Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

A couple of salespeople were picking their way through piles and piles and piles of shoes. Their probing gait, as they sorted and boxed footwear, reminded me of beachcombers’. Another salesperson was frowning at the only open cash register. I held the guitar high as I wended my way toward her, dodging picked-over pumps, boots, sandals, slippers, and loafers, all of which lay higgledy-piggledy across the floor. Perhaps Barry had been here, and given the saleslady our check. Or, following his usual style, maybe he’d written another note about where to go for payment. If this was going to be like the hunt for the psych classnotes, it was going to be a very long night.

“Excuse me, but have you seen Barry Dean, the mall manager?” I asked politely.

The clerk gently closed the cash register and gave me a sympathetic look. “I sure haven’t. Sorry.”

“I was the caterer for the Elite Shoppers party,” I attempted again, still hopeful. “I’m just trying to get our final check. Could he have left a note for me?”

She gestured to the beachcombers. “They might know. They’ve been working here longer than I have.”

I thanked her and looked around. To avoid the mountains of shoes, I decided to backtrack to the edge of the department, then make a straight shot past the cabinets to the workers. Another overhead announcement reminded customers that the store was closed , and that all salespeople needed to check out immediately.

So: I hurried. Fearful that I’d miss talking to the sorting salespeople, I lofted the guitar and began to pick my way around the piles of shoes. Ignorant of my presence, the workers called to each other, something about the cleaning crew , and just finishing this last bit. I glanced back at the cash register. The helpful saleslady was already walking toward the escalator.

“Crap, crap, crap,” I muttered, as I teetered at the edge of a pile of leather pumps with cutout designs around the toes. When I began to lose my balance, I overcompensated by yanking the guitar sideways. I wobbled over the shoes and staggered like a drunk. When I tried to get a foothold, I reeled forward, let go of the guitar, and fell onto the shoes.

My head hit the side of the cabinet hard. The low doors swung open, and I saw stars. I can’t believe this is happening again , I thought, as I lay on the pile of shoes. This is the third time I’ve fallen down today!

The overhead lights in the department began to click out in a methodical manner. I groaned and turned over. The salespeople had vacated the department. No help was forthcoming. I registered another groan nearby.

It was not my voice. Fear snaked up my back. I peered around.

The open cabinet doors had dislodged a stash of shoes and a mannequin. Could the frenzied shoppers have pulled down a mannequin?

I was startled by another groan. It came from the mannequin, which had on black dress shoes and black socks.

The shoe with a sock was attached to a leg, and then there was another shoe, and another leg…

Oh, Lord.

The legs were attached to a torso. To a body. A still warm, unmoving body.

Fighting off nausea, I pawed frantically over the shoes. Didn’t I recognize those striped tuxedo pants, those shiny black shoes? Please, God, no , I prayed, as I ignored my pain and burrowed through pumps with cutout toes, sandals, loafers, and platform shoes, to pull out this … person, who was groaning. This…person who was clearly not supposed to be here.

Finally I got to the body’s face. It was twisted to one side.

The body was Barry Dean’s.

A pulse , I told myself, as I groped. It was faint. Weak. With some effort, I managed to turn Barry partway onto his side. He groaned again, but kept his eyes closed.

There was a knife in his stomach. Blood poured onto the scattered shoes and beige rug.

“Barry!” Was I yelling? It came out as a croak. “Barry! What happened to you?”

The air behind me swished. I stiffened and tried to scramble off the shoes. A warning voice echoed inside my head. What was—?

Swoosh. I grabbed for my pocket, for my cell phone. Crack. Something struck my head, very hard. Everything faded to darkness, but not before I could ask the question that had haunted me since I reached Westside Mall, an eternity ago.

What the hell was going on?

CHAPTER 6

From the distant reaches of my cerebral cortex, I heard Marla’s voice. You should have stayed in bed. Then her reproving voice morphed into Julian’s. You need to peel the potatoes. Was he making potato appetizers? Wait, I was lying on the potatoes. Is that what Julian was calling to me about?

Why couldn’t I move?

I tried to wiggle my arms and legs. My head throbbed. Every effort at motion brought stabs of pain. I opened one eye to get a look at the hard, bumpy potatoes on which I appeared to be lying.

Not potatoes. Shoes.

“Julian,” I mouthed. “Help him.”

Hey, Goldy! Julian cried, much closer now. How did your… What happened to… I can’t… He tried to move me off the shoes. Then he cried out. I registered him stumbling toward Barry. A second later, a woman’s scream split the air.

Suddenly, a rumbly voice, one I didn’t recognize, spoke sharply. Julian protested. I mustered up strength to inch forward, but couldn’t go far. Unconsciousness claimed me the way bullies used to push me down the school slide—before I was ready.

A scent assaulted my nose. I jerked upward. My brain seemed to be cracking, splintering like glass. The stink of ammonia again hit my nostrils and I yelped. Something bad had happened, was happening, was about to happen again. What? Why?

“Mrs. Schulz,” came the deep, unfamiliar voice, much closer than before. “Wake up. We’ve called the medics and the police. They’re on their way.”

A large, rough-skinned hand grabbed my wrist. The same powerful hand pressed my wrist veins. For a pulse? When I tried to twist my neck to see who was talking, nausea steamrolled over me.

“Julian,” I moaned. “Where’s Julian?”

I opened my eyes.

A wide, pasty male face loomed in front of mine. The man was wearing a security guard uniform. “Just don’t worry about your guy Julian,” his slanted mouth announced. “We’ve got him. He’s on the other side of—”

“But—” I struggled to remember what had brought me to this pile of shoes. A shaft of memory intruded. “Where’s… Barry?” I struggled upward. I was half sitting, half lying on the bed of shoes. Barry had been right over…there.

And then I saw him. A silver knife handle protruded from his stomach. His head lay at an impossible angle. His hands were limp. He, too, lay on the pile of shoes. Blood had drenched the leather and pooled on the carpet. He wasn’t groaning anymore.

I couldn’t look at the blade’s silver handle. Or at the blood. Oh, please, no. Tears welled up in my eyes. And all I could think was: That’s one of my new knives.

Loud voices, heavy footsteps, and more clammy hands feeling for my pulse signaled the arrival of cops and medics. An eternity had passed since the pasty-faced man had waved an ampule of ammonia under my nose. Now a second dose of stink smacked my nostrils. Was I seeing two fellows in white uniforms, or was I seeing double?

“Mrs. Schulz,” said one of the white uniforms, “your husband is here.” He reached behind my head and began touching it. When his fingers pressed onto an unexpectedly painful spot, I gasped.

“How about if you don’t poke me with an ice pick?” I squealed. I was vaguely aware of not being very nice.