Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“Then what?”

“Well, if you read the note, you’ll see Barry was expecting me about half past eight. But it was quarter to nine by the time I received his message, and I still had to pick up the guitar for my son’s birthday.” I waited for them to ask me how old Arch was or when his birthday was, but they were silent. “So I was running late when I arrived in Shoes. Barry wasn’t there. I asked the cash register lady if she’d seen him. She hadn’t, so I thought I’d try the two salespeople who were cleaning up. But I slipped on the shoes—”

“You slipped on them,” commented Sawyer, ever the skeptic.

“Yes. I was carrying the guitar, and it was heavy, and the women had dumped the shoes in piles all over the place. Leather is slippery,” I said fiercely, giving them a glare of my own. “I stumbled, fell, and hit one of those big cabinets. One of the doors came open, and I saw what I thought was a mannequin in a tuxedo, but… it groaned. I… It was Barry. I tried to pull him out, and he groaned again, and then I saw all the blood. I took his pulse. It was weak. And then I guess I was going to do a compression—”

“You didn’t call for help?” Sawyer again.

I took a shaky breath. After a moment, I said, “No. I didn’t. I should have, in retrospect. But my theory now is that whoever was trying to kill him was right behind the cabinet, waiting to finish the job. As soon as the salespeople left, after I’d pulled Barry out of the cabinet and checked for his pulse, the killer whacked me with the guitar. He or she wanted to get me out of the way and finish the job—”

Collins held up a hand, then spoke slowly. “Did you see who hit you?”

“No, I didn’t see a thing. I didn’t hear anybody’s voice, either. One minute I had Barry’s wrist in my hand, the next my head was smashed and I saw nothing but black. After a bit, I heard Julian calling me, and someone waved ammonia in my face. Then you guys showed up, and I was carted to the hospital. And now we’re here.”

Collins said, “Did you see the weapon used to kill Barry Dean?”

There was a silence. I had not told Hulsey about this; now I wondered what in the world to say. The last thing I wanted to do was implicate Julian, Liz, or myself any further. But refusing to answer would look worse. And lying… what would that do?

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I saw it. It was… one of my knives. From a new set I bought recently.”

Collins opened his mouth to ask another question, but Steve Hulsey was too quick for him.

“That does it, gentlemen. Thank you.” He stood and motioned for me to do the same. I got to my feet too quickly and swayed, suddenly dizzy. I blinked, saw my chair, and grabbed the metal back.

“Mrs. Schulz, please don’t leave town,” intoned Sawyer, as he slapped his notebook closed. My kick-ass lawyer held the door open for me and I walked through.

“I need you to visit my office,” Hulsey told me. “Will tomorrow morning work?” His office, as it turned out, was half a mile from Westside Mall. What catered event did I have the next day, or rather, that very day, since it was now well past midnight? My beaten-up, woozy mind drew a blank. When do you need me there? I asked Hulsey. Ten A.M. sharp, Hulsey replied. And in the meantime, talk to no one.

Tom, oh dear God, Tom , was waiting for me on a plastic chair in the lobby. He walked toward me swiftly, arms outstretched. Hulsey vanished.

Enfolded in my husband’s arms, my body shook uncontrollably. I swallowed and tried to pull myself together. There was no way I was going to fall apart in the lobby of the sheriff’s department.

“Let’s go,” Tom whispered.

He gently helped me into his Chrysler, and murmured that he’d arrange for my van to be brought back to the house early the next morning. I leaned my head back and inhaled the comforting scent of Tom’s car. I wanted so badly to be in bed, to be asleep. But something was gnawing at me.

“Where’s Marla?” I asked as Tom started the engine. “Did she and Julian take both of their cars back to her house in Aspen Meadow? Or did he go back to Boulder?”

Tom let the engine idle, his hands on the steering wheel. Illuminated by the lot’s pink streetlights, his face was luminescent. Ominous. “Do you know how many cups of coffee Julian drank today? Yesterday, that is. Monday. While he was working with you.”

“What?”

“Miss G., it’s a simple question.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Just think. How many cups?”

I took a deep breath. “OK. He mentioned he’d had two four-shot lattes before he arrived. He brought two more, one for Liz and one for me.” I tried to dive back into the muck of the day’s events. “Liz didn’t want hers, so… I think Julian drank it. Then we made coffee in the kitchen, and he had dinner with Liz, so it’s probably safe to say he had about… oh, the equivalent of fifteen or sixteen cups of coffee over the course of the day. Why?”

Tom pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. Then he clasped my hands in his. “Julian drank a ton of caffeine. Then he found you in the department store, unconscious. He also found Barry, with your knife in him. Julian’s a good kid, he was terrified, he tried to pull the knife out of Barry Dean. Then the one security cop on duty at Prince and Grogan spotted him, and yelled at him to back off. Julian freaked out, and when the cops heard he’d had his hands on the knife, they said he had to come in for questioning. When they brought him into the department, he didn’t wait for a lawyer. He insisted on submitting to the polygraph. To prove his innocence.”

My own voice felt as brittle as cracking ice. “What are you telling me?”

“Too much caffeine can screw up a polygraph, Miss G. Julian was found with his hand on the murder weapon. Just as damning, he has no alibi for the time he was loading your van by himself, which was when you were picking up Arch’s guitar. When Julian took the lie detector test, he flunked it.”

“No.”

Tom squeezed my hands harder. “Goldy, Julian’s been arrested for murder.”

CHAPTER 7

We made it up the interstate in silence. The going was slow, as a light snow was falling. At home, our hall clock donged lightly for half past one. I checked our pets—Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat—who were slumbering peacefully in their separate housing area. Then I stumbled upstairs. I creaked open Arch’s door. He was snoring. So was his pal, Todd Druckman. Just recently, Arch had outgrown his bunk bed, so Todd was curled inside a sleeping bag on the floor.

With a husband in law enforcement and an ex-husband behind bars, our little family had dealt with criminal activity more than most. Still, I was worried about how Arch would deal with the arrest of Julian, our cherished family friend. I also wondered if heart-attack-prone Marla would stay calm. Several years ago, in a bizarre discovery of adoption documents, we’d learned that Julian’s birth mother had been Marla’s dead sister. My old friend had passionately embraced the role of being Julian’s aunt. Would she be able to cope with his arrest?

Would I?

I brushed my teeth, shucked my clothes, and pulled on pajamas. I fell into bed, certain I’d start fretting and never fall asleep.

But I did sleep, so soundly that the creep of daylight into the bedroom, the early shriek of crows, the drone of traffic from Aspen Meadow’s Main Street—not one of these registered. At nine-thirty, Tom tiptoed in to wake me.

He sat on the edge of our bed and asked me how I was feeling. I realized I had a headache, a shoulder ache, and nausea. I assured him I felt fine.

“I took Arch and Todd to school. Oh, and I canceled you out of that wedding reception this afternoon,” he announced matter-of-factly. “Liz said she can handle it. She came over for the food and supplies, and said she’d contact some of her old staff to help. She feels really bad about Julian,” he added. “She’s going to call you later.”