Murder in Store (3 page)

I decided that Hauser had some serious problems with his priorities but figured it was probably useless to argue with a man who places a horse’s picture between one of his wife and whatever the other one might be—probably his mother.

Hauser dragged his attention from the animal and cleared his throat before speaking again. “Thank you for handling that matter with Mrs. Hauser.”

“You’re welcome.”

“She has always been rather unpredictable.” He sighed and nodded to himself. “But I suppose that is what you have to expect when you take a high-spirited young woman like that for your …” His voice trailed off.

It seemed to me that Hauser was describing a high-strung horse he had just added to his stable rather than his wife. I wondered if he always discussed his marital situation so casually, but decided I didn’t want to get into it further. “You wanted to talk about the security plans for the gem show?”

Hauser stared at the leather-framed blotter on his desk for a moment before looking up at me. “Actually, no,” he said.

I waited.

3

 

H
E PLACED HIS
clasped hands on the blotter and leaned forward like the president does when he addresses the nation from his oval office. “I want to hire you to do some investigating for me. Personally.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but a tinny beeping sound interrupted him. He pressed a button on a watch that resembled the instrument panel of a DC-10 and cut off the noise. “Excuse me. This is one of my oldest rituals.” He smiled to himself. “There aren’t many things you can count on anymore are there?”

From a desk drawer he produced five bottles filled with various kinds of pills. He removed a capsule from each bottle, set them in front of him on the blotter, and poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher on his desk. He took each pill, one at a time, knocking it back like a shot of scotch chased with precisely two swallows of water.

Almost as an afterthought, he offered me one. “Vitamin?” I shook my head and waved it off. The last vitamin I had taken I had to chew.

“I’ve been swearing by these little devils since my football days.” He turned the picture that had been out of my line of vision. It was of Hauser, circa 1950, in full football regalia, poised on the verge of hurling the football, no doubt, into the end zone and the waiting arms of the receiver. The pose was both corny and impressive.

He replaced the photo. When he spoke again his manner and tone were, once again, formal and precise, almost

as if he’d rehearsed. “As I was saying, I would like to hire you, but I also want you to understand that although you work for me at Hauser’s, you are in no way obligated to take this assignment.”

I hoped he wasn’t about to ask me to follow Diana around to see if she was stepping out of line. I didn’t think I had the stamina for that, and there was no way I bought the line about not being obligated.

Hauser continued. “I will explain generally what it is I want you to do, tell you what I will pay you to do this for me, and then, if you are interested, I will apprise you of the details. If you decide you would rather not, that will be it. I will not mention it again, and you, in turn, will forget what I have told you. You have already demonstrated that you are a man who can be trusted so I have no qualms about taking you into my confidence.”

My common sense told me to thank the man, tell him I was flattered by his show of faith, and then get the hell out of there before I had to worry about talking in my sleep. But my curiosity made me say, “I’m listening.”

“Let me explain everything before you ask any questions.”

Hauser had an eloquence that matched his presence. His voice was deep and resonant and what he had to say was even more commanding than the way he said it. It was easier to listen than to interrupt or let your mind wander.

“For the past two months, I have been receiving subtle death threats. I say subtle because the threat is implied rather than overt. I do not want to involve the police at this point because, as I said, these threats are not blatant. I do not want to be perceived as a paranoid millionaire. And second, it is possible that these threats come from someone within this company. I will pay you ten thousand dollars to do the best job you can. I will give you that money when you accept the case.

“If, after conducting as thorough an investigation as you are capable of, you are unable to produce the person threatening me, you will be absolved of any responsibility in the matter. The money is still yours. What I do from there on is my business. I know you have some experience in police work, so I’m certain you aren’t a total neophyte at this sort of thing. I believe you will give me my money’s worth.” Hauser nodded at me, indicating that I could respond now.

His stating that I wasn’t a
total
neophyte seemed to indicate that the difference was only a matter of degree. But then, he was willing to invest ten grand in me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I had been insulted and flattered in the same speech. I didn’t know whether to feel angry or elated. I settled for leery.

“Why not hire someone who does this sort of thing for a living? Discretion is included in the price of service.”

“Two reasons. First of all, I did hire a private investigator initially. A fellow named Ray Keller. He did some work for me, the results of which I will show you if you accept the job. Unfortunately, he was killed by a hit-and-run driver two weeks ago.” He frowned to himself and quickly added, “I’m certain his demise had nothing to do with the investigation. He was quite a drinker and, as I understand, was stumbling out of a bar at two a.m. when he was hit. Unfortunate, of course, but purely coincidental.”

I’m not a great believer in coincidences, but I didn’t argue.

