Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

The workers began to disperse around the Dumpster. I felt suddenly desperate. “Do any of you know who told the police that my assistant was driving the truck?”

The heavyset fellow grinned. The name Raoul was embroidered on his workshirt.

“Yeah,” said Raoul, “I know who told ‘em and—” Raoul registered that the few remaining workers were staring at him. Abruptly, he closed his mouth.

“Who was he, though? Who told them?” I demanded. My voice had become shrill.

“He weren’t nobody, lady,” said the lanky fellow, as he stepped down the ladder. He had sand-colored hair and skin the color of a pecan shell. He moved in my direction and spoke like someone in authority. “He was a temporary worker. He just quit.” He jest quee-at.

“But who was he?” I persisted. “He told the police that lie, and now a friend of mine is in jail.”

“Lady, that guy is gone. Does anybody remember his name?” Pecan-shell turned to the remaining workers.

No, no, no , came the chorus of denials. No lo conosco. Don’t know him.

What was going on? Were these guys covering for a buddy who stole big trucks and tried to mow people down with them? They clearly had lots of sympathy for him, even if his quitting had left them a worker short.

This project is cursed , I asserted silently. The workers, avoiding my eyes, picked up their cans and walked away. These guys , I decided, are not happy campers. First their construction manager walks out, then one of their trucks is swiped and run into a fresh berm, then a worker lies and vanishes, and now nobody knows the whereabouts of the boss-guy who is supposed to be running things. Emphasis on the supposed to. Maybe some answers would be forthcoming if the Furman County attorney could get here and serve a handful of subpoenas, but it was unlikely that I would be able to extract any more information.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a handful of cards, and handed them to Raoul. At least he’d graced me with some kind of answer. His paint-stained fingers closed around my offering.

“Look, Raoul,” I implored, “if you do happen to remember the name of the guy who told the cops who drove the truck, I’d really appreciate a call. Please—it’s very important.”

I made my way across the rickety makeshift bridge that spanned the icy drainage puddle. At the glass-prismed doors, I glanced back at the construction crew. To the amusement of his coworkers, Raoul was flinging my cards one by one into the Dumpster.

Furious, I marched into the mall. My injured right side rebelled and shot an arrow of pain into my lower abdomen. I clutched my side, leaned against one of the marble walls, and took a hacking, uneven breath. The few beautiful people shopping that day passed me by.

What was I doing here? I was supposed to be resting; I’d promised the doctor and Tom that I would. Worse, I was at one of the two places—the other being the jail—that Counselor Hulsey had ordered me not to go. Could my lawyer refuse to represent me if I didn’t do what he said? Might the construction workers call the cops and say the caterer from Monday was bothering them with her nosy questions? Didn’t she have enough catering work to keep her busy?

I gripped my side and soldiered on, trying not to think of the wedding reception I’d been booked to do that day, trying not to think of Liz and her crew working while I was here at the mall. I also veered away from reflecting on the work-intensive events I was scheduled to cater over the next two days.

And then, suddenly, I was trying not to think of Julian. Someone had set up our old family friend, of that I was sure. But who? And why? This person was violent, no question about it. Paranoid, I looked all around. Nobody appeared to be following me. I limped forward and tried to ignore the image of Shane Stockham’s enraged face as he’d rushed forward in attack mode.

Oh, my God. Shane Stockham. He was Elk Park Prep’s lacrosse coach. Arch’s lacrosse coach. As I hobbled along, I punched in the numbers for my son’s cell phone.

“It’s Mom,” I said into his voice mail. “Don’t go to lacrosse if Shane is there. Call Tom or me instead. This is very important. One of us will come and get you. Call me on the cell. Arch, this is important .” I blocked out an image of my son making a disgusted face when he listened to the message.

My first stop was the Prince & Grogan lingerie department. No, Pam Disharoon was not working that day, a scarlet-haired clerk informed me. Pam’s only in on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, or I could leave a message…. On another one of my business cards, I scribbled a note asking Pam to call. I hoped this card wouldn’t get tossed, but with my luck… No, better not reflect on that, either.

I pushed past an exit sign and headed down the narrow hall that led to the mall manager’s office. If I couldn’t get any answers there, this trip was going to be a complete bust.

I spotted Westside’s assistant manager, whose name I now remembered was Rob Eakin. He was behind the glass surrounding his office by the tiny reception area. I’d met Eakin once. He was a short, wide fellow whom I judged to be in his forties. Now, his brow glistened with sweat as he listened to two people whose raised voices penetrated the glass separating them from me. With Barry gone, Rob Eakin must have been named acting mall manager. He didn’t look too good.

I nodded to the receptionist and moved to the chair closest to Eakin’s office. Right before I filed for divorce, I’d overheard The Jerk boinking a nurse in an empty hospital room. After that, no amount of righteous eavesdropping bothered me. Still, try as I might, I couldn’t quite make out what the people in the office were squabbling about.

I sighed in frustration.

The plumply padded receptionist—whose name I struggled to recall—watched me intently. Her cheeks were puffy and mottled, her eyes bloodshot. Her French-twisted blond hair resembled an unkempt haystack. Crumpled tissues lay scattered across her desk. A multibuttoned phone blinked and buzzed. She ignored it.

“I remember…you,” she told me. Her wobbly voice indicated she’d been weeping. “You’re the… caterer. The one who solves crimes.”

“The very one,” I replied amiably. “How’s it going?”

“Awful.” It came out like a sob.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it? Poor Barry. Um, why didn’t you take today off?”

She pressed a tissue to her eyes, unable to respond. Two of the blinking phone lines went dark.

“Sorry,” I said gently, “but I do have a catering question that needs an answer. It’s about the lunch event Barry hired me for, this Thursday, the one for the potential tenants.”

The receptionist—her name was Heather, I finally remembered—stifled another sob. “I wish you could find out what happened to him!”

“I do, too,” I said softly. “I… I miss him. Barry and I used to be friends, back in our college days.”

“Really? Way back then? That’s sweet.”

I bit down on telling her that less than two decades—not glacier-forming epochs—separated me from my college days. Instead, I waited while she reached daintily for more tissues. Truth to tell, Barry’s and my friendship had lasted only a semester, which was four months. Then, after years of silence, he’d hired me to cater at the mall. We had been friends; then we’d gone our separate ways.

So, I thought suddenly, why the great push to be friendly again?

Heather blew into one tissue, then dabbed her eyes with another. I realized I was staring at her. Something was bothering me.