3 Malled to Death (21 page)

I could’ve asked “Why me?” but I knew why me: because I had assumed the duties of second-in-command, and because I’d briefly been the acting director of security. The other officers counted on me to provide leadership, even though I got paid what they did and had no official standing. My morning was getting better by the minute.

Inhaling deeply, I walked the short distance to Coco’s office and knocked on the door. I cast one last, pained look at Joel, who gave me vigorous head nods and two encouraging thumbs-up, before entering the office in response to Coco’s “Yes?”

She was at her desk, fingering one of a pile of fabric swatches. She looked up with a smile. “What’s up?” She studied my face for a moment and her smile faded. “Oh, no. Nothing’s happened, has it? I mean, nothing bad, like—?”

Taking advantage of her disinclination to name the bad things that might have happened, I dove in. “Coco, it’s about the uniforms. We don’t really need new uniforms. Even though your designs are great, the security guards—I—think they feel too much like costumes. They’d make us look like we’re
playing
at being guards; they’d take away our authority.”

Puzzlement crinkled her brow. “I don’t understa—”

“The current uniforms are utilitarian. They—”

“Utilitarian?” She gagged on the word as if I’d said “radioactive.”

“Yes.” I nodded firmly. “Our most important job is keeping people safe. Our customers, the mall merchants, visitors like the movie people. We can’t do that if we’re fussing with our clothes, or feeling self-conscious, or don’t have pockets for notebooks or a place to clip our radios.” I gestured at the pocket-free expanse of knit she wore.

“I could add a belt . . .” Her voice trailed off before she finished the thought, and I hoped I’d finally gotten through to her. “I’m not any good at this job, am I?”

“I don’t know. You haven’t tried it yet.”

She gave me a startled look.

I gestured to the sewing machine and mannequin. “You haven’t tried being the director of security, I mean. You’ve been inhabiting this office, but working as a designer.”

Her lower lip trembled and I was afraid she was going to start crying. “My mom and my uncle—he’s her brother and he got me this job—will be so mad if I quit. My folks didn’t want me to study design in the first place, and when I couldn’t get a job right after graduation, all I heard was, ‘You should have studied accounting’ and ‘We told you fashion design wouldn’t pay your bills.’ When Uncle Todd said he could get me a job, working at one of FBI’s malls, well, they more or less told me I had to take it or move out and start paying all my own bills.”

“You live with your folks?”

She gave a tiny head nod and swiped a finger under her eye. “Yes. I want to move out, but I can’t afford—”

I didn’t feel qualified to offer Coco any career counseling, and it wasn’t really my business, but I blurted, “If you’re passionate about design, be a designer, even if you have to be a low-paid intern or some such for a while. If that means your parents kick you out, then get a roommate or two, wait tables, or get some other second job—do whatever it takes to work in a field that excites you. Life’s too short.”

“So, you’re passionate about being a mall cop?”

Coco cocked her head to one side, like she was really interested in my answer, and there was no snark in her tone, but the question still stung. “I’m sorry,” she said, when I didn’t answer right away. “It’s none of my business.”

Hoisted on my own petard. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “I guess I’m doing this because I want to be a cop, but I can’t get hired.” I slapped my injured leg, none too gently. “I’m still trying. If I can’t get police work, I don’t know what I’ll do instead. I don’t think I have another passion.” That sounded really sad when I said it aloud; I made a mental note to think about it later. “In the meantime, I’m being the best mall security officer I can be.”

“Unlike me, huh?” Coco said. She gave a crooked smile, bringing her dimples into play. “You’re right: I need to shape up or ship out.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Yes, you did. You’re right. It’s not fair to you or the others, or my uncle or me, to keep on like this.” She thrust the fabric swatches into a desk drawer. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I guess I’d better think about it before the meeting with the board. I promise I won’t try to get them to approve a new uniform, even though—I think I’ll change.” She gestured to the catsuit.

Taking that as dismissal, I left the office, closing the door behind me. Joel greeted me with an anxious look when I got back to my desk.

“So?”

“So, she thinks it would look very sharp in lavender. She said something about how lavender flatters all complexions—”

Joel paled and I laughed. “I’m kidding. She’s decided we don’t need a new uniform.”

