Die Buying (12 page)

The phone rang
as I was getting ready to leave on patrol and Joel picked it up, holding it a couple inches from his ear when yelling poured out of it. “Quigley,” he said to me when the shouting stopped. “Wants to see you ASAP. Want to bet someone parked in his slot again?”

“No bet.” Picking a white fuzzy off my black uniform slacks, I strolled across the hall to the mall operations office. It had the same gray-green carpet as the security office, and identical cherry-veneer desks and rolling chairs. Prints from the mall’s frame shop decorated the walls, discreet price tags tucked into the corners.

“Go on back,” the young receptionist said. “He’s waiting for you.”

Tapping on Quigley’s half-open door, I entered when he called, “Come in.”

He leaped to his feet when he saw me, nostrils flaring. “This has gone too far,” he announced. Today’s suit was navy pinstripe, offset by a yellow shirt with a white collar. I sneaked a peak at his cuffs as he ran a hand through his hair—yep, the gold and citrine cufflinks.

“What has?” I asked.

“These . . . these vandals! They defaced my Karmann Ghia.” He looked truly distraught. I knew he loved his classic car and frequently took it to car shows in the tristate area. “They are thumbing their noses at us.” He flung up a hand. “My spot is clearly marked ‘Mall Manager.’ ” He said it as if the words provided a magic force field that should have protected his ride. “ ‘Do unto others . . .!’ I’ll do unto them when you catch them!’” His usually mild, slightly harried expression was replaced with a fierceness I’d never seen in him before. I felt sorry for him.

“We’ll find out who’s doing this, Mr. Quigley,” I said. “It might help if we had a little more in the budget for cameras in the parking lot or overtime so we could do some surveillance.”

“Whatever it costs,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket as if to pull out his checkbook and write a check on the spot. His hand emerged with a snowy hanky. Blotting his forehead, he returned it to his pocket. “Thank you, EJ. I want this to be your number-one priority. Now that the police have resolved that incident at Diamanté—”

What, someone was going to wash his mouth out with soap if he said “murder”?

“—you can concentrate on these graffiti artists. Artists—hah ! They’re nothing but common delinquents.”

“Common” was the worst thing Quigley could think of to call someone. “I’ll get right on it,” I promised, slipping out of the office.

I made a mental to-do list as I mounted the Segway: (1) Find humongous python before film crews arrive to film reality movie called
Snakes in the Mall
. (2) Trap spray-painting Christians and let Quigley feed them to the lions. (3) Solve murder case and deliver culprit to arrogant detective, graciously accepting his thanks and apologies.

I got on the phone to Grandpa for help with items one and two. He said he felt fine and would bring some gadgets down to the mall around lunchtime. Then I started on my rounds, keeping an eye out for Agatha. Kiefer, when I went by the Herpes Hut, was worried that the news report might bring out a bunch of Agatha-hunting psychos. I reassured him as much as I could and continued down the corridor, stopping to chat with Fernando for a moment when he pulled his big, gray trash bin out of the men’s room near Nordstrom. He said he hadn’t seen any reptiles since Dartagnan colonized his head, and seemed to think he should be congratulated. I checked in with Joel—nothing happening—and was poking around in the large planter near the fountain, hoping to roust Agatha, when Kyra strolled by, deep in conversation with a man I didn’t know.

She spotted me at the same time I saw her and beckoned me over. “Hey, girlfriend, come meet Dyson Harding. He’s a professor at the Vernonville Colonial College, just up the road.”

“
Dr
. Dyson Harding,” he said, shaking my hand. “PhD, of course, not MD.” He was medium height and ten to fifteen pounds overweight with the kind of soul patch Apolo Ohno had made popular, and horn-rimmed glasses and jacket with leather elbow patches that he must have bought in the “absent-minded professor” section of his local clothing store.

“EJ Ferris. What brings you to Fernglen?” I looked from him to Kyra.

Kyra spoke first. “He’s an archeologist. He’s concerned that the Olympus development is being built on a pre-Clovis settlement.” She said the last words awkwardly, like a foreign language.

“Many items of huge archeological interest will be lost if the development goes through,” Harding said earnestly.

My brow wrinkled. “But . . . didn’t Jackson Porter’s death put the kibosh on Olympus?”

“Maybe temporarily,” Harding said, “but I want to make sure the development is deader than Porter. I’m trying to enlist the help of independent stores owners”—he nodded at Kyra—“in lobbying against the development. The city council can afford to ignore the merchants or the archaeology community if we stand alone. But if we band together”—he clasped his hands tightly—“then we’re a force to be reckoned with.”

Once more into the breach . . . Into the valley of death . . . Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead . . . I expected him to spout one of the great rallying cries.

Instead, he blinked and looked hopefully at Kyra. “I’ve got a petition.” He lifted a clipboard I hadn’t noticed. “Can you get signatures from the mall merchants? And it’d be great if a Fernglen contingent came to the council meeting next week. They’ll have to pay attention to us. We’ll show them that we are not to be ignored!” He leaned over to kiss Kyra on the cheek, murmured, “Catch you later, Ky,” and strode away, jacket flapping.

I wondered if he knew his “won’t be ignored” line was perilously close to the phrase the psycho bunny stabber in
Fatal Attraction
used. I’m not sure the association was a good one. “How’d he latch on to you?” I asked Kyra.

She sighed. “We were at Duke together. Don’t say anything, but we went out once or twice.”

I choked back a laugh. “Well, I’m sure he’ll set the world on fire with his petition. If the council members don’t vote his way, he can bonk them over the head with his clipboard.”

