Die Buying (6 page)

“Well, who asked you, asswipe?”

I stepped far enough into the office that they spotted me. “Well, look who’s here. General Ferris.” Weasel gave me a mock salute, touching his middle finger to his brow. He had sunken cheeks, a sharp nose, and dishwater blond hair that fell lankly across his brow. He slouched back in a chair, his booted feet propped on a desk near his expensive cell phone. His white uniform shirt showed yellow patches under the arms as he laced his fingers behind his head. “I hear tell you found a dead body today.”

“A customer did,” I said. “I was curious about how Mr. Porter ended up in a display window on your shift, Weasel.” Weasel was permanently on the midnight shift, eleven p.m. to seven a.m. The rest of us worked staggered, rotating shifts, but Weasel had a deal of some sorts with Woskowicz and always worked mids. No one complained because no one else wanted that shift.

Joel shot me a warning glance, but I ignored him. I knew Weasel was meaner than a feral hog, that he was in tight with Woskowicz, but I didn’t give a damn. He was, at best, lazy, and, more likely, a thief.

He scowled. “I didn’t see nothing.”

“There’s a surprise. Just like you don’t see anything when merchandise marches out of Macy’s on the midshift or cars get boosted from the parking garage. You should see an ophthalmologist,” I said with spurious concern. Crossing to my desk, I flipped through the couple of message slips on the blotter. Nothing urgent.

“Now you just wait a minute,” Weasel said, sitting forward and bringing his feet to the floor with a thud. “Are you calling me a crook?”

“Did I say that?” I gave Joel a wide-eyed, questioning look, and he obligingly shook his head. “I just expressed concern for your vision problems. Like last night . . . what did you see? Anything unusual go down?”

Not having access to the autopsy and forensic reports, I had no idea what time Helland and his team thought the body had been arranged in the window. The mall closed at five on Sundays, and dark came shortly thereafter at this time of year, so I figured it could have been anywhere between six p.m. and four thirty a.m. Probably not any later than that since commuters would have been zooming by on their way to spend a fulfilling day in their cubicles.

“It was a quiet night,” Weasel said. His cell phone rang and he glanced at it, then ignored it. “I didn’t see anything on my rounds. It was quieter than a NASCAR track on Christmas Day.” His eyes shifted away from mine, and I knew he was lying. Trouble was, I didn’t know what he was lying about. He could have spent the whole night holed up in the office with a magazine and a six-pack, or he could have been engaged in something nefarious that had nothing to do with the murder, or—

“Is there a problem here? Aren’t you off shift, Ferris? What are you still doing here?”

Woskowicz was back, and although his words were rough, his expression spoke of self-satisfaction. I looked closer to see if canary feathers dangled from his lips. “Be sure to watch the five o’clock newscast tonight,” he said, sticking his thumbs in his belt and puffing out his chest. “They’ll show my interview with that hot reporter. She was really into me. We’re hooking up later this week for a drink.”

“Way to go, boss,” Weasel said, leering. “You ready to go to lunch?” His phone rang again, and this time he picked it up, covering his mouth as he muttered into it.

Joel rolled his eyes at me.

“I’m on my way out,” I said, knowing I’d get nothing more from Weasel with Woskowicz standing there. And it wasn’t my job to interrogate Weasel, I reminded myself. Helland and crew would get onto Weasel, probably by tomorrow, and they’d dig out whatever nuggets he had to offer. I hauled my gym bag from under my desk and slung it over my shoulder, giving the room a generalized “Bye” as I walked out, already thinking ahead to the pool and how good it would feel to swim half a mile, let the water ease away the day’s worries and frustrations.

On my way to the south lot where I’d left my car, I passed Tombino’s, the combination bar and restaurant that had been a fixture in Fernglen since the mall first opened. Through the smoked glass window, I caught sight of Finola Craig sitting at a table in the bar, staring morosely into a tall glass. My footsteps slowed. She looked like she could use a shoulder to cry on. But if I went in and had a drink with her, I probably wouldn’t make it to the pool. Finola was a big girl; she could share her woes with the bartender and call a cab to get home. I marched past Tombino’s and actually had my hand on the exit door when I spun with a little growl and walked back to the restaurant.