“Thank God.” Joel sagged with relief. “It’s bad enough that I need to lose a few pounds. That uniform would’ve made me look like a blimp.”

“You wouldn’t have had the worst of it,” I pointed out. “Can you see Edgar in a lavender catsuit?”

Twenty-nine

• • • 

I drove up
to my parents’ rental house after work, skipping my swim with Joel in my anxiousness to talk to Mom. I found her in the back by the pool, wearing a linen tunic, cropped pants, and a broad-brimmed straw hat with a whimsical peony attached at the crown. She sat on a lounger, a glass of iced tea on a table to her left and her knitting bag on her right. She plied the needles with great concentration and I noticed that the blue blanket had grown a couple of feet.

She greeted me with a kiss and an offer of iced tea. “I wasn’t expecting you today, EJ,” she said a bit nervously, handing me a hat and a bottle of sunblock. I applied it to my bare arms, releasing a coconut smell that I enjoyed.

“I was worried about you,” I said. “Until the police catch this stalker . . .”

“You’re the third person today to mention a stalker,” she said with mild exasperation. “Your grandfather called to warn me and then Detective Helland called to ask if I had any idea who could be sending the notes. ‘None,’ I told him.”

I explained about calling Delia. “Hopefully, we—the police—will be able to figure out who it is once they have the other letters in hand.”

“Maybe Kyra should stay with us for a few days,” Mom offered, a pucker between her brows. “If you really think some madwoman tried to stab her because Ethan gave her a hug . . .”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” I said. “I’ll let Kyra know.” I could hear Kyra in my head, proclaiming that she didn’t need a “babysitter,” and that she could take care of herself, but I’d relay my mom’s offer. “Maybe you should go back to California while Ethan finishes up here. It—”

“Not a chance! You think I’m going to let some two-bit floozy chase me away from my husband? You think I’m going to leave the field clear for her to move in on him?”

“I guess not.” I smiled at her indignation. “Sorry, Mom.” I hesitated, then plunged in. “Speaking of floozies, was there something going on between Ethan and Zoë?”

She didn’t look as surprised by the question as I’d hoped she might. However, she said, “Absolutely not,” with conviction.

I waited for her to say more.

Finally, she threw an exasperated look my way and sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. I thought there might be. I overheard a couple people on the set talking about Ethan and Zoë, making it clear they thought they were more than co-workers. I don’t usually pay attention to set gossip, but I’m not as young as I used to be and I sometimes worry—”

“Mom, Dad loves you.”

“I know, dear,” she said with a twist of her lips, “but I’ve never been movie-star gorgeous and now that I’m coming up on fifty-five . . . Well, it’s hard when beautiful, younger women are fawning over your father daily, telling him he’s talented and handsome and God’s gift to women. All of which is true,” she added with a freer smile, “but when you’ve been married to someone for over thirty years, you complain about their snoring, or get cranky when they leave the toilet seat up, instead of constantly praising and admiring.”

“Everyone does, Mom.” Not that I’d ever been married, but even a month-long relationship brought to light some of your partner’s less desirable qualities.

“And Ethan wouldn’t be human if he didn’t find that sort of flattery appealing.”

Some quality in her voice made me study her profile closely. Her mouth was set, her eyes staring at nothing across the expanse of blue water. I stopped myself from asking if Ethan had ever cheated on her. It wasn’t my business, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “So you confronted Zoë,” I said.

Her gaze snapped back to me. “Yes. I’m not proud of myself, EJ. I should have talked to your dad, but I hated for him to see me as insecure and . . . and needy. You can’t be married to an international sex symbol and be needy.”

I felt ickily uncomfortable hearing this, even while my heart ached for my mom. “And . . .?”

“I followed her to the ladies’ room.” She huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Pathetic, huh? Chasing down the ‘other woman’ in a public restroom.”

“What did you say?” I couldn’t imagine how you started that kind of conversation.
Are you bonking my husband?
Or, possibly:
It has come to my attention that . . .

Mom took a long swallow of tea. “I told her that her friendship with Ethan was causing gossip on the set and I thought she should be aware of it.”

“Good one, Mom.”

“I was rather proud of that approach myself,” she admitted. “It took me days to come up with it. It didn’t matter, though—she knew exactly why I was there. She laughed and told me she was a lesbian and that I was foolish for thinking Ethan would ever cheat on me. In one way it was a relief to hear, but the way she said it made me feel like a fool. I don’t think she was a particularly nice woman.”

