Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“So he wasn’t dead at that point?” Hulsey interrupted. “Before you were hit?”

“No. I thought I felt a weak pulse.”

Hulsey scribbled a few notes, then locked those impenetrable eyes on me once more. “You know the police have arrested Julian Teller. But I’ve got to warn you. From the way the detectives were questioning you, they’re obviously considering you a viable suspect—”

“ Me? Why?”

“Because you found the corpse. Because your knife was in Barry Dean’s gut. And that’s just the beginning. The cops say they wanted that note so they could analyze the handwriting and compare it to Julian’s. But they’ll compare it to yours, too.”

“Barry gave the note about the tip to a musician,” I protested. “Julian only read it before he gave it to me.”

Hulsey waved this off. “Here are the charges they might be thinking of making against you: First-degree murder. Conspiracy to commit murder. Accessory to murder, or accessory after the fact—say if you asked Julian to pull the knife out of Dean. And then there’s tampering with evidence, in case there’s something from that scene that you’re hiding from them.” He lifted both eyebrows.

I was right. Hulsey could read minds, after all. I shrugged and lifted my hands in a helpless gesture.

“Mrs. Schulz, you’re my client. I don’t want you talking to anyone about this case. Do not see or speak to Julian Teller. Doing so would strengthen the DA’s conspiracy case, if he has one. Do not go to that mall and start asking questions about Barry Dean—”

“As I told you, Mr. Hulsey.” It was my turn to interrupt. “I have to go to the mall on Thursday. I’ve signed a contract and I’ve been paid. The food supplies have been ordered. I have a catering commitment to honor, and my reputation depends on not backing out of events.”

“What kind of party is this, exactly?” His voice had turned patronizing.

“Westside Mall is running scared at the prospect of new Denver malls wiping them out. Or undercutting them. This second event Barry hired me to do is a gourmet lunch for potential tenants in the mall addition.”

Hulsey gave me that get-to-the-facts expression again. So I got to them.

“The owner of Westside, Pennybaker International, is sending out a high-powered team to secure leases for the vacant portion of the new addition. On Thursday, they’ve invited twelve of the hottest companies in the Westside area to hear the official pitch on why any retailer who wants to make big money needs to have a store in the mall addition.”

“What are you serving?” Hulsey said unexpectedly.

“He-man food,” I replied with what I hoped was a high-class sniff. “Oriental dumpling soup. Prime rib. Mashed russet and sweet potatoes. Strawberry-rhubarb cobbler. Barry ordered that food hoping that once they ate it, all the retailers would feel rich enough to afford Westside.”

Hulsey sighed. “If you do the event, I want you to concentrate on food. Not crime. Understand?”

I nodded. He told me that he would get in touch with me if he needed to, and I should do the same. I took my leave, and noted we’d been together half an hour. For Marla’s four hundred bucks, I’d been told stuff I either didn’t want to hear or was planning to ignore. If Julian was still in jail on Thursday, did Attorney Hulsey really think I’d concentrate on food and not crime?

If so, he was sadly mistaken.

Since Hulsey’s office wasn’t far from Westside Mall, I drove over there. If anyone asked, I’d say I was looking for Julian’s Range Rover, which was sort of true. In any event, as long as I was going to violate Hulsey’s instructions, there were two people I wanted to talk to: Pam Disharoon and Ellie McNeely, the two purported girlfriends of the deceased Barry Dean. I knew Ellie had been taken to police headquarters. Now she was probably back at work at the bank. But Pam worked for Prince & Grogan, in the lingerie department. I could always use a new nightie, couldn’t I?

I followed the route Liz and I had taken just the previous day—which seemed an eternity ago—along Doughnut Drive. Where yesterday only a handful of workers had been visible, now there was activity everywhere. I passed a crew raking and smoothing the cavernous hole in the berm made by the errant dump truck. Near them, another gang of laborers dug holes in the topsoil. Flats of spruce bushes stood nearby, ready to be planted. Did the crews work alternate days, or had someone lit a fire under them? Had Barry’s murder somehow accelerated the slow-as-molasses construction of the new addition? Hmm.

To my further surprise, the construction lot was more than half-full of trucks ranging from tractor-trailers to pickups. Workers diligently transported sheets of plywood, spray-painted drywall, or pointed high-powered hoses at freshly laid concrete pavers. Diesel-powered cranes lofted yet more workers onto the roofs of almost-finished stores. Those guys scampered up and over the pitched surfaces as if they were playground equipment. A newly painted banner floated overhead: Boutiques Opening Soon!

Oh, yeah? When?

Another surprise: The construction gate was open and unattended. Management must have decided that sparing a worker to be gatekeeper was not possible, especially with the heightened level of construction bustle. Still, in light of the truck incident, you’d think they’d at least be a bit more careful.

I ignored the new No Trespassing sign and sailed the van into the construction lot. The drainage pond, now with chunks of ice floating in it, was slick with oil. Workers driving Caterpillars were digging and smoothing the layer of rutted dirt over which the dump truck had lurched toward us. Which one of those workers had claimed he’d seen Julian piloting that truck? I wondered.

I slowed and surveyed Westside Mall’s main parking area. Compared to the usual crowd of vehicles, the number of cars was anemic, no more than a third of the previous day’s. Apparently, the newspaper articles on Barry’s death had discouraged shoppers. For those who hadn’t caught the news and had ventured out, driving past the yellow police ribbons surrounding Prince & Grogan would have sent them packing.

What had Barry said? Nothing clears a mall like a security threat. Or a murder, apparently.

I parked near one of the Skytrack cranes. Victor Wilson, excavator-turned-construction-manager, was nowhere in sight. I headed toward a cluster of workers standing near a Dumpster. They were leaning over a drop cloth dense with paint cans. Something must have been wrong with the paint, because the workers were having a heated discussion.

I sauntered up and asked them where their boss-guy was. The painters exchanged guarded looks.

“I’ve just got a quick question for Victor,” I improvised hastily, “about the construction. I’m the caterer for the tenants’ lunch later in the week, and they asked me to find out when Victor was going to give the go-ahead to occupy the new stores.”

Several workers shook their heads and backed away. It was clear they weren’t going to help me. I turned to the remaining workmen.

“Anybody know when the new stores are going to be ready?”

Silence. A short, heavyset Hispanic man carrying two paint cans ambled up. I smiled at him and he grinned back, more than I could say for any of the other fellows. Before I could repeat my request for info, a long, lanky crew member, perched on one of the ladders by the new Il Fornaio, yelled in a Southern accent that Victor wasn’t coming in that day. I exhaled and told myself to be patient.

I lowered my voice and addressed the remaining workers. Had anybody seen the accident with the truck yesterday? One or two nodded. That was going to set back the construction schedule for sure, I said, shaking my head. Ah, I asked, had anyone seen who was driving that truck? No, no, they shook their heads and avoided my eyes. We didn’t see. Not a thing. Uh-uh.