Murder in Store (14 page)

I pushed her hair back off her shoulders and traced the curve of her throat with my thumbs. She tilted her chin upward in response. We kissed, quick and gentle at first, like we were testing the water. Finding it agreeable, she pushed her hands up under the back of my sweater as I moved mine down the front of hers, touching the rise and fall, the hardness and softness of her breasts.

Locked in an embrace, we pulled each other down onto the carpet, fumbled with sweaters and zippers and hooks and laughed at the awkward moments, until we were finally as close as two people can be.

Later, we lay on the carpet, still twined around each other, feeling the chill of the air as it evaporated the sweat from our bodies.

I thought she was reading my mind when she said, “I wonder how the bed works.”

We moved onto the bed and made love again, more slowly now, taking time to explore each other and allowing the sensations to linger.

I woke in the early morning with the light of the moon on the bed and watched Elaine as she slept—her skin

smooth and white, her breathing deep and even and her face peaceful in repose. Then, selfishly, I nuzzled her awake until her protests dissolved into sighs.

16

 

E
ARLY MORNING HABITS
are the hardest for me to share with another person. When you think about it, that doesn’t make much sense. But there you have it. I was a willing recruit in a decade that endorsed casual sex, but I never got used to the strangeness of waking up with someone for the first time. Anxiety builds with the new smells, morning noises, first words that sound like frog talk, and with the knowledge that your partner, in the heat of the night, never got a really good look at you. You both know you don’t look quite the same as you did in the dark.

The sweat of passion has dried and left your hair matted and oily and your face is lined with pillow creases. It is painfully obvious that your membership to the health club expired a long time ago. Sometimes I think such moments are the first real test of a relationship. Anyone can enjoy a night of lovemaking, but to hold onto that heady feeling you get when you know you’d do it again and enjoy it even more—well, that’s not always easy. You need the right combination of personalities, and luck has a lot to do with it too.

This morning my arm was asleep. As it began that excruciating tingling, I thought about how I’d almost left last night. If I had, would this ever have happened? Maybe. Maybe not. I felt like a selfish bastard that Elaine might be in danger because of her proximity to me, but then she hadn’t exactly given me the bum’s rush either.

That’s it, Quint. You work hard enough at this, you’ll

convince yourself you’re here by popular demand. Yours and hers. I sighed. Tonight I’d really have to leave.

“What are you thinking?” Elaine spoke.

I studied her for a moment, thinking this wasn’t painful at all. Gathering her in my arms, we nestled together for a few minutes, not needing to talk.

Finally I said, “I’ve got to leave, Elaine. Sleeping with a target isn’t good for your health. Trust me.”

“Quint,” she said, “what makes you think you’re the only target here? I mean, whoever tried to kill you may very well think I’m a threat too. Or is there something you haven’t told me?”

I didn’t want
to:
tell her about the letter I had received from Diana. I was beginning to think it was pretty stupid of me not to turn her in. I didn’t want someone agreeing with me. If Diana really did decide to carry out her threat, would she know where to find me?

“Who knows I’m living here?” I asked.

Elaine thought for a moment, then said, “Pam. Who else did you tell?”

“I think she was the only one. Harry only has the phone number. Whoever broke in here to get those files had to know the apartment number.”

She propped herself up on an elbow so she could address her question directly to me. “Are you saying Pam broke in here?”

“No. But do you think Pam might have mentioned it to Art?”

Elaine lay back against her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Finally she said, “We’d better talk to her.”

We were discussing our strategy over Cheerios and English muffins before I realized we had passed through the morning ritual with relatively few awkward moments.

Elaine called Pam to tell her we needed to see her. On our way over, Elaine didn’t offer any directions to Pam’s

place, and I didn’t ask for any either. I did ask Elaine if Pam had been surprised to hear from her. “Or did she assume it was a transatlantic phone call?”

“Oh, no. I called Pam the day after I returned. I told her about my new boarder.”

“Was she amused?” I asked.

“I’m not sure that’s the word I would use.”

I passed a truck and it sprayed slush on the windshield.

“Starting to thaw,” I said, activating the washer.

“I can’t imagine what you two want,” Pam said as she ushered us into her studio apartment. She studied our faces, as if she hoped to read something from our expressions.

She said, “I was sorry to hear how Griffin, uh, let you go,” and shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense to me. Morison is totally ineffectual. From what I hear, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Thank you, Pam. My ego needed that.”