I wished Zoë alive again so I could slap her silly for humiliating my mom. “What happened then?”

“I left.”

“Was Zoë still in the bathroom?”

Mom nodded. “I caught her before she had a chance to go into the stall.”

“Think: Did you see or hear anything, anything at all, when you left the ladies’ room?”

My intensity told Mom what I was looking for. “My God, EJ. Do you think the killer was there, that I might have walked past him?”

“I don’t know, but it’s possible. Did you see anyone?”

She wrinkled her brow, then said, “No. No one except Zoë, not even on my way back to the parking lot.”

“Hear anything? Like from the men’s room?”

She squinched her eyes closed, clutching her tea glass with both hands. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and looked at me. “Maybe running water? I can’t remember. I was distraught; I ended up back at my car without really knowing how I got there.”

I reached over to squeeze her shoulder but didn’t say anything. On the one hand, it would’ve been helpful if she could have provided a description of the killer. On the other hand, I had a feeling Zoë’s murderer wouldn’t have felt much compunction about killing a witness, so I was glad Mom hadn’t run into him or her. The silence between us stretched to several minutes. The breeze riffled the pool’s surface and wafted a chlorine odor toward us.

“You know what puzzles me,” Mom finally said, sounding perfectly composed again.

“What?”

“If this stalker is attacking women who Ethan’s displayed some affection toward, then why in the world hasn’t she gone after Anya Vale? After all, Ethan and she were all over each other, half naked, on the boat the other day.”

I lifted my brows. “Good question. Maybe she wasn’t on set that day?” I tried to remember who’d been present for the filming in Colonial Beach. “Or, maybe their love scene didn’t make her jealous because it was all scripted—fake—and she knew it.”

Mom gave a considering nod. “That makes sense; in fact, I’m sure you’re right. Can you stay for dinner? Van and Leslie—the producer—will be here.”

Crinkling my nose, I said, “No, thanks. I know how that conversation will go and I won’t have anything to contribute. Besides, I want to get home and see if FedEx has dropped off the packet from Delia.”

“Okay, honey.” Mom lifted her face and I kissed her cheek. She patted my cheek gently, her palm cool against my sun-flushed skin. “You’re a good daughter.”

Her comment warmed me and I smiled. “Well, you’re a good mom, the best mom
ever
.”

Mom laughed in a gratified way and I left, stopping to have a word with a bodyguard on my way out. I was impressed with her alertness and relieved when she reported there’d been no suspicious or threatening activity. She seemed to sense my concern and didn’t bridle when I asked her to be extra vigilant. “Don’t worry, Ms. Ferris,” she said. “I was with Ralph”—my grandfather—“in the Balkans and I wouldn’t ever let him down.”

“Good to know,” I said, wondering about the twinkle in her eye when she mentioned Grandpa. She was maybe in her early forties, and Grandpa was almost double that, so it couldn’t be
that
. I’d wager they’d started an insurrection together, or captured a war criminal, or infiltrated a terrorist cell. Who wouldn’t have fond memories of life-threatening espionage missions? Shaking my head, I started the Miata and hit the road for Vernonville.

• • • 

Fubar pounced on
my feet as I came up the walk an hour later and clawed at the laces of my athletic shoes. I ignored him and broke into a trot because I had spotted a nine-by-twelve overnight-mail envelope half hidden behind the potted geranium on my stoop. Fubar, not happy with being ignored, or else peeved at being deprived of shoelaces to tangle, almost tripped me as I reached for the envelope. I recovered my balance with a hand against the wall.

“Fubar!”

With an air of puzzled innocence, he preceded me into the house. Not even bothering to close the door, I ripped back the tab that opened the stiff envelope. A disappointingly thin stack of pink paper fell out, and the scent of Shalini filtered into the foyer. I didn’t know why, but I’d been expecting dozens of letters. There were only—I thumbed through them—six notes here. I called Grandpa to tell him the letters had arrived and he said he’d be right over. Then, feeling distinctly virtuous, I called the police, got a fax number, and faxed the notes to Detective Helland. He was in a meeting, the desk sergeant said, but wasn’t gone for the day, so he should get the pages soon. Fetching a Skyland Red Ale from the kitchen, I took the bottle and the letters out to the front stoop.