“The other reason is that, as I said, it is possible that these threats come from within this company. An outside investigation would only create suspicion, and I believe the entire matter would best be handled by someone who knows the company and the people who work here.” He paused a beat. “Are you interested?”

No. For a lot of reasons. The money would be nice, but I don’t really need it. And even though I was a cop for a few

years, I don’t have much experience in this kind of investigative work. Hauser must know that. And what’s more, investigating fellow employees can be awkward and uncomfortable.

I looked at Hauser. Despite his reassurances, refusing to accept a job offered by the owner of the company was tantamount to professional suicide. Not that I really cared anymore. Since yesterday, my vision of the future had undergone drastic changes. The image of Maggie beaming proudly as I accepted my gold watch at a retirement party thrown by Hauser’s had been replaced with the image of an old and wizened Quint McCauley sitting in an old wizened rocking chair outside a little cottage somewhere in northern England, alone except for a Lassie-style dog and maybe a few sheep.

But this whole situation was intriguing. Yesterday I was sure the guy was going to fire me. Today he was handing me ten grand and taking me into his confidence. Not only that, he had aroused my curiosity. Death threats to
the
Preston Hauser, but that wasn’t the reason I took the job on. What swayed me the most was all those Maggie-less hours I was going to have to fill.

I swallowed my common sense and said, “Yes, I am interested.”

Hauser regarded me for a moment, then took a large brown envelope out of his middle desk drawer. From that he produced two smaller envelopes and handed one of them to me.

It was a plain white envelope addressed to Preston Hauser, in care of the store. The address was typed and, judging from the uneven shade of the letters, probably on a manual. The envelope was postmarked Chicago. Inside was a newspaper clipping folded once—a photo of Preston Hauser congratulating a recipient of a foundation grant. The attractive young woman was all smiles and so was Preston. It would have been one of those typical grin-and-grip poses but for one

difference. Someone had severed Hauser’s head with a knife or a pair of scissors and spattered the picture with blood. At least I assumed that the dried brown substance was blood. I looked up at Hauser, who was watching me for a reaction.

“When was this picture taken?” I asked.

“About two months ago. That photo appeared in the
Chicago Tribune.
I received that particular rendition approximately seven weeks ago.” He handed me a second envelope. This one was larger, the kind an eight-by-ten photo could be mailed in. The address was the same and the lettering could have been from the same typewriter. “This one came four weeks ago.”

As I pulled the picture out, Hauser explained, “The photo came shredded in that envelope. It had to be assembled like a jigsaw puzzle to get the full effect.” Hauser had taped the pieces together on a piece of gray cardboard. The photo was a head-and-shoulders publicity shot of him and was probably the standard one his PR staff used to fill requests. And, except for the paraphrased nursery rhyme typed across his forehead, it was a good likeness.

I read his brow out loud. “'All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Preston together again.’ Well, at least we know this person’s literary leanings.”

Hauser looked annoyed. “I shouldn’t have wasted my time putting the damned thing together. Anyone who resorts to childish puzzles and Little Bo Peep threats probably isn’t capable of committing a crime any more serious than jaywalking.”

I almost smiled at the image of Hauser assembling this picture, searching for pieces that fit, matching and rematching. Somehow he didn’t impress me as the sort of person who liked puzzles. I suspected he had a low frustration level.

“This one came last week,” he said, pulling another photo out of the large envelope. This was a blowup of Hauser and

apparently a candid one. He was climbing into the backseat of a stretch limo and had turned to acknowledge someone or something behind him. The photographer had captured Hauser, mouth open in reply, wearing a slightly startled expression. And then, as if to justify that expression, the cross hairs of a rifle sight were superimposed on his forehead.

“Unless I’m mistaken, that was taken a week and a half ago, after a meeting at the foundation,” he said and added, almost as an afterthought, “I was not aware that I was being photographed.”

I looked at the three pictures he had shown me. “Are there any others?”

“No. That’s it. You can see what I mean by subtle. Frankly, I think this person is more interested in scaring me than killing me. Nevertheless, I don’t like being threatened. I won’t stand for it.”

“Does anyone else know about these letters?”

“Irna. She often opens my mail for me.”

Maybe that explained her dragon lady routine in the outer office.

“Anyone else?”

“My sister, Grace Hunnicutt. Actually, it was her idea to hire you. She’d been after me for some time to hire someone who knows the store and its people.” He shrugged. “After yesterday’s incident, with Diana, your name came up.” He paused and grinned sheepishly. “Elder sisters have a real knack for bending your will.”

