Murder in Store (2 page)

The kid nodded.

“I thought so.”

Maggie walked me to the door. “Where will you go?”

I shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Someplace where the sky is blue, the air is clean, and the streets are lined with empty parking spaces.”

“You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

I wanted to tell her that I hoped she approached her cases with more commitment than her relationships, but I left without answering.

I stopped at a liquor store, then checked into a room at the Lincoln Inn. It took more than half the bottle of Teacher’s before I felt a warm, comforting numbness setting in. I lay on the bed, the water glass of scotch resting on my chest, and caught blurred snatches of an old Gregory Peck movie. I remember thinking that if I had his voice I’d be holding Maggie right now.

2

 

I
HURT. MY
tongue felt like cotton and my mouth tasted like the pack and a half of cigarettes snuffed out and overflowing in the ashtray. My head ached and blood pounded in my ears. I popped six aspirin in my mouth and washed them down under a cold shower.

As I forced myself to stand under the water for several minutes, I considered the curative powers of a good bottle of scotch. It didn’t exactly purge the melancholy, but it gave me another kind of suffering I could dwell on. I could deal with a hangover, but I wasn’t sure how to handle losing Maggie.

Facing myself in the mirror wasn’t easy either. The bloodshot eyes didn’t make me look any younger. Gray had been creeping into my hair for some time, and now I noticed that my mustache was starting to turn on me as well. I couldn’t do anything with the hair on my head, but I could show the mustache that I wasn’t going to stand for it. Before I could change my mind, I slapped on some shaving cream and got rid of the thing.

I was immediately sorry. Not only did my face look funny now, but that mustache had been with me a hell of a lot longer than Maggie. Shaving off a twenty-year companion deserves more thought than you give to clipping your nails. My melancholy and sense of loss merged with irritation when I realized that Maggie hadn’t packed my ties and I was reduced to wearing the brown striped one I’d worn the day before with a blue tattersall shirt. Now I looked like I felt.

Nonetheless, on the way to work, I stopped for breakfast at a fast-food place and, by the time I walked out of the cold, crisp January morning and into Hauser’s I felt almost human. Early morning at the store was always a good time of the day for me, like standing on the stage in a theater, before the curtain goes up. The crew rushes to get the furniture and props in place as the cast comes on stage, adjusting a costume or giving a final bit of polish to that troublesome line, and I was in on the magic that makes it all work.

Jefferson Potts, the senior security guard, held the door for me. That was his function prior to store opening: he made sure that no customers happened to stroll in with the employees. He wore the Hauser green uniform as if it ranked him a rear admiral, politely joked with the clerks, and didn’t miss a thing.

“Rough night last night, Mr. McCauley?” He winked. “Looks like you slipped shavin’ too.”

I shook my head and said, “Self-inflicted pain is the worst kind.”

“Yea, well just think how good you’ll feel tomorrow.” “If I survive.”

When you first walk into Hauser’s, your senses are attacked from all angles, struck by the apparent enormity of the place—apparent because what you see is partly illusion. The main floor is one huge room with dark, polished hardwood floors, massive pillars, and glass display cases grouped to give an uncluttered appearance. If you stand in the middle of this room and look up, you can see straight to the ceiling five stories above. Each floor is a balcony surrounding and overlooking the main floor, enclosed in dark wood banisters and railings. A combination of the old and new pulls it all together.

The store was built in 1883 to the specifications of Fritz Hauser, Preston’s grandfather. And about all that had

changed since then was the merchandise and the plumbing. The smell of polish and hardwood still mingled with the scents of women’s perfumes.

The clerks were carefully screened and selected—no gum snapping, bored-to-tears high school students languishing behind the counters here. One needed experience, poise, and a whole lot of tact to get and keep a sales job at Hauser’s.

After slapping on a little of the men’s after-shave from a display, I headed for the elevators and my office on the third floor. Halfway there I changed my mind and turned toward the accessories section. Pam Richards was folding cashmere scarves and arranging them in an antique glass display case. She didn’t see me approach and I nearly took that opportunity to retreat. We hadn’t talked very much in the last few months, but we shared some nice memories and I didn’t think there were any hard feelings. Pam wasn’t the kind of woman to keep herself out of circulation for long. For all I knew, she was involved with someone now. One thing I did know was that I needed the company of another human being or this evening was going to be a repeat of the previous one. One night of a bottomless glass of scotch could be cathartic. More than that began to qualify you for a lost weekend.