She shrugged. “It’s the truth. Coffee?” We both accepted.

“It made Irna’s day, though,” Pam went on, as she measured coffee and filled the machine with water. “The way she’s copying him with memos and filling him in on procedures, you’d think they were planning to take over the store.”

“Yeah,” I said, grateful that someone else had noticed their collusion. “What is it with those two? Being small and mean is like a religion to Irna. And if she’s finally decided to be nice to someone, why, for God’s sake, would she choose Fred Morison?”

Smiling, Pam removed mugs from a cupboard. “You don’t know?”

“I guess not. What don’t I know?”

“Fred Morison is married to Irna’s only daughter, Myra.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

I looked at Elaine. “I’ve just figured it out. Irna killed Hauser to make me look incompetent so Fred would be made king of security.”

“Try again” was all Elaine said. Pam just laughed.

We made small talk while the coffee brewed, as if we all knew something uncomfortable was about to be said and none of us was anxious to get to the saying of it.

Elaine and I sat on the studio bed, and Pam removed a slumbering gray tabby from an overstuffed chair. The cat stretched its front half, then its back, regarded us with nearly closed eyes, and ever so slowly walked toward the kitchenette. We all watched the sequence, perhaps a bit too intently. The cat glanced over its shoulder at us before nuzzling into its bowl of food.

“Well,” I said. Pam looked at me, waiting. “Well,” I repeated. Elaine poked me in the ribs. I didn’t know how to say this without sounding accusing. “Does anyone besides you know that I am staying with Elaine?”

Pam set her coffee cup down. “No. Who would I tell?”

“What about Art?” I asked.

Pam glanced sharply at Elaine. “So much for my private life.”

“Pam, please. This is very important,” Elaine said.

Pam sighed. “Well, yes, I told Art. I mean …” She looked from me to Elaine and back again. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Anyone else? Did you tell anyone else?” I asked.

Pam shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you know if Art might have told someone?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Pam said, her voice rising. “Quint, Elaine, what’s going on here? Has Art done something? What’s going on?”

“Did Art ever mention anything about some files on key people at Hauser’s?”

“No, he never mentioned any files. And dammit I want to know right now why you’re asking.”

This time Elaine spoke. “Someone broke into my apartment two nights ago and took some files Hauser had given Quint. We’re just trying to figure out who knew he was there and that he had the files.”

“So you think it’s Art. Just because he’s got a history of gambling you think he’s capable of doing something like that. For God’s sake, Quint, Art’s a friend of yours. He confided a lot in you the other day. I know. He told me.”

“Pam, I’m not saying he did anything. I’m just wondering if he might have told someone. Griffin?” I might have imagined it, but it seemed like that name caused a slight widening of her eyes but she didn’t say anything. I continued, “Maybe it just slipped out in conversation. I mean, my living with Elaine is not a state secret. It may not be the most conventional arrangement, but …” I decided now was a good time to shut up.

Pam sighed. “I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to Art? Why did you come to me in the first place?” She leaned back in her chair. When she spoke again it wasn’t to anyone in particular. “I’ve been really good for him. That’s what he told me. And I believe him.” Then she looked at me. “Why are you trying to cause trouble?”

“Believe me,” I said, “I’m not. Is Art home today?” Pam nodded and I said to Elaine, “I’m going over there myself.” She didn’t argue. I figured Art would be more willing to talk if it were to me alone. Elaine must have agreed.

I had never been to Art Judson’s place, but I had a pretty good idea of what to expect—high-tech toys, heavy masculine furniture, sculptures and paintings selected by some interior designer who put it all together. I wasn’t far off. The only detail I hadn’t anticipated was the body-building equipment that turned one portion of the living room into a health club.

Even casual, Art was immaculate. I’m not sure you should trust someone who wears jeans that don’t show any signs of fading. He was getting ready to go to another health club when I arrived.

“Why bother?” I asked. “Haven’t you got everything you need here?”

Art laughed. “It’s kind of hard to do laps here.” He glanced at me. “What club do you belong to?”

“Art,” I said, “the last club I belonged to was the one where they give you merit badges for helping little old ladies. I think I lack the incentive.”

“Feeling great is incentive enough for me,” Art said.

He offered me some kind of bottled water, which I refused, and we sat in the furniture part of his living room.

“Still looking into Hauser’s death?”

I nodded.

