Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

She shrilled, “She inventoried what Barry gave me?” She cleared her throat and handed me the receipt and the bagged bathrobe. “Just leave me alone now, OK?”

I nodded to her and grasped the bag. Pam might have been convinced that Ellie was furious with Barry, but in her heart, I was pretty sure Pam now realized someone else had hated Barry even more. Someone who was family. And she couldn’t face it.

Back in the van, I turned on the engine and let it idle while I reviewed what I’d learned in the mall. Barry had been a seductive, gift-giving two-timer. OK, I’d already pretty much figured that one out. Hearing more details hadn’t contributed much. I was still very skeptical about the Ellie-shoving-Barry-into-a-ditch scenario, and I couldn’t believe that two sisters would go to war, take no prisoners, and kill a mall manager, over the eviction of a husband and stuff given to the other sister.

Next: Barry had, in his weird way, sought my help in finding his missing construction manager. In addition, Barry had left me, in the cryptically named “dog file,” a clumsily clipped article about Teddy Fury’s thievery. Three days after Barry had been murdered, Teddy Fury was still AWOL. Barry wanted me to have the editorial decrying the mall’s contribution to materialism. In the anti-materialism department, I doubted Barry’s death had been staged by a group of rehabbed shopaholics.

The van’s heat had not yet kicked in. I shivered from cold, from frustration, from hunger—the sugar high of pastries is woefully short-lived—and from the fact that my vow of abstention had utterly collapsed. I hadn’t had any caffeine for several hours! Agh!

I squeezed back sudden hot tears. Try as I might, I couldn’t see how any of my recently acquired information was going to help Julian.

Scolding myself aloud, I dabbed my eyes and applied some makeup— not from Barry’s compact—to my nose and cheeks. There was at least one of my problems that I could solve right away. I put the van into Drive and eased out of the mall parking lot. The Westside Buzz, the espresso place that Barry had taken me to, was only a few blocks away.

As I was pulling out of the mall parking lot, a brittle flapping sound caught my attention. I made a quick turn back into a parking space; the sound ceased. I checked the backseat and found nothing. There were no loose papers, no open window…Wait a sec. A piece of folded blue paper was wedged into the right rear window. I powered down the window, which made the paper fall out. Sighing, I jumped out, rounded the van, and picked up the fallen sheet.

On one side of the turquoise-colored paper was a printed advertisement extolling the virtues of having your oil changed at Westside Lube— While U Shop! Virtually all the vehicles in the lot, I now noticed, had blue sheets stuck under their wipers. Then why hadn’t the ad-placer put mine under one of my wipers? The answer lay on the back side of the sheet.

Someone using a black felt-tip pen had scrawled an indecipherable message in what looked like Spanish. Whoever had written it had been in a hurry, that was certain, as the tip of the pen had dragged from word to word. I raced back into the driver side of the car, locked the doors, and stared at the sheet. Of course, I realized glumly, I should be worried about fingerprints and all that. But someone had left me a note. And Julian was being arraigned the next day.

I took a pen and an index card out of my purse and tried to copy the note. It was a question, actually. It only took a few moments of staring at and copying letters before I was pretty sure I had the right words in front of me.

Porque tuvo dolores de cabeza?

I plugged in my not-brilliantly-remembered Spanish vocabulary, and eventually honed in on the question as a whole—not that it made any more sense than when I’d received the anonymous phone call.

Why did he have headaches?

Oh, man, I was getting tired of this. Why don’t you just tell me? my mind yelled back. He was pushed and fell into a ditch. Aside from that, you’re going to have to fill me in.

My own head was beginning to ache. I needed caffeine now more than ever, so I gunned the van in reverse. The brakes squealed and sent up a cloud of dust as I raced to The Westside Buzz.

On the way over, I left a message for Tom, telling him of all the developments and asking again about the women’s alibis and how Arch was doing in the gift department. I also called Marla again. She was not at home. Into her machine, I asked what time she had driven away from Westside on Monday night. Specifically, I went on, for what part of that crucial half-hour, from eight-thirty to nine P.M., had Page and Ellie been with her? Did she have any idea whether either or both of them had actually left the mall when they said they were leaving? The digital clock on the van dashboard said it was just past three o’clock. Good old Marla was probably down visiting Julian.

There was no line at The Westside Buzz. Usually by three in the afternoon, folks are trying to lay off caffeine. In my present state, this was definitely out of the question. I ordered an extra-hot four-shot latte made with—decadence!—half-and-half, and two cinnamon cookies. I took a sip of the rich, creamy drink, decided the barista deserved a two-dollar tip for her exquisite creation, and slotted the cup into the van’s plastic cup holder.

It was when I was driving away that an insight hit with such force that I slammed down on the brake. Latte slopped out on the mat. I stared at the creamy liquid and told myself I was insane.

But I didn’t think I was.

I may not have completely answered the question of why Barry had crippling headaches. I certainly did not understand the meaning of the cosmetics items Barry had left for me. But I had deduced something.

I’d just figured out why Barry Dean had left me his dog.

I had to get back into Barry’s house. Tom had said the department had pulled their detail off the place. Would Darlene be home next door? Would she give me a key?

I hit the accelerator again and wove through traffic. There’s something else , I promised myself. I know it. If I could find whatever it was before the next morning, Julian could be freed. I felt giddy. He’d be out for Arch’s birthday! This thought, combined with greedy chugs of latte, made me speed up even more.

Thirty-five minutes later, I pulled up behind Darlene Petrucchio’s old pink Cadillac, one of the consignment items she’d never been able to sell and so had bought herself. Covered with five inches of crusty snow, the Caddy looked forlorn.

“OK, here’s the deal,” Darlene said, once I’d reassured her I wasn’t returning Barry’s basset hound. She invited me into her kitchen, where I declined a beer. This day, she was clad in a crimson cashmere sweater sewn with bugle beads and a matching pleated skirt—an outfit dating from circa nineteen-fifty-six. “Barry always relied on me when he went on trips,” Darlene went on. “I told the cops ‘bout startin’ his cars once a week, waterin’ his plants, walkin’ an’ feedin’ that dog. While the lawyers do the will, the cops axed me to watch over Barry’s stuff. They said because he has no next of kin, I’ve got, y’know, a proprietary interest. Doesn’t mean I get anything,” she added as she lit a cigarette. “It just means the cops can’t take care of the stuff, and Barry trusted me with it when he was alive, so why not now?”

“I understand,” I said, then launched into a spiel I’d rehearsed mentally all the way up the mountain. “It’s just that I seem to have left a computer disk full of menus over in his house. I simply have to have it. Barry loved menus, and he asked if he could borrow a bunch of mine. But now my computer’s crashed, and all I have is that disk, dammit.”