Die Buying (9 page)

“That’s not necessary, Grandpa,” I said, meaning “don’t.” The chicken part of me said that at least if Gatchel spotted him and complained, it wouldn’t be in my mall. “There’s nothing in this case related to spying. Why do you want to pursue it?”

“Got to keep my hand in,” he said with a grin that deepened the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “The tradecraft of investigation is a lot like what they taught us at the Farm. Besides, I don’t have anything pressing on the national security front right now, so I’m free to help my favorite granddaughter.”

“I’m your only granddaughter,” I pointed out, passing up the chance to argue about his definition of “help.”

He tweaked my cheek between his thumb and the side of his forefinger and jiggled it. “You’d still be my favorite if I had a dozen granddaughters,” he said.

“Popping out a dozen children would’ve landed Mom in the nearest looney bin,” I said.

He laughed loud enough to cause a pair of women to turn and stare. “Brenda never did have much fortitude,” he said. “And you’ve got to admit your brother Clint was a rare handful.”

“Still is,” I muttered, thinking of the postcard I’d gotten last week from Burma or Myanmar or whatever it was called these days. Clint (named after Dad’s hero, Eastwood) had ended up as an investigative journalist, clearly inheriting a large dose of Grandpa’s nosiness and liking for cloak-anddagger activities. The postcard promised me a ruby when Clint got back to the States. “Did you know ruby and sapphire are the same mineral?” he’d written.

Clint collected stray facts the way belly buttons collect lint. I’d emailed to say that my paycheck didn’t run to gemstones so the relationship of rubies and sapphires had never concerned me. I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance Clint would actually show up with a ruby. Or, he might show up with a political dissident he’d helped escape from the ruling junta. You never knew what you were going to get with my brother.

My radio squawked; it was Joel summoning me back to the office. “Got to go, Grandpa,” I said. “Stay out of trouble.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

He waggled his white brows at me. “Can you doubt it?”

Oh, yeah.

Back at the
office, I spotted Detective Helland before I pushed through the doors. He had his hands clasped at the small of his back and he was pacing back and forth, Joel watching anxiously from behind his desk. He wore an elegant navy blue suit today with a tie patterned with yellow and blue ovals. When Helland saw me, he frowned. “Did you take photos of the murder scene?” he asked without preamble.

What was it with the photos today? “Yes.”

He nodded, as if I’d confirmed something he suspected. “Do you have any idea how much damage you may have done to our case? I thought you were more professional than that.”

His biting tone caught me off-guard. “Excuse me? How does taking photos damage your case? It’s standard crime scene procedure.”

“Don’t play dumb. Your posting them on the Internet could make catching the killer a hundred times more difficult. At the very least, it’ll make weeding out the attention seekers who confess to the murder almost impossible.”

Clenching my fists at my sides, I looked him straight in his icy gray eyes. “I did not post any photos on the Internet.”

“Really?” His brows arched. “Then how did these get online?” He swung Joel’s computer screen around so I could see photos of Porter’s body displayed in the Diamanté window. “You were the first one on the scene, and I’ll swear none of my team leaked these.”

For a moment, the photos fogged my mind so I couldn’t think straight. They looked almost exactly like the ones I’d taken. Then, my brain snapped into gear. “I can think of two possibilities off the bat,” I said. “Gina Kissell—the mom who found the body—might have taken photos. I admit she didn’t seem like the type, but she might’ve done it. Everyone has a camera in their cell phone these days. Or, it could’ve been the murderer.” Before he could respond, I yanked my camera out of its pocket. “Here. Have your experts compare my photos to these.” I gestured at the computer. “They won’t be the same. You can apologize later.”

I spun on my heel, stumbling when my knee buckled, and stalked out of the office. Climbing on the Segway, I headed for Kyra’s shop to vent. I felt vaguely guilty about leaving Joel to cope with Helland’s anger, but Helland wasn’t angry with him. I’d have punched the man if I’d stayed in the office two seconds longer. How dare he accuse me of sabotaging his case?

Kyra was with a customer when I parked the Segway outside Merlin’s Cave and stalked in, so I amused myself by looking around. A fountain splashed in one corner, emitting a dry-ice mist, and gentle music played from invisible speakers. The store was dimly lit, to resemble the cave it was named after, I supposed, and was cooler than the mall corridors. The stock consisted of an eclectic mix of magic tricks; New Age crystals and incense and tarot decks; videos and nonfiction books having to do with magic, myth, mysticism, religion, ESP, and the like; a large selection of fantasy fiction for kids and adults; and some Native American art and dream catchers. Kyra was absolutely the last person you’d expect to find running a store like this since she was an agnostic and far more interested in the here-and-now than in the afterlife or parallel universes or anything else that couldn’t be proven with a petri dish and a Bunsen burner. But her aunt Harmony (her real name) was on a yearlong sabbatical to Tibet, and she had persuaded Kyra to take over the store in her absence. In her real life, after she’d won the silver, Kyra became a software whiz who wrote programs with coaching applications. She’d made enough on the sale of some program for scheduling sporting events that she could afford to take a year off to help her aunt by running Merlin’s Cave.

The customer left, a bag tucked under one arm, and Kyra turned to me with a grimace. “She just asked if I’d like to join her coven. Do I look like a witch to you?”

“What does a witch look like?” I asked, already feeling less angry than when I’d walked in.

“Green skin, pointy hat—didn’t you see
Wicked
?” Kyra asked. She smoothed the colorful silk of her long skirt against her hip. Her real taste in clothes ran more to slacks and stark, modern lines, but she’d quickly figured out that looking like an Indian mystic or wise herbalist resulted in more sales. “What brings you here looking like you want to borrow my lance”—she had a real lance near a display of King Arthur books—“and run someone through?”

