It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 17
"Look, Mom. I don't even want to be here. But I came. Isn't that enough?"
"No. That's—grr—not enough. My boss expected you thirty minutes ago."
"But I don't want to be a busboy, mom."
"What kind of impression do you think you make when you're half an hour late? What do you think it does to my relationship with my boss? Did you think of that? We count on my job here to pay the bills. Lord knows, we can't count on your father. How about—grr—that?"
Tommy stared at his feet, scuffing one shoe with the other. "I'm sorry, Mom."
"I know you are, son."
"But I don't want to be a busboy."
"Well you're not. Not—grr—yet, anyway. Go on home. We'll talk some more later."
Cassie watched Greta's son run out the restaurant door. Safely outside, she heard him whoop through the closed door.
Cassie didn't mean to, but she caught Greta's eye. "Kids," she mumbled, as if to commiserate with the red-faced waitress.
"Do you—grr—have children?"
"Not yet."
Greta turned to Cheyenne. "How about you?"
Cheyenne shook her head no.
"Then you—grr—wouldn't understand." Greta continued talking, more to herself than to the two ladies eating a late breakfast. "He's a good kid. Really he is. But he's living too close to the edge."
Cassie couldn't help asking. "Too close to the edge?"
"A boy of fifteen, nearly—grr—sixteen already, can get hisself in a helluva lot of trouble."
Cassie tried to remember what boys were like in high school. "I guess."
"I've tried to raise him good, but there's a lot of his father in him."
"His father?"
"My ex-husband Tommy."
"Doesn't anybody stay together anymore?" asked Cheyenne, thinking about her own parents.
"My ex was a real loser. Is a real loser." Greta thought about the many ways that Tommy screwed up his life and theirs. "It's funny. He's working now as Santa Claus. At the mall. Almost three weeks and it's—grr—the longest he's ever held onto a job.
"It—grr—figures. Tommy finds something he's good at and it's a paying gig maybe a month each year. Another week until Christmas and he's out of work again." Greta laughed. "I wonder if the mall would—grr—keep him on doing something else?"
Cassie picked her head up. "The mall?"
"Yeah. Tommy's working as—grr—Santa Claus at the Mall of New Jersey." Greta looked around. "My tables—grr—are backing up." She turned and walked off, checking on the rest of her tables.
Cheyenne grinned, waiting for Greta to move beyond earshot. "That was odd."
But Cassie was thinking about Santa Claus.
"Doesn't anyone stay married anymore?" Cheyenne and Cassie stood in the Eggery's parking lot, talking.
"Your parents . . . ?"
"Yeah," said Cheyenne, self-pity lurking just below the surface of her words.
"You know," Cassie said, even though she didn't really mean it, "your mom and dad could still get back together."
Cheyenne groaned. "I don't think so, Cassie. My mother served him with the divorce papers."
"I'm so sorry, Chey. Is she still seeing . . . ?"
"Charles Meriwether the third. No, at least that's over."
Cassie felt for Cheyenne. "Well, that's a good thing."
Cheyenne tried to smile. "If he tries to cause trouble at the town council, at least my mother won't get caught in the middle now."
Cassie still thought that Cheyenne was exaggerating the man's ability to cause trouble. "I thought that was settled for now. You have all year to work on it with the attorney. Nothing's going to happen this year, right?"
"There's still one council meeting before Christmas," said Cheyenne before returning to the situation with her parents. "If Rob hadn't died, do you think your marriage would have lasted all these years?"
Cassie thought about her wedding day, the summer after graduation, in the garden on campus. "It would have been sixteen years, last summer."
Cheyenne did a quick mental calculation. "Last summer was forty years."
"Maybe it's for the best," Cassie said.
"Maybe." But Cheyenne didn't think so. "Doesn't anyone stay married anymore?"
Good Cop—Bad Cop
Detective Bebedict waited for his counterpart from the Woodbine police force to pull up in front of Louie's before making his approach to the closed pawnshop. His captain was a stickler for protocol and made it clear that he didn't want Eggs to ignore the local jurisdiction. So Eggs was polite when the young officer met him at the door.
He was polite, but just barely. Detective Bebedict began a thorough investigation of the shop, growling from time to time, but otherwise keeping his own counsel. Eggs didn't think the rookie cop was paying attention, but just in case, he took his time before checking behind the display counter. Eggs was surprised to realize that the young officer was carefully dusting for prints.