I smiled and nodded in agreement. “I know what you mean. I’ve got one of them too. Suppose I do find out who is doing this. Will you turn him or her over to the police?”

“That depends entirely upon who it is. I won’t lie. There are some people I would rather see in police custody than others.”

“What about Keller? What was involved in his investigation?”

Hauser pulled a stack of manila folders from a drawer and placed them on the edge of the desk in front of me. “He was investigating a number of people in this organization who I thought might benefit from removing me from the picture. I looked over his files and nothing seems to indicate it was one of them. Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.”

I took the files. “This is fine,” I said, “but I need to know what it was about each of these people that puts them on your list of people out to get you.”

He glanced at his instrument panel. “I’m afraid I have to be somewhere in a few minutes. Look those files over, do whatever it is you do to analyze the photos, and we’ll talk later.”

Before I could respond, he pulled a bulky envelope with the Hauser logo on it from a drawer and handed it to me. The flap was folded in but not sealed so I was able to glance at the contents without making a show of ripping the envelope open. There was a crisp hundred-dollar bill on top of a large stack. I fanned a few of them, all hundreds. I didn’t bother to count them. “You were pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you.”

He shrugged in a manner that was neither overly confident nor nonchalant. Instead, the gesture had a quality that was almost ingratiating. “I read people rather well.”

If life was an open book to him, I wondered why he was hiring me to translate. I pocketed the envelope. “If you do, then you should know I have a thing about taking money. I won’t unless I earn it, and like I said, I need some questions answered.” When he didn’t respond I added, “Am I conducting this investigation or am I just your ten-thousand-dollar legman hired to pacify your sister?”

Hauser studied me for a long moment, then consulted his appointment book. “I’ll have Irna pencil you in at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll tell you what I can then.”

He looked relieved when the telephone interrupted.

I stood to leave. “You have a pretty good idea who did this, don’t you?” I said, fishing.

He lifted the receiver to his ear and held it there without speaking as I turned to leave the room.

I had a nibble.

4

 

W
HEN I GOT
back to my office, I found the day’s mail stacked in a neat pile in the middle of my desk. As I shuffled through the ads and correspondence, it occurred to me that the worst thing I could find here would be a bill, maybe an overdue one, or some really offensive junk mail. But Preston Hauser didn’t know if the next envelope he opened would be another sick threat or maybe the real thing. I made a mental note to make sure the mail room knew how to identify a letter bomb.

That was what didn’t fit. Hauser didn’t seem worried enough for a man who had received three letters from someone who apparently was not playing with a full deck. Regardless of whether or not the person who wrote the letters intended to kill Hauser, he or she certainly wasn’t trying to improve his mental health. I think I would have discreetly called in the police after seeing the wit and wisdom of Mother Goose tapped out on my forehead. But Hauser wasn’t sure he wanted the letter-writer exposed. To me, that’s the sign of a man who is afraid to look under the rock. I guess that’s where a man of discretion is useful.

I began flipping through the files Hauser had selected as possibilities. There were seven folders. I noticed that Fred Morison was not among them. I guess I wasn’t surprised. Morison was a lowlife, but I’d be flattering him to think he would be devious enough or creative enough to concoct those letters.

I opened the top folder. This was interesting. In addition

to the surveillance log Keller had on each person, someone had inserted a handwritten page of notes regarding the history and personal life of the employee. I checked the other folders. Each had one of these handwritten profiles. If this was part of Keller’s work, Hauser had certainly been getting his money’s worth. This wasn’t exactly the kind of information a person would volunteer about himself. I’m sure I wouldn’t respond to the Previous Employment Experience part of an application with “Pressed uniforms at Joliet State while serving time for assault and battery.” But Hauser’s head of maintenance had spent two years in prison. As I read his file, I had trouble picturing this guy attacking someone, and I didn’t see this information as damning. He’d done all right for himself since prison. In fact he’d done real well considering the odds, and the incident had happened fifteen years ago.

I was so engrossed in this guy’s past, I wasn’t aware that someone had come into the room until I saw, out of the corner of my eye, something pink flutter into my in-basket. I looked up, and Diana Hauser smiled down at me. It was a smile of triumph. She gestured toward the pink camisole draped over the basket like a carelessly tossed inventory report.

“Your people are slipping,” she announced, settling into the same chair she had occupied the day before.

I closed the file and placed it face-down on my desk. Then, I leaned back and studied her for a moment. She wore a brilliant blue-and-purple sweater, black stretch pants, and black suede boots. Instead of the silver fox coat she had on a short fur jacket that probably hadn’t cost the lives of quite so many small animals. Her hair was hidden under a beret except for one blond strand that fell against her cheek. If she was embarrassed about yesterday’s incident, she wasn’t showing it Was it a facade, I wondered, or did she consider the matter insignificant?

