slumped.

  He didn’t invite us to ask questions at will, but good as.

  “What do you know about Rod Birchall?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing. Never met the man.”

  “You’ve been with the chain a long, long time.”

  “He’d only been here a year or so.”

  “You have a lot of connections and friends and sources,” Clara said. “Everybody says how well connected you are. If there’s anybody who knows what’s going on in the Jolly Roger chain, especially this area and that’s including co
rporate headquarters, with it being just across the river, it’s Kurt Verker. That’s what everyone says. Why, the one person who’d—”

  “He wasn’t popular.”

  Fighting off a grin at Clara wearing him down, I asked, “Less popular than the previous CEO?”

  The answer might give us a gauge of whether employee unhappiness centered on Birchall or more general unhappiness with the Jolly Roger chain.

  “Oh, yeah. Lot’s more unpopular.”

  It didn’t take Freud to notice he’d switched from less popular to more unpopular.

  “Why?”

  His eyes shifted from me to Clara and back, gauging what we might know and how much he needed to tell.

  If this was his demeanor while talking with Deputy Hensen he was probably at the top of the suspect list.

  “You heard about all the people let go last week?”

  We nodded.

  “Tip of the iceberg. It wasn’t only the numbers. It was targeted. People about to retire, people with a lot of experience, people providing strong leadership at their stores.”

  The first two applied to him. I had my doubts about the last one.

  “And,” Verker continued, “he planned more.”

  “But he told the media there wouldn’t be more,” Clara said.

  “Yeah, that’s what he told them. He was lying. Next round was coming early next month.”

  “How did that affect morale in this store?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Who would you say was most upset about it?”

  “Jacqueline. She was real outspoken about those firings.”

  “Who else?”

  He paused a moment. “Belinda. She’s angry all the time. Gets real wound up about things.”

  Clara was indignant. “Of all the ungrateful— From what we heard, she was wound up on your behalf. She knows you’re near retirement and was worried you’d get fired.”

  Did a possum ever breed with an ostrich? Because that’s what Verker resembled — not moving while pretending he didn’t see what was right in front of him.

  * * * *

  “We need to keep an eye on Kurt Verker.”

  “But everybody agrees he wasn’t at the store when Birchall was killed,” Clara said.

  “Everybody agrees he left. But he could have circled back. Petey said he didn’t see everyone going in and out and who better to know how to get in and out unseen — not to mention disabling the cameras.”

  “Good points, he couldn’t know Birchall would go in back alone.”

  “Okay, that’s a stumbling block, but he has a motive,” I continued. “He admitted barely escaping this recent round of firings, Birchall was targeting people nearing retirement to trim their benefits, and Verker himself said another round’s coming.”

  “You’re right. We need to keep him on the list. In the meantime, how about we go to Shep’s Market to see if we can talk to Gundy Vance?”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Shep’s Market was located a block and a half southwest of the yoga studio, with another two blocks to the town square. When Shep’s was built in the early 1900s, that was on the outskirts of town.

  Now, it reminded me of a Trader Joe’s practicality and whimsy, with a touch of Whole Foods pretentiousness. Where the Roger is wide side to side, Shep’s is modestly narrow, but deep.

  We plunged past the entrance area to get into the store itself.

  Automatically, I started toward the back left corner, in the vicinity of the meat and the deli.

  On the way there, Clara stopped me with an arm on my sleeve.

  She let go to greet the man I now knew as Gundy Vance, the owner of Shep’s Market.

  “Gundy, how nice to see you.” They exchanged a friendly hug. “I was telling Sheila here about the history of Shep’s Market. Gundy, this is Sheila Mackey. Sheila, this is Gundy Vance, owner of Shep’s.”

  We exchanged good-to-meet-yous.

  “Yes, Shep’s been around for generations. I remember when my grandfather was running it and family lore is it was his grandfather who started it, maybe even another generation back. The person you need to talk to is Fern. Do you know—?” At my nod, he continued, “I swear she remembers every time she’s walked in the door.”

  The mention of Fern reminded me that after trying to pump Clara at last night’s yoga class, she hadn’t seemed as interested at noon today. She must have found another source.

  “It’s remarkable and admirable to have kept the store running through all these years.”

  “Thank you. Don’t let me hold up your shopping, though,” he said. “Ah, no cart?”

  Clara made a sound I talked over. “Picking up a few things. All the changes in the business you must have seen. Technology and automation and consolidating.”