Kyra didn’t laugh as I’d expected. “Don’t underestimate Dyson. He’s always been something of an activist. At Duke, he started a petition to get rid of a tenured ecology professor who was a consultant for a pesticide manufacturer. Dy called it a conflict of interest. When the petition got no results, he researched every article and book the guy ever wrote and found some sections that could be considered plagiarism. And then photos of the prof snuggling with a woman other than his wife showed up in the newspaper. The prof swore that he didn’t know the woman, that she’d flung herself at him unexpectedly, but the damage was done.”

“Really?” I stared in the direction Dyson Harding had taken. It might not be a waste of time to dig up a little more background on him and find out what he’d been doing Sunday night.

Kyra headed back to Merlin’s Cave, and I started toward Diamanté, only to be stopped by a middle-aged woman wearing an “I need to complain” look on her face. Dressed in a long navy skirt, an olive-colored twinset, and low-heeled boots, she had the aura of an office manager or church volunteer coordinator.

“Officer,” she said when I asked if I could help, “there’s a situation that needs your attention.” Her slightly bugged-out eyes fixed on my face, wanting me to betray alarm.

“Yes? What is it?”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That woman on the bench back there, behind me, is nursing a baby. In public!” From her tone, you’d think someone was conducting satanic rituals involving rodent entrails in the mall corridor.

I didn’t say what I wanted to: Really? Feeding a baby? Horrors! Instead, I said, “I’ll take care of it, ma’am. Thank you for letting me know.”

Satisfied that she’d done her public duty, the woman gave a triumphant sniff and headed toward Dillard’s. Sighing, I glided toward the nursing mother. Only two weeks ago we’d received an operating directive on nursing mothers from the company that owned Fernglen and several other malls. It told us to direct nursing mothers, especially those who weren’t discreetly covered up, to the room set aside for them. This was not a part of the job I liked, but I amused myself by thinking how Joel or Harold would feel about having to deal with a nursing mother.

The mother in question was in her late thirties and had a shawl draped over her shoulder and torso. I couldn’t see anything of the baby except blue-bootied feet. Nevertheless, I followed the directive and informed her about the nursing room.

“Really?” she said, a pleasantly surprised expression on her face. “I didn’t know you had one. We’re about done here”—she nodded at the baby—“but I’ll use it next time. You should publicize it more.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. Wishing the mother a pleasant shopping experience, I putt-putted toward Diamanté, wondering if Finola was back in business.

She was. The crime scene tape was gone, and a new display graced the window. This one featured mannequins posed with tennis rackets, wearing the latest in expensive tennis gear. Leaving the Segway outside, I pushed through the door, unconsciously holding my breath. Realizing what I was doing, I breathed in cautiously, relieved to sniff no hint of death. It had been obliterated by an efficient cleaning team and a woodsy air freshener.

Finola came out of the office at the chime from the opening door and paused when she recognized me. “Hello, EJ,” she said. She was back to her usual soignée, pulled-together self in an emerald green jacket over a copper-colored shell and black slacks. Makeup covered any lingering traces of grief or hangover, and her hair looked newly blonded and styled.

“Back in business, I see.”

“Finally.” She exhaled deeply. “It was a huge relief when the detective called to say they were closing the case. I hadn’t realized how much it was hanging over me until I talked to her.”

“Had you ever met Earl Gatchel?” I asked. “The man they think killed Porter?”

Small white teeth bit at her lower lip. “Not that I know of. The police asked me the same thing. His wife has been in here a few times, though. I checked my records and found credit card payments from Rhonda Gatchel.”

“His ex-wife.”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know her to see her.”

It seemed like a really thin connection to me. Why had Gatchel—if he did indeed kill Porter—left the body in Diamanté? Why not in Macy’s or at the movie theater? Or why not wherever he killed him? That one was easy: the murder site was incriminating, would point a finger to the murderer. Maybe—

The door chimed behind me and two women walked in. One I recognized immediately as Elena Porter, looking far less puffy than the day before, dressed in a maroon suit belted at the waist and knee-high black boots with outrageous heels. I didn’t know the other woman. She was taller than Elena by a good six inches and had black hair that hung to her shoulders. The same vintage as her friend—midfifties—she wore high-waisted wool slacks that emphasized her leanness and a white silk blouse under a black leather jacket. A tiny gasp escaped Finola before she moved forward to greet them.

“Mrs. Porter, I am so sorry for your loss,” she said stiffly.

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence descended until the tall woman said in an attractive alto, “We’re here to find something for the funeral. Poor Elena doesn’t have anything suitable.”

Elena sniffed and dabbed a tissue at her eyes. “We’re burying my dear Jackson on Thursday. I expect hundreds of people to attend the service. Will you be there?”

“Um, I thought—” Finola started.

“Because I don’t think it’d be appropriate, under the circumstances,” Elena continued as if Finola hadn’t spoken.

“The circumstances?” Finola’s voice betrayed bewilderment and a hint of fear.

Elena opened her pale blue eyes wide. “Why, Jackson’s body being found here. I’ve been in touch with my lawyer about your liability.”

“Where will the service be?” I intervened, giving Finola time to recover herself. I was relatively certain she couldn’t be sued for having a murder victim turn up in her store. Unless, of course, it turned out she killed him.

Both women looked at me as if I were a mannequin who had suddenly burst into speech.

“So I can let the mall employees who might have known Mr. Porter know,” I said. “I understand he shopped and lunched here frequently. I’m sure some of them will want to pay their respects.”

“Oh. Durbane’s Funeral Home,” Elena said. “At ten o’clock.”

“They do a lovely job,” the other woman put in. “It’s where we had the memorial for my poor Wilfred three years ago now. We met here, you know, shortly before his daughter’s wedding. This mall has been around a long time.” She looked around reminiscently. “So many changes.”

“I’ll say,” Elena said. “I remember bringing Robbie to skate when there was an ice rink where that big sporting goods store is now.”