I was betting on the former. “Care for a cigarette?” I said, drawing one out for myself and extending the pack toward her.

She faltered for a second, then took one from the pack. “I’ve been trying to quit for a while. I’m lousy when it comes to self-control.” I lit the cigarette for her. “Preston asked me to quit as a birthday present for him this year.”

“That’s what you gave him for his birthday? A smokeout?”

She shrugged. “It was what he wanted.”

I nodded. “Just out of curiosity, what did he give you for your birthday?”

“A coat.” She smiled. “It was what I wanted.”

I gestured toward her cigarette. “I suppose you gave him the coat back.”

She chewed on her lower lip for moment before responding. “No. I just don’t wear it on days I smoke.”

I couldn’t tell where this conversation was going and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I plucked the camisole from my in-basket. “I’ll see that this finds its way home.”

She studied me for an uncomfortable length of time, then finally said, “How did you know I liked my men clean-shaven?”

“I didn’t,” I responded.

Undaunted, she continued, “Will you take me to lunch?”

“I’ve got plans already,” I lied. “Sorry.” That wasn’t a lie.

She stood up and walked toward the window. It was starting to snow and the large, fat flakes whirled by the window. “Is this what they call lake-effect snow?”

“Probably.”

“I hate winter,” she said and turned to me. “I’m from California, you know.” She looked back toward the snow. “My father owns a law firm out there. That’s where I met Preston.”

“How did that happen?”

She stood, silently watching the snow for so long that I was beginning to think she had forgotten I was there. Finally, ignoring my question, she said, “Preston is a wonderful man. He just never has time to take me to lunch.” Then she turned toward me. “Thanks for the cigarette.” She extinguished it in the ashtray and gathered up her purse and a Nikon camera from the floor.

“Pay a visit to the camera department on your way to lingerie?”

“Can’t a person have a hobby?” She sounded more irritated than defensive, so I didn’t pursue it. She raised the camera with her right hand. “I guess I’ll play the photo-snapping tourist this afternoon.”

It had a fisheye lens. The candid of Preston had been taken with a telephoto, but then it’s easy to change a lens.

“Well, I’ll see you around, Quint. Maybe next time I’ll see what Hauser’s carries in the way of black lace. What do you think?”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” I said, beginning to understand how Maggie must have felt when her tomcat Brandeis would, in a feline gesture of warmth and appreciation, drop a dead bird at her feet.

After Diana left I held up the camisole to get a better look at the offering. Maggie would have hated it. It had a lot of ivory lace and the kind of straps you couldn’t adjust. And it was pink.

“I never would have figured you for the frilly type.”

Pam was standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, head cocked slightly, and a bemused look on her face.

“People change, Pam.” I lowered the camisole, hoping she had reconsidered the lunch invitation. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s more like what I can do for you. By the way, it’s about time you shaved off that mustache.”

“Why thank you, Pam. And what is it that you can do for me? Are you selling insurance?”

“Better,” she said, sitting in the chair across from me. “I figure that unless you are working from unlimited funds, you are going to need your own apartment very soon.”

She was wording this very carefully, so at no time would I get the idea that she wanted a roommate. That was fine with me. I wasn’t in the market for a relationship that was going to last any longer than a two-drink lunch.

“I have a friend,” she continued, “who has a condo on Lake Shore Drive, just south of Addison. Her name’s Elaine Kluszewski.”

“You mean as in Ted Kluszewski,” I interrupted her, “first baseman for the Reds and the White Sox?”

Pam gave me a quizzical look, as if I had just lapsed into tongues. “Never mind,” I said, recalling that Pam’s idea of sports was walking the dog along the jogging path.

“Elaine works for one of these big computer companies. Does the training, I think. She’s in Europe right now working with some of their overseas clients.” She paused to digest what she had just said. “God, wouldn’t it be great to get to travel like that with your company picking up the tab?”

“Join the army.”

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Anyway, she left this week. Before she left she tried to rent the condo, but was having trouble because she couldn’t be sure how long she would be gone. Three to six months, she thinks. So she told me if I found anyone who was interested in renting it, and I considered the person to be responsible enough”—her eyes laughed when she said that—“to go ahead and rent it. There would, of course, be a few dollars in it for me. Not to mention the fact that if you moved in, I wouldn’t have to run over there once a week to water the plants. Do you think you’d be interested?”

“What’s reasonable?”

“Six-fifty.” When I didn’t respond immediately she added, “It’s pretty big. One bedroom and a small den.”