The store was organized in a jumbled sort of way, a repository for objects once considered desirable: musical instruments and household appliances, wristwatches, pinkie rings and hunting rifles, anything that a down on his luck owner might pawn for rent money or grain alcohol.
The jewelry was just as Cassie had described it. Eggs bagged the evidence without fanfare, all in a day's work. In the back office, he found a ledger book, but as he suspected, only a handful of transactions listed either buyers or sellers. And in a cash business, there were neither credit slips nor bank checks to be found. Still, the jewelry was a start.
Detective Bebedict thanked the Woodbine officer for his assistance and exited the pawnshop. After twenty years on the job, he knew there would be no report of stolen jewelry. Still, it was his job to check. A quick call to the station house confirmed the detective's intuition. If the jewelry was pawned by the rightful owner, it would be useful to know who that owner was. And if the jewelry was stolen, Eggs wanted to know why the theft went unreported. Either way, Eggs knew that his next stop was the Mall of New Jersey.
There was only one saleswoman in the store and she was busy with a customer. Detective Bebedict decided he could afford to be patient. It was, the detective decided, just about the only thing he could afford in the froufrou jewelry store. And that, he realized, was true even after the "amazing holiday prices" touted proudly on the cardboard display boards. To Detective Bebedict, jewelry stores were all the same, places designed to intimidate the unsophisticated shopper, to separate a man from his hard-earned money. Eggs didn't know a carat from a cubic zirconium, gold plate from gold foil from tin foil. He stared at the display case, wondering if Cassie O'Malley could tell the difference between the expensive and the affordable gold.
"May I help you, sir?"
Detective Bebedict looked at the cute salesgirl, half his age, gold at her neck and her wrist and her ankle, with her stylish but short business skirt showing off her legs, tanned even in December, and he showed the girl his badge. She looked around nervously, but nothing appeared to be amiss. "Detective . . ." And she peered more closely at the officer's identification. ". . . Bebedict, is it? How can I help you, Officer?"
He regretted that he had not asked his partner to meet him at the mall. It was so much easier to play good cop-bad cop with a partner. Detective Bebedict smiled at the young woman. "I understand that you've had a problem recently with some stolen merchandise."
To the detective's trained eye, the salesgirl's confusion appeared genuine. "I don't think so. I mean, I'm not the manager or anything, so maybe they just didn't tell me, but I think I would have heard something."
"Is the manager available, Miss . . . ?"
"Judy," said the salesgirl. "Judy Heffernan. No, the manager slipped out to do her own Christmas shopping. I don't know when she'll be back." Judy quickly added, "But I'll be sure to let her know the police were here." Judy turned as if to check on a customer, but the store was empty.
"That's all right, Judy. Perhaps you can help me." Detective Bebedict took the bracelet, still in the embossed gift box, from his pocket. He showed Judy the gold bracelet.
"Ah, that's a very nice piece Detective, Venetian link. Is it for your girlfriend?"
Detective Bebedict ignored the salesgirl's question and asked one of his own. "I was hoping you might tell me who purchased this particular piece."
Judy squirmed behind the counter. "I don't know if I'm allowed to do that, Officer."
"You're allowed." Good cop, Detective Bebedict smiled at the young girl.
Judy reached out her hand, and Detective Bebedict handed her the box. "Let me see." The salesgirl checked the bracelet carefully, examining the box as well, before checking the store's sales records.
"You're in luck, Detective. We've only sold one of these in the last month."
"Thank you, Judy. Now I just need the name and address of the buyer."
Judy frowned. "Isn't that what they call confidential? I don't want to get in any trouble."
It was time to play bad cop. Detective Bebedict glared. "I've never heard of jeweler-client privilege. But if you're not comfortable about this—and Detective Bebedict continued glaring at the young girl—"I can explain it to you down at the station house."
Judy was no match for the detective. "But I can't leave the store in the middle of my shift."
"Actually, yes you can."
Detective Bebedict smiled—good cop again. "But that really isn't necessary. Now how about that name?"
Judy had an idea. She swiveled the computer screen so the detective could read the purchaser's identifying information: name, address, credit card number. If the customer complained, she could honestly say she didn't tell the officer anything.