Tombino’s was dim, even in the middle of the afternoon, and deserted except for Finola, a bartender swabbing a beer glass with a rag, and a kid running a vacuum in the restaurant. It smelled like tomato sauce and garlic. The lunch special was always “Pasta Your Way,” where for $6.99 you could have all-you-can-eat pasta topped with marinara, pesto, or Alfredo sauces. Finola didn’t look as though she’d bothered with lunch—she’d gone straight to cocktail hour, judging by the three sword-shaped plastic skewers at her elbow. A fourth held a wedge of pineapple and a cherry in her drink. She sat with one elbow on the table, cheek on her hand, the other hand loosely cupped around the base of her glass. Her usually immaculate blond hair had straggled loose from her French braid, and she’d tossed her gray suit jacket onto the back of her bar stool; it had fallen in a crumpled heap to the floor.

“Hey, Finola,” I said, retrieving the jacket and laying it on the next table. Sliding onto a stool, I scooted it closer to the high, round table. “How’re you holding up?”

She lolled her head to one side and looked at me from glassy eyes. “Jus’ great.”

“Would you like a drink?” The bartender interrupted us.

“Club soda.” It might be the end of my workday, but I couldn’t see downing a beer at this hour. I turned back to Finola.

“Have the police told you anything?”

She shook her head, nearly rocking herself off the stool. She clutched at the table. “Not a damn thing. Oh, except that I can’t open the ssstore until Friday at the earliest. D’you know what no revenue for a week will do to me?”

I didn’t know, but I didn’t imagine it could be good. “No.”

“I’ll be down the crapper.” She made a flushing motion with one hand and a noise like running water. Then she giggled.

I didn’t think I’d ever heard the elegant, reserved Finola giggle. “I hope it’s not that bad,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get a really big crowd this weekend.” I didn’t say it out loud, but widely publicized murders—as I was sure this would be—frequently attracted crowds of looky-loos wanting to inspect the site of violent death. Their reasoning eluded me, but I’d seen it happen time and again.

She shrugged, sending the blue camisole’s strap sagging down her arm. She pulled it up. She peered at me as if trying to focus on my face. “Maybe. Maybe not. There’s not much margin in retail, you know, and now with that damned Olympush going up—” She seemed to lose her train of thought, her eyes drifting to the side. With an effort, she brought them back to my face. “Hey! Maybe now that Jack is dead—” She stopped again and lifted her glass, taking a long swallow.

“Now that Jack is dead—” I prompted.

“Poor Jack.” Tears filled her eyes.

“Were you good friends?”

“You could say that.” A wistful smile curved her lips.

The bartender chose that moment to plunk down my club soda and I could’ve strangled him. By the time he sponged up a damp circle from Finola’s glass, she had recovered herself a bit.

“Customer,” she said, nodding. “Jack was a good customer.”

“But you sell ladies’ clothes.”

“Um-hm.” A tiny frown appeared between her brows. “Jack liked ladies.”

I wasn’t sure which way to take this conversation. I didn’t think I was going to get anything else out of her about her relationship with Jackson Porter, so I went with, “When was the last time he bought something from you?”

“Saturday. Cocktail dress. A tangerine number by Tadashi Shoji.” She fluttered her hands in the air, seeming to indicate ruffles or a floaty material like chiffon.

“For his wife?”

She blew an un-ladylike raspberry. “Elena’s not a size two! I need another drink.” She signaled to the bartender, but I shook my head at him. “Hey!” She glared at me.

“Let me take you home, Finola,” I said, slipping off the bar stool to help her stand.

“Got my car,” she mumbled, her chin falling toward her chest.

“I don’t think so.” I draped her arm over my shoulders and wrapped my arm around her waist. Thankfully, she was a skinny thing, probably a size two, unlike Elena. The helpful bartender, probably hoping I’d get her out of his bar before she upchucked, found Finola’s purse and hooked it over my forearm.

“Thanks,” he said. “I was getting worried about her. Your drink’s on me.”

Wow, a free club soda. I gave him a “just doing my job” shrug and nudged Finola toward the door. Luckily, my car was parked close by because she was leaning heavily on me by the time we got there. I propped her against the side of my bronze Miata and opened the passenger door. Thank goodness the temps were in the low fifties instead of the icy teens we’d experienced last week. A woman shepherding two toddlers gave me an odd look and crossed to the far side of the row. I maneuvered Finola into the front seat and handed her a shoe box from the backseat after dumping out the strappy silver sandals I’d bought last week in a moment of madness. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t wear heels like that anymore. The shoes were in the car so I could return them.