“Hi,” I said, approaching the counter. “Preparing for the big after-Christmas giveaways?”

If I surprised her, she didn’t let on. She looked at me as though I had disturbed her reverie, then caught herself and laughed. “Yeah, some deal. Sixty dollars marked down from eighty-five.”

“I’ll take two,” I countered. When she didn’t respond I said, “How’ve you been?”

I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses anymore. She must have won the battle with her contact lenses. And there was something different about her hair. It was the same style she always wore, but seemed softer, fuller. The

vivid blues and greens in her dress did nice things for the color of her eyes.

“I’ve been okay.” She shrugged. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy.” She continued to move the scarves around as if there were only one perfect arrangement and she hadn’t quite found it yet.

“Yeah, well, you know how those things go.”

“Yes. I do.” Chilly?

“How about lunch?”

After a long pause she shook her head, then asked, “Where are you living?”

“At the Lincoln. Nothing but the best.”

“It beats a cardboard box on lower Wacker.”

I nodded and turned to leave. This had been a bad idea. “Maybe some other time.”

“Quint. When did you move to the Lincoln?”

“Last night.”

She nodded her understanding. “Ask me again in a couple weeks. Maybe then.” “Sure,” I said.

I understood her reluctance and had, in fact, practiced my own style of self-preservation on occasion. Still, I sure wasn’t looking forward to another night with my silent partner.

I met Fred Morison, one of my floor detectives, in the elevator. I’ve never been much of a stickler as far as a dress code for the floor detectives goes. I just tell them to dress so they blend in with the crowd at Hauser’s. I’m pretty lenient because I also understand that a floor detective at Hauser’s doesn’t have that much money to spend on clothes. Seeing Morison made me wonder if maybe it was time either to issue a memo or give everyone a raise.

Left to his own devices Morison would undoubtedly wear something along the line of a green polyester suit and a canary yellow shirt As it was, his suit was rumpled and overdue

for a trip to the cleaners, and his belly strained at the buttons on his shirt. Whenever it occurred to him he would hoist his vanishing waistband up over his stomach, suck it all in, then thrust his hands in his pants pockets so that within a minute he was back to where he started. He had a nervous way of addressing people, avoiding eye contact, that used to make me wonder if I’d forgotten to put my pants on or my tie had a gaping hole in it Morison had been at the store for seven years—a lot longer than I—and I had sensed some resentment ever since our first introduction. When I was introduced to Morison, the first thing he said to me was, “So, you’re the guy they gave my job to. Well, at least you’re not a woman.”

This morning he glanced past me and said, “I hear you nabbed the Silver Fox last night.”

There was something I didn’t like about his attitude. “Is that the title you’ve given her?”

“Oh no, not me,” Morison was quick to point out. “That’s what’s going around though. Hard to figure. Woman with looks like that and money coming out the kazoo. She must get hot walking around with silk pants in her pockets.”

The elevator doors opened at that moment and I was able to ignore his remark. Morison was either incredibly ignorant or a troublemaker. Either way I didn’t trust him.

I was a few minutes later than usual getting to my office. There were already several phone messages waiting for me when I sat down with my mug of coffee. The first was from Millicent Wagner, the woman who was coordinating the gem show at Hauser’s. She’d be out the rest of the morning and would call me in the afternoon. Another was from a security-system company, probably selling the foolproof, burglar-proof alarm.

And the third message. Ah yes, I thought. This one I half expected. I studied the two words. “Call Maggie.” I knew what she wanted and it wasn’t to have my suits returned to

my foot-and-a-half of her tiny closet. Maggie hated to hurt things, but not enough to change her abrupt and straight-forward manner. She probably realized that she had played fast and loose with my feelings.

I recalled one Saturday afternoon a month or so ago when Maggie and I stopped at O’Banyon’s Pub with a small group of friends for a few beers and some salted peanuts in the shell. Maggie and a third-year student got into a heated debate over some legal point, and she verbally ground her opponent to mincemeat. Maggie was unflinching and irrepressible in her arguments. The other woman was totally outclassed. Later, Maggie felt so lousy about the trouncing that she couldn’t sleep. Finally she called the woman at three a.m., apologizing and extracting forgiveness from her.