The notes had penciled dates on the back—more evidence of Delia’s efficiency—and I started with the earliest one, dated two years ago.

“Dearest Ethan, I never believed in love at first sight until now. I can hardly breathe in your presence, and your smile makes me light-headed. I knew instantly that we were meant to be together. Was it the same for you? Give me a sign, my beloved. Truly, Madly, Deeply.”

Wondering if her use of the present tense—“can” and “makes”—indicated that she was in Ethan’s presence routinely, I read the letter several times. I’d hoped that she was some wacko who had become obsessed with him by watching his movies, but her wording made me think uneasily that she’d met him and saw him with some regularity.

The next note came four months later and filled a page with raptures on Ethan’s handsomeness and virility, more avowals of true love, and a thank-you for “letting me know you feel the same way I do.” I wondered what “sign” the woman had misinterpreted as proof of Ethan’s love for her. She concluded with, “Even though we are apart now, I trust you to find a way for us to be together. I can wait, my love.” She signed it the same way, and I acknowledged that the “madly” part was undoubtedly true.

The third note was from January of this year and went on about the life they would live together. It was long on romantic beach walks, explicit sex that convinced me we were looking for a woman and not a gay man—I made a mental note to point the passages out to Grandpa Atherton—and suggested the woman wanted to bear Ethan’s children, but didn’t give any hints as to her profession, geographical location, or identity. It told me only that she was imaginative in the bedroom and was, presumably, of childbearing age. Great: I had narrowed down the suspect pool to women between sixteen and fifty. I laid the letter aside.

As I was about to pick up the fourth letter, a clinking sound made me look up. Grandpa Atherton, a plaid tam-o’-shanter set at a cocky angle on his head, came briskly down the stone path, holding two bottles of beer in his right hand. They clinked together with every step. “You started without me,” he said, gesturing to the beer and the letters.

“Sorry.” I scooted over to make room for him, and he lowered himself stiffly.

“Uncover anything useful?”

“You mean like the name of the stalker?” I shook my head. “She was pretty cagey about what she wrote. The most I’ve been able to figure out is that she knew him, that she wasn’t some fan fantasizing from a lonely seat in the middle of a movie theater.”

“Hm.” Twisting the top off the Belgian ale he’d brought, Grandpa picked up the thin stack of notes I’d already read.

“The earliest one is on the bottom,” I said, returning to the unread notes.

The fourth note came only a couple weeks after the third one, and the increasing frequency made me frown. That couldn’t be a good sign. “I knew you could do it, my love. I knew you’d find a way for us to be together. I’ve never been so happy.” It wasn’t signed. A brief flash of pity zipped through me. It was kind of sad to think of this woman, no matter how warped she was, writing letters to Ethan, thinking that she was building a relationship with him, when Delia—and then the police—were the only ones reading them. My dad had never laid eyes on these notes.

“What’s the sigh for?” Grandpa asked, looking up from the note he held in both hands.

“Nothing,” I said. When he gave me a disbelieving lift of his brows, I added, “It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

“It’s warped and sick and manipulative.” Grandpa didn’t believe in sugarcoating the truth.

“That, too.”

We returned to reading. The fifth note was much in the vein of the third one and I skipped over TMD’s description of their fantasy sex life because it made me queasy. In the last paragraph, she talked about how she was looking forward to their “reunion” and a warning bell sounded deep in my mind. They’d obviously been separated for some time, and now TMD thought she was likely to spend time with Ethan again. It couldn’t be . . .

Leaving the sixth note unread, I scrambled to my feet and darted into the house, looking for the movie fan magazine Joel had pushed on me a while back. I found it at the bottom of my swim bag, slightly damp from being in contact with my clammy suit. Prising the gluey pages apart carefully, I found the article Joel had been reading about Ethan. I skimmed it, and turned the page, but before I could read further, Grandpa called to me.

“Emma-Joy? Detective Helland is here.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and I poked my head out of the bedroom to see Grandpa offering Detective Helland his second beer. I hurried out, holding the magazine. Helland had shucked his coat and tie and looked amazingly human—and amazingly handsome—with his blond hair slightly disheveled and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He sucked down a third of the beer like it had been a long day.