Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

“Uh, Heather? How do you happen to know I’ve been involved in crime investigations? From that article in the paper about Hyde Castle? Did Barry show that to you? He told me my friend Mrs. McNeely had urged him to hire me. How does the article fit in?”

“Oh, yeah, Barry told me all about it.” She pulled a miniature compact from her bag and patted powder on her nose. “He told me how you dived into this pond to look for a murderer—”

“It was a moat—”

“—and how you always were able to find out what a criminal had done, and how good you were, and stuff like that. He was looking at you and about four other caterers, and then he read the article and told me to call you! To see if you could do the jewelry party and the potential tenants’ lunch.”

The phone buzzed again; this time Heather decided to answer it. I rubbed my temples. This was not what Barry had told me when he’d called. While Heather talked into the phone, I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct.

In March, Barry had phoned me out of the blue. He’d been brimming with the charisma and gusto that had made him, well, Barry Dean. We had a friend in common! he exclaimed. His dear friend Ellie McNeely, who knew me so well from our church work together, had recommended Goldilocks’ Catering to him! Where had I been all these years? Why hadn’t I called him? I’d been astonished to hear from my old coffee buddy. I’d offered a précis of Life Since College; Barry had listened patiently. Then he’d poured on the charm and informed me that he wanted to hire me, the famous caterer, for his “lavish” mall parties, because, because, because…

Heather hung up the phone and snuffled. Then she touched up her lipstick and answered the intercom buzz. I struggled to remember that first call from Barry Dean. I want to hire you… because Ellie recommends you! Because you’re this famous caterer who gets written up all over the place! Then he’d faltered and laughed again, as if overwhelmed by my renown. Because of… of our history , he’d burbled. Because I always prefer hiring a friend, especially a close personal friend like you, Goldy. His flattery, his flair, his sudden intimacy had so befuddled me that I’d never thought to say, But I haven’t heard from you in more than fifteen years. Yes, we like coffee and canines, but… when were we ever close personal friends?

Heather took another call. If the truth be told, Barry Dean and I had never been close personal friends. But Barry, a mall manager and effervescent marketer, had heard about me from Ellie, yes. He’d been looking at a handful of caterers until he cut out an article on my involvement in an Aspen Meadow homicide investigation. Then he’d told his secretary, to call me so he could book the mall events.

I blushed to think of my naïveté. Close personal friends, indeed.

I was willing to wager a side of beef that Barry had hired me because he had a problem. A crime problem, undoubtedly, one he would not or could not share with his bosses at Pennybaker International. A problem that, for whatever reason, was not something he could entrust to his own security people. Maybe he’d been afraid of the publicity, of the sudden truth of his credo nothing-clears-a-mall-like-a-security-threat. Then again, maybe he couldn’t afford to look like a failure.

He hadn’t done very well with his problem, had he? After the incident with the out-of-control dump truck, Barry I-knew-this-would-happen Dean had refused to talk even to me. Instead, he’d rushed back to his office. This office. He’d gone to the jewelry event, which had involved ejecting a shoplifting teen and dealing with a potentially violent conflict between the feuding Stockhams. At some point, he’d scribbled a note about having a tip for me, and needing to meet up in the P & G shoe department. But I’d arrived too late.

“Heather,” I asked cautiously when she hung up the receiver, “did Barry leave me anything?”

To my horror, a fat tear splashed down her cheek. “You mean,” she said, as she again started to sniffle, “like in his will?”

“Oh no, of course not! Just… like a letter or note or something.”

“You mean about the tenants’ lunch? Or about one of his little hunts that he likes, liked to send people on?”

“Little hunts?”

“Like the one for Mrs. McNeely and her engagement ring?”

“Yes, like that.” I was intrigued. Ellie had not mentioned a quest, much less one that involved an engagement ring. “Were they engaged?”

“Well, no,” said Heather. “She hadn’t found the ring. The riddle or whatever it was was too hard.”

“The riddle.” Had he sent Ellie in a convoluted pursuit of her ring, as he’d sent me searching for those long-ago psych notes?

“I don’t know anything about it, it was some kind of game.” Heather frowned. “And in terms of him leaving something for you, I haven’t found anything. But the filing today is like, pfft , forget it. I haven’t been in Barry’s office since the police went through everything.”

“Of course. Well…” I was thinking furiously. “Heather, if you should come across anything, even something small and seemingly insignificant, would you call me?” When she nodded, I went on: “I need to know about tomorrow’s lunch. When will Mr. Eakin be available?”

Heather cut a sideways glance at the glassed-in office. “Nine people have already asked to see him, besides those guys. You’re probably looking at two hours or more.”

With parties to prep, calls to make, and Arch to check on, I didn’t have two hours to spare. I quickly wrote Rob Eakin a note expressing my sympathy for the loss of Barry and asking for someone to call if the potential tenants’ lunch was not still on for Thursday. Mr. Dean had already paid for the food and labor, I added. Heather placed my note on top of an unpromisingly large stack of paper and swore she’d deliver it as soon as possible. Seeing my worried look, she told me that if Mr. Eakin couldn’t handle my request, she’d let me know herself about the Thursday lunch. Meanwhile, from the glassed-in office, the raised voices were suddenly audible.

“You need to do some damage control, Eakin! We don’t figure this thing out, we’re going to lose half our tenants!” howled a male voice.

“I’ve got two-thirds of them already screaming!” shrieked a young woman in a white shirt, black blazer, and black bow tie. Her face had turned scarlet; her brown hair, pulled into a tight bun, strained at its riggings. “They want twice as many security guys as we’ve already got!”

Eakin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

Heather’s eyes widened. “Look, I promise I’ll call you if I find anything Barry left you,” she stage-whispered. I nodded, not hopeful. If the cops had been through everything, it was unlikely there’d be anything left for Heather to find.

I thanked her and started to leave. Then I turned back. “Where is Victor Wilson today? I went out to the site. I had something to ask him, but he’s not there.”

Heather clucked disapprovingly. “Not a clue. Not that I would care about that asshole,” she added.

“You don’t get along with Victor? How come?”

Once again we were interrupted by arguing from the inner office.

“You’ve got to get the cops out of here!” the bunned bow tie lady squealed. “They’re driving customers away!”

“They can’t leave until they figure out what happened!” Rob Eakin yelled back.

Heather waved her hand. “Victor Wilson orders me around like I’m his secretary not Barry’s. He hires and fires workers whenever he feels like it, which gets us into a real mess with the worker-comp people and the unemployment-benefits people. And the Civil Liberties guys claim he treats Hispanic workers badly and pays them less than we do the other workers. For our office, the worst thing is that he keeps everyone dangling about when these stores are going to be finished. Victor’s a major-league asshole.”