“Here.” I put the box in Finola’s lap when she showed no inclination to hold it. “Use this if you feel sick.” I buckled her in, closed the door, and went around to the driver’s side. Once settled, I asked, “Where do you live?”

A gentle snore was my only answer. I looked at her slumped against the window, the harsh sun illuminating the lines around her lips and the crepey skin on her bare arms that the dim light in Tombino’s had camouflaged. She was in her midfifties, I figured, not her forties, as I’d always thought. With a sigh, I dug through her purse, finding her wallet and her driver’s license.

I drove to the modest townhome some fifteen minutes from Fernglen, found Finola’s keys, and opened the front door, then returned to the car to lug the groggy boutique owner into her house. I guided her back to her bedroom and located some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, noting fluffy taupe bath sheets and an array of expensive-looking lotions on the counter. She took the aspirin as docilely as a child and promptly passed out on the bed. Propping two pillows under her head and turning her head sideways so she wouldn’t choke if she threw up, I left her keys and purse on the granite counter by the coffeepot—sure to be her first stop when she awoke with a massive hangover—and left, turning the lock in the knob as I closed the door.

Back in the car, I checked the time: four thirty. Damn. I could still work in a swim before Kyra’s bout, if I kept it short, but the pool would be crowded now with after-work exercisers. I liked to swim more or less alone, still uncomfortable with the gawping that my leg injuries received. In desperate need of exercise, I headed reluctantly to the YMCA just two miles from my patio home. In the locker room, redolent of wet metal and antiperspirant—someone must have sprayed herself lavishly—I stripped quickly, keeping my back to the room, and pulled on my orange swimsuit with the racer back. Wrapping my hibiscus-print beach towel around my waist so it draped to my ankles, I headed for the showers and the pool entrance, wondering for the thousandth time why they needed so many mirrors. From the waist up, I looked okay, maybe better than okay, with glossy chestnut hair and long-lashed eyes, a bustline that was a happy medium between Keira Knightley and Dolly Parton, and strong arms and shoulders from the swimming. Below the waist . . . I hustled past all the mirrors, rinsed off, and headed to the pool.

Several lap swimmers were crawling and breast-stroking in the lanes, and a rowdy group of eight-year-olds had assembled for a lesson at the far end. Sitting on the pool’s edge, I quickly unwrapped the towel and slid into the water in one smooth movement, turning to place the towel on the deck. A surreptitious look around discovered no stares or pointing; no one had noticed. Adjusting my goggles, I struck out for the far end of the Olympic-sized pool, letting the exertion and the water strip away the stress that had built up in my body. I didn’t know how nonexercisers made it through the day without killing someone.

Hair still damp, I arrived at the city auditorium just as the roller derby bout was getting underway. On a Monday night there wasn’t much of a crowd, and I got a seat on the bleachers near the front without any trouble. The oval track was laid out at a slight angle to the long axis of the hardwood floor with rope under the tape to give the skaters a tactile indicator when they were going out of bounds. A computer-driven projector showed the score and the time remaining on a screen over the stage at the south end. Big speakers on the stage shrieked a guitar riff from a song I didn’t know, undoubtedly by a band I’d never heard of. The league had padded the hard edges of risky wall corners and stationed volunteers—grinning young men—at two side entryways as “girl catchers” to stop errant skaters from sliding out of sight and into possible harm.

I spotted Kyra right away—not hard to do since she’s a six-foot-tall black woman and was wearing the purple uniform and helmet of the Vernonville Vengeance, the roller derby team she’d skated with for over two years. Her long hair frizzed from beneath the helmet to midback, much longer than when we’d first met, when I was eleven and she was twelve. My folks had brought us to Vernonville to visit with Gran and Grandpa Atherton in the big Colonial home they’d lived in before Gran died. Kyra had skated by the house one morning when I was sitting on the porch, sulking about how boring it was going to be with no one but my brother Clint to play with. We’d hit it off immediately, and I cried when it was time to go back to California. Kyra and I called each other weekly during the school year, and I had looked forward to returning to Gran and Grandpa’s each summer after that. Kyra had even visited us in California a couple of times before graduating high school a year ahead of me and going off to Duke. A college track and field athlete, she had won a silver medal in the hurdles at the Olympics. She started skating because running on a treadmill during the gloomy winter months was “too damned boring.”