“Not a bad idea,” I said, envisioning myself on a strong white steed, galloping toward Detective Helland, lance held level. I told Kyra about Helland’s accusations.

“He’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t he?”

“He treats me like I’m an incompetent boob,” I said. “Of course that pisses me off.” I pinged a wind chime hanging near me, and it made brassy tinkling noises.

“Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I peered at her suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

I could tell by the way she was trying not to smile that she meant something, but I didn’t pursue it. “I met your cookie man,” I said instead.

“And?”

“And he’s pretty hot. But I’m not sure about him. He was evasive when I asked a few questions about his background.”

Kyra laughed. “Girl, just because someone doesn’t want to trot out their resumé and their psych profile within two seconds of meeting you doesn’t make them a suspicious character. Get out of ‘cop mode’ on occasion and go with the flow. Loosen up.” She opened her arms and swayed. “Buy some lavender oil to calm you down or get a massage to open up your chakras or something.”

“You wouldn’t know a chakra from a chocolate chip,” I accused, having no idea myself.

“Sure I do. She sang that song ‘Through the Fire.’” Kyra hummed.

“That was
Chaka
Khan,” I said, laughing despite myself. “I’ve got to get back to patrolling.”

I’d only gone past eight storefronts when I spotted a young boy—maybe three—lugging what looked like an old army helmet toward his mother. On closer inspection, I realized it wasn’t a helmet but a tortoise with the tip of its head just peeking out of the khaki-colored shell. I guided the Segway close and got off.

“Did you find that tortoise here in the mall?” I asked the boy.

Wearing a striped shirt under denim overalls, he looked at me from big, unblinking brown eyes. “Turtle.”

His mother hustled back from where she was inspecting lingerie in a display window. She was young and skinny and dressed in tight denim. She put a protective hand on her son’s shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

I introduced myself and explained about the animals being released from the Herpetology Hut on Monday. “I think that tortoise is probably one of the animals that was turned loose, and I’d like to return it. Or I can tell you where the store is if you’d like to take it back.”

The little boy’s eyes had flicked back and forth from his mom to me during our conversation. Now, he hugged the tortoise to his chest. “Mine.” His lower lip poked out in an ominous way.

“Of course it’s yours, Jimmy,” the mother said. She shot me a triumphant look and said, “Finders keepers.”

A great child-rearing message. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t prove the tortoise was one of Kiefer’s. “You’re very lucky, Jimmy,” I said, squatting down to his level, despite my knee’s complaining. “My mommy wouldn’t even let me have a turtle.”

Curiosity overcame suspicion. “Why not?”

“Because they need a big, expensive kind of home called a terrarium with a heat lamp, and they need special food, and because of salmonella.”

I sensed the mother listening.

“What’s sal—What’s that?” Jimmy asked.

The tortoise waved its feet and craned its neck, attempting to run away in midair.

“It’s a sickness that makes you throw up. I hate throwing up, don’t you? Yuck. It’s not the turtle’s fault, though.”

“I trew up at Brynn’s birfday party,” he volunteered.

The mother gnawed on a cuticle and said, “Jimmy, give the lady back her turtle.”

Obedient to the pressure of her hand on his shoulder, he thrust the tortoise toward me, and I took it gingerly, holding it on either side like a huge hamburger bun. “Thank you,” I told him. “You took good care of the turtle, and I’ll make sure it gets back to its home. Tell you what, do you like books?”

Jimmy nodded tentatively, clearly rating books considerably below pets.

“If you go by the Herpetology Hut, I’m sure my friend Kiefer would be happy to give you a book about turtles and snakes for taking such good care of this tortoise.” I told the mom where to find Kiefer’s store and got on the Segway, setting the tortoise between my feet.

“I wanna snake,” Jimmy was telling his mother as I glided away.

I delivered the tortoise to a grateful Kiefer and explained about promising Jimmy a book.

“Happy to do it,” Kiefer said. “Hey, a woman came in and said she saw an anaconda in the fountain, and I went down there, but there was no sign of Agatha. Now that word’s gotten around, I’m afraid people will be seeing snakes everywhere.”

“Great.” Just what we needed: hysterical shoppers thinking a copperhead lurked behind every clothes rack or a mamba slithered in every planter.

I left the Herpes Hut and swung by the fountain, just for the hell of it, not because I thought I’d see Agatha sunning herself on a rock. The fountain consisted of an attractive pile of rocks and plants with water tumbling into a tiled basin with a wide rim that kids liked to walk on. It splashed at the juncture where the arms of the X came together on the ground floor. Tiered planters surrounded it on three sides, making the space feel like a leafy glade; it certainly offered enough dense foliage to hide Agatha, but I didn’t spot any movement in the greenery. Taking the elevator up to the second level, I was zipping down the corridor toward the office when I glanced down the Dillard’s wing and spotted a familiar figure outside Diamanté, crouched as if trying to raise the grille. Finola Craig. What was she doing here when the store was still off-limits as a crime scene?

I veered down the hall, and she rose to greet me, moving in slow motion, like an octogenarian afraid of falling or a woman who’d had three too many cosmopolitans the night before. She wore a black pantsuit today, in a heavy raw silk, with a white cowl-necked blouse. Mourning attire? Her bloodshot eyes had dark circles beneath them, and the way she winced every time someone walked by made me suspect she could give Woskowicz a run for the title of “Most Hungover Mall Employee.”

“Hi, EJ,” she greeted me. Her platinum hair was pulled back extra tight into a bun, as if to make up for its waywardness last night.

I nodded at the store. “You weren’t trying to get in, were you?” It looked to me like the crime scene tape was askew. I realized I didn’t know if she’d been trying to
un
lock the grille, or if she was locking it again after having been in the store.