  “It’s not easy running a grocery store.” He gave a not entirely pleasant chuckle. “Ask the Jolly Roger chain. They’re having a tough time of it lately. The big chains had all sorts of advantages over us for a long time with their deals with big food manufacturers. The conglomerates did the advertising and the grocery stores served up the products the ads sent people looking for. But these days, those conglomerates don’t need the Jolly Roger and the rest of them. They’ve got online outlets — their own and others — to drop the food on your doorstep.”

  “That sounds like it could create a rather dire landscape for a small, local store like this.”

  But he grinned.

  “Stores like Shep’s Market all sing God Bless the Millennials. They like local. They like small stores. They like individual, not mass produced.”

  “Oh.”

  We both looked at Clara after her burble of a syllable.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about your ads. It’s like you have two kinds. I was telling Sheila about your campaign that emphasizes the tradition of Shep’s Market, how it’s part of Haines Tavern’s history. But you also have the ones that talk about the local producers and how fresh the food is.”

  He beamed at her. “You are one of the rare North Bend County consumers who straddles the divide, Clara. And very astute. Despite some doubters we took a two-pronged approached and it’s worked.

  “We give customers of all generations what they can’t get at the Roger or online. Local food. Fresh. Not manufactured. And we let the producers set their own prices, so they’re not beaten down to making nothing for all their work. We get a little for the selling. And our customers get a good deal.

  “Plus, events.” He turned to me. “I haven’t seen you at any of our classes. Cooking, baking, food prep, wine pairings.”

  “I do, however, consume your prepared meals. That’s what we’re here for.”

  He grinned again. It began to feel like part of his uniform. “That’s my wife, Judy. Another major benefit of Shep’s Market over Jolly Roger or anywhere else. Come, come, let me walk you there.”

  He took Clara’s arm. I followed along. He interrupted himself frequently to say hello to other shoppers, but still carried on a conversation with Clara. He reminded me of a bonhomous host at a restaurant.

  “…and we have a great deal on pork roasts,” he said.

  “I could use one,” Clara said. “Ned’s had a rough week with traveling and lots of meetings, but he has Thursday and Friday off, so I’d like to give him a good dinner. He loves pork almost as much as steak and I like to indulge him because—”

  “Pork is white meat,” I said.

  Clara turned an astonished look on me. “Red meat.”

  I quoted the old ad campaign. “The other white meat.”

  “It comes from an animal, not a bird.”

  “You’re both right. Anyway, neither of you is wrong.” Gundy Vance had our attention. “Traditional culinary view is that it’s a white meat. But, since it does come from a mammal, nutrition specialists classify it as red, as does the USDA.”

  “I don’t know if having the U.S. Department of Agriculture on your side ma
kes you more right, but I concede,” I said.

  “The animal vs. bird argument becomes complicated,” Gundy said, “because duck and goose generally have a higher fat content than, say, veal, which comes from an animal yet is often considered white meat.”

  “Concede,” I repeated.

  “It’s a fascinating topic, especially with white meat being presented as healthier, even than dark meat of, say, chicken or turkey. Yet the war against fat has shown us it’s not as straight-forward as people thought. And then butchers call fat white meat, which—”

  “Gundy.” A woman’s voice called him back to the present from his happy contemplation of culinary matters.

  He looked around to the small prepared meals kiosk tucked between the meat section and the deli with the same smile. “Judy. My wife and our secret weapon. You know Clara Woodrow, don’t you? And this is Shelley—”

  “I know Sheila.” She made the correction firmly.

  “I’m a regular here and now I know I’ve been enjoying Judy’s talent. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She said it without a smile. She didn’t smile a lot, though she was pleasant. Her focus stayed on Gundy. What followed sounded automatic. “Can I help you with something today?”

  “You can. I’d like the salmon salad, please.”

  “Oh, me, too,” Clara said. “Sounds great.”

  “But I’m also going to change things up and get a pork roast. Clara, you and Ned come to dinner at my house tomorrow night.”

  “We will,” she said with pleasure. “Teague, too?”

  I gave her a don’t-push-it look.

  She grinned, but said only, “I still want a roast, too, Gundy.”

  “We’ll find you each a perfect one.” He moved toward the chest holding the pork roasts, Clara preparing to follow him.

  Then, Clara said in her friendliest voice, “But, Gundy, why were you at the Roger yesterday?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Silence following a question like that wasn’t unexpected. Add in the impression that time froze, though, and you had a notable reaction.

  Gundy shot a look at his wife. Worried? Wary? Not knowing the man, I had no idea.

  As far as I could tell, she did not react to the look or to the question.