He shook his head, slowly. “Why bother, Quint? It’s not like the guy was a prince. He used people—strangers, family, friends—it didn’t matter to him.”

“Not a very admirable quality,” I conceded, “but I didn’t know that was a capital crime.”

“Knock it off, Quint. Haven’t you figured it out? Everyone else has.”

“Maybe I missed something.”

“What it’s going to boil down to is that Diana Hauser bumped him off.” “Why?”

“His money. What else?”

“She might have done it, but I don’t think her motive was money.”

“You sound like you don’t want to believe that the beautiful Diana Hauser could have done such a nasty thing. Sounds like you’ve fallen under the old Hauser spell. Can’t say I blame you. Also can’t say you’d be the first. She’s got lots of men doing lots of favors for her.”

“So I hear. Like who?” Art smiled.

“You know,” I said, “it seems to me that Diana Hauser is the subject of a lot of accusations with very little concrete evidence to back them up. She is supposed to be sleeping with enough men to warrant a revolving door on her bedroom, but I have yet to hear one name. People say she married Hauser for his money, yet she comes from a lot of money. What does she need Hauser’s money for?”

Art studied me, still smiling. “You
have
fallen for the old Hauser mystique. I should know.” He paused. “You want a name? Try mine.”

I swallowed. “You and Diana? When?”

“About a year and a half ago.”

It wasn’t easy to tell if Art was lying. I suspected he had a lot of practice at it. “Did Preston ever find out?”

He shrugged. “The way Diana told it, he wouldn’t have cared even if he had known.”

“What happened between you two?”

“She was a little flaky for me,” he said, holding up the glass of bottled water. “I don’t put things in my body that aren’t good for me. I keep myself fit. Why would I want to be associated for any length of time with a person who seriously messes with my mental health?”

“For the same reason you piled up a sizable gambling debt—addiction. It’s hard to get over something like that. How did you do it?”

When he responded, I wasn’t sure whether he was answering my question or changing the subject. “Like I said, the lady is weird.”

“How so?”

He sighed and gazed out the window. Although it was thawing outside, the temperature in here was beginning to get a bit chilly. Art’s features hardened and he spoke as if recalling an unpleasant experience. “She’s very, very possessive,

except when she feels she’s losing the advantage.” He turned toward me. “Then she becomes obsessive.” “Go on,” I said.

Art took a drink of his bottled water and grimaced as if he’d just downed a shot of moonshine. “God, Quint, it was weird. She was demanding one hundred percent of my time. I mean, I couldn’t ask that of her. Oh, no. But she wanted exclusive rights to me. She was pretty blatant about it too. At a couple of those fancy Hauser Foundation dinners that some of the Hauser staff attended, she practically paraded me in front of Preston.” Art shrugged and chuckled. “It didn’t seem to bother Preston too much.” Shaking his head he added, “He was another weird one. Anyway, I had a couple dates with one of the women’s-wear buyers.” He looked at me and asked, “Do you remember Anna Kimball?”

“Vaguely. She was only at Hauser’s for a short time, wasn’t she?”

Art nodded. “Here’s why. All of a sudden she started getting phone calls in the middle of the night—nothing really threatening, you know. Someone would just hang up or listen to Anna say hello over and over. One day Anna found her tires slashed. She thought it was a neighborhood gang. She lived in one of those mixed areas. No sooner did she replace the tires than it happened again. This time she moved and unlisted her number, but she kept getting the phone calls. No more slashed tires but one day she returned from a business trip and found messages like ‘Art Judson isn’t worth dying for’ smeared in lipstick all over her mirrors.” He paused and drained his glass of water. “Her landlord said some woman claiming to be her sister desperately needed to drop something off. He couldn’t give much of an identification. From his description it could have been Diana or a dozen other attractive blonds. He wasn’t even sure when I showed him a picture.” Art

shrugged. “Anyway, Anna apparently agreed with the writing on the wall, so to speak. We stopped going out.”

“How did it end between you and Diana?”

Art laughed without humor. “Not long after Anna and I split, Diana dumped me. It was as if she just wanted to show me who was running things.” He sighed. “Good riddance, I say.”

That took me a minute to digest. “Listen Art, I just talked to Pam.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you need to talk to her?”

“I just needed some information. She said she told you where I am living now.”

Art smiled and relaxed a little. “How’s that working out? Elaine’s really something, isn’t she?”

I mumbled a noncommittal response.