“Then you consider me a responsible person, I take it.” I couldn’t resist.

“In terms of paying rent and not trashing a home, yes I do.”

I probably deserved that. “So, I can stay there anywhere from three to six months. All I have to do is pay rent and water plants?”

I couldn’t think of a reason not to take it. I probably could have found a place in a less desirable area that was cheaper, but I would spend some time looking and I’d have to pay a security deposit. If I wasn’t convinced, Pam’s next words put a cap on it.

“It comes with its very own underground parking space.”

“Sold.” I tossed the camisole in the air.

I was able to coerce Pam into lunch under the condition that we go dutch, keep lunch to an hour and the conversation light. I was developing the distinct impression that Pam had a new personal life that she intended to keep that way.

Later that afternoon Pam dropped the keys and the electronic garage door opener off in my office along with written instructions on the care and feeding of Ms. Kluszewski’s plants.

Before driving to my temporary residence, I brought the letters Hauser had given me to a guy I used to work with when I was on the force. Harry didn’t owe me any favors or anything. In fact, I am probably indebted to him for the rest of my natural life for a lot of reasons. The main one, I guess, is the way he and his wife, Carol, took care of me after Joan and I split up. I was pretty lost for a while there and they kept inviting me over for dinner. After a while,

they started playing the matchmaker games. I think it was Carol’s idea mostly. I never knew what to expect when I’d knock on the door of their apartment with a box of chocolates, or, if Carol was dieting, flowers. Then one week I brought chocolate-covered cherries, and Maggie was there. She loved chocolate-covered cherries—and me for a while.

Let’s not get maudlin, Quintus, I mentally kicked myself.

Anyway, Harry was good when it came to pulling something out of nothing. He used to be a pathologist with the department and now he had his own research lab and contracted his work out. He also taught part-time at Loyola. The department was sorry to lose him. He was good. If there was anything to be told from these pictures, he would find it. Harry wasn’t in the lab, and I debated whether to leave the pictures for him. I decided against it, leaving him a note instead. I’d call him later.

Driving over to the condo, I kept thinking how good it would feel to put my feet up, and I wanted to get started on the files Hauser had given me.

I slid the garage card into the machine and the door lifted like I had said Open Sesame. I pulled into the underground garage and followed the numbers labeling each tenant’s space until I got to 1240. It wasn’t possible. It was occupied by a yellow Mustang convertible. News of an empty parking space in this city spreads faster than a flash flood.

I had to park about three blocks from the building, and by the time I walked the distance, carrying a bag of groceries and a suitcase, my hands were freezing because I hadn’t the foresight to put on my gloves and was too stubborn to put down my packages and dig into my pockets and get them. I decided that my first official act as temporary tenant in the building would be to call a towing company.

I had trouble getting the key to work in the apartment door, partly because my hands were freezing and partly because I was trying to juggle all the stuff I was carrying. When the lock finally stopped fighting me, I was so relieved to be in the apartment that it didn’t immediately occur to me there was something wrong. Then, several things registered at once. An empty apartment shouldn’t have this many lights on. It shouldn’t smell like popcorn. And it should be empty.

I won’t soon forget my first glimpse of Elaine Kluszewski. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, swaying slightly, stockinged feet firmly planted on the tile floor. Even without shoes she was tall. Her hair was reddish brown and pulled back behind her neck. She wore a dark green skirt that looked like it was part of a suit and one of those white, professional blouses with an ascot and a pin. In her left hand she held a whiskey
Collins
glass filled with what appeared to be only slightly diluted scotch or bourbon. In her right hand, pointed in the general direction of my chest, she held a .38 automatic. It swayed, along with Elaine, from side to side a little. I froze, gripping the groceries with one hand and my suitcase with the other.

“Drop your luggage.” Her words were slurred and as she spoke, she closed one eye and tilted her head back, as if trying to get me into better focus.

I let my suitcase fall and raised my hand, palm toward her, in a gesture of surrender.

“Don’t move.” She was still swaying and her words had that clipped, overly distinct quality that characterizes someone trying very hard to appear sober. “I don’t want to kill you.” She lowered the gun so that it was aimed about a foot lower. I swallowed hard. “I am not aiming at a vital organ.”

“Look,” I said, “there has been a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” She took three healthy swallows from her glass, teetered backward and caught herself.

Scrunching up her eyebrows, she said, “Explain that.”

“Pam Richards gave me the keys. I’m a friend of hers.”

Her posture relaxed a bit, but I still felt I was being judged and found wanting. Either she was waiting for me to continue or was on the verge of passing out.

“Are you Elaine Kluszewski?”

She nodded.