Maggie’s friends are used to this and put up with it the same way you put up with the eccentricities of a favorite aunt. It’s almost part of her charm. I was used to her ways too, but I wasn’t ready to absolve her, not while still nursing a hangover. I tossed the message, crumpled, into the wastebasket.

I leaned back in my chair, propped my feet on the desk, and allowed myself a moment to bask in a glow of well-being. This must be how a junkie feels when he tosses the needle down the sewer grid. Then the sound of the telephone dragged me back to reality. Hauser’s had one of those new phone systems—they don’t ring, they warble. I answered it.

“Mr. McCauley, this is Irna Meyers. Mr. Hauser would like to meet with you today to discuss the security plans for the gem show. Is ten o’clock convenient?”

I pictured Hauser; I pictured Diana; I hesitated for a moment, digesting the message. I said, “Ah, let’s see,” and hoped she would interpret the hesitation as the sound of a man trying to squeeze the boss into his already crowded

schedule. “Ten o’clock? Yes, that will be all right.”

“Would another time be more convenient?” She worded it as a question, but the tone of her voice said there was only one answer.

“No. No. Ten o’clock is fine. I’ll be there.” I hung up the phone and loosened my tie.

Well, I allowed myself, she did catch me off guard. Panic was not an abnormal reaction, given the situation. Preston Hauser had never consulted with me about security plans or for any other reason. Hauser made little pretense about the fact that he was a figurehead for his store, preferring to let Griffin run the operation. Hauser was there for ribbon-cutting ceremonies and to lend his famous and respected name to various foundations and benefits. He made perfunctory appearances and staffed a secretary, but that was the extent of his involvement in the store his grandfather and father had established. Prior to the incident involving Diana Hauser, I had not received more than a nod of recognition from the man. And now he wanted to consult with me on security. “Fat chance,” I said.

Hauser’s secretary stood guard over the door to his office like a dragon protects its cave filled with bones and treasure. Irna Meyers motioned me into a chair and finished typing a letter. Then she walked over to Hauser’s office door. “Wait here,” she said to me before entering.

Irna Meyers was the sort of secretary a jealous wife might choose for her husband. Mid sixties, tall, stout, and buxom, she could have passed as one of Wagner’s Valkyries. Or maybe Mrs. Nagel, my sixth-grade principal.

Irna reappeared. “Mr. Hauser will see you now.” She held the door open for me and watched my progress from the chair into her boss’s office as if I might stray or toss a grenade in. I was relieved when she closed the door behind me, leaving me alone with Hauser.

He stood up as I entered the room and extended his

hand. I was, once again, struck by his appearance. This man would not slip out of character. His ramrod posture accentuated his massive build.

“Thank you for finding the time for this meeting.” His tone was so sincere that I almost believed he meant it. As he sat down he motioned me to take the chair across from him.

He looked at me closely, as if trying to figure out what was different. “Don’t you usually wear glasses?”

“No,” I said. “I shaved off my mustache.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding.

I glanced around Hauser’s spacious office. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and his desk was a massive piece of oak, undoubtedly an antique. The smell of old leather and furniture polish permeated the room. I wondered if the office had changed much at all in the three generations of Hausers. Oil paintings of Hauser’s father and grandfather hung on the walls to the right and left. I noted that the family resemblance had been diluted through the generations, although each man had that same commanding presence. Behind Hauser’s desk was an exceptional view of Michigan Avenue.

There were three framed photographs in front of him. Two were angled so I couldn’t see the subjects, but the one on the far right was in my view and was very definitely Diana Hauser. It was taken by the lake and she had a windblown, relaxed look that might or might not have been posed. She seemed more casual and approachable in the tweed jacket than she had in cashmere and fur.

“Isn’t she something?”

He said that like he was proud of his creation, which struck me as an attitude that even a man as powerful as Hauser shouldn’t have. Then I realized that he wasn’t looking at the same picture I was. He apparently assumed I had a partial view of the center picture and now he turned it to face me.

He was right. She
was
something. As far as horses went, that is.

“Do you know Arabians?” Hauser asked.

“Only what I picked up from the Black Stallion books.”

He smiled like we now shared something important Then he turned back to the picture. “I don’t think God ever created a more perfect creature.” Then he sighed and added, with a touch of irritation in his voice, “Diana hates her.”