Detective Bebedict scribbled in a small notebook. "Thank you, Judy. You've been most helpful." He smiled broadly. "Merry Christmas to you, Judy."
"And to you, Detective Bebedict."
What Eggs liked most about being a detective was the feeling that he got as he followed a trail of evidence. Teddy Maciborski, Louis Feldman, Oliver Berryhill and now Mrs. Pamela Bayardi. He avoided the temptation to speculate as he drove from the mall to the brand new development of expensive colonials some forty minutes from the mall, and the stately brick colonial with the white portico that was the address for one Pamela Bayardi. Detective Bebedict figured he could fit his house three times into the enormous colonial and still have room for an indoor bocce court. He wondered why anyone needed such a large house. He wondered how much it cost to heat.
Mrs. Bayardi answered the door herself. She was, the detective guessed, still in her thirties, a lawyer's wife, or financial advisor's, with two young boys giggling somewhere in the background. "Yes?"
Detective Bebedict showed Mrs. Bayardi his badge. "Of course," she said, "the Patrolman's Benevolent Fund. Let me go get my checkbook." And she turned to leave before the detective could explain. A moment later she returned, already writing. "How much?"
"No, ma'am. I'm here investigating a crime." The gravel vibrated deep in the detective's throat. He wondered if Mrs. Bayardi would apologize for her first impression.
"A crime? Not in this neighborhood?" She didn't.
Eggs blew on his hands to keep warm. "Can we talk inside, ma'am."
Eggs could tell that Mrs. Bayardi would prefer to have this conversation at her front door, but she did not wish to appear rude. "Yes. Please come in."
Eggs wasted no time. "Did you lose a bracelet, ma'am?"
"Is that what this is about?"
"So you did?"
"Yes." She noticed the box in the detective's hand. "Is that it? Thank you for returning it, Detective." And she reached out for the bracelet.
Detective Bebedict pulled back. "I'm sorry ma'am. This bracelet is evidence in a double homicide."
"A double homicide!" Pamela Bayardi sat down suddenly.
"I don't understand." Mrs. Bayardi looked at the detective. "What does my bracelet have to do with a double murder?"
"I was hoping you could tell me that," said Eggs.
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Tell you what, ma'am. Why don't we start at the beginning," suggested the detective.
"I was shopping at the mall. Let me think . . . it was a week ago Tuesday, I think. Or maybe Wednesday. I'm not sure."
"That's okay, ma'am."
"I was doing my Christmas shopping. I didn't plan on buying the bracelet. I was looking for a pocket watch for my husband." Mrs. Bayardi thought back to her day of shopping at the mall. "But it was such a pretty bracelet and such a good price. I just had to buy myself a little present."
"I can understand that, I suppose."
"I remember I already had a shopping bag with things for my boys, and I put the bracelet in the top of the bag. Then I had a light lunch in the food court . . . a chicken Caesar salad, I believe."
"That's okay, ma'am. I don't think your lunch selection really matters."
"Oh, but it does officer. You see, I'm on a diet." Detective Bebedict guessed her weight at barely a hundred pounds. "Anyway, I realized they gave me the regular Caesar dressing, when I distinctly asked for the lite Caesar."
"My table was barely twelve feet from the counter. I thought the bag would be safe. But later, I realized the bracelet was missing."
"Is it possible that the bracelet fell out of the bag?"
Pamela Bayardi looked at the detective and wondered silently if he'd been listening at all. "No. I am convinced the bracelet was stolen out of my bag in the food court."
"But you didn't file a police report." Years of these interviews suggested to Detective Bebedict that this woman had nothing useful to tell him.
"I reported it to mall security . . . of course," she added for emphasis.
Christmas Fireworks
When Oliver left Woodbine, questions were exploding in his head like Christmas fireworks, and each question, each explosion had a name—the dead man Teddy Maciborski, the one who started all this trouble, and then the second dead guy Louis Feldman, the detective Eddie Bebedict, the lady writer, Oliver realized they didn't all have names after all, the writer, and the other guy, the one he spied breaking into Louie's—but no question exploded in his head more forcefully than the very large, very angry Little Mack. Little Mack was most definitely the grand finale in the Christmas firework extravaganza exploding in Oliver's cerebral cortex.
Passing an old-fashioned row of cottages on the outskirts of Woodbine—Bhait's Motel the sign read, or would read, Oliver noted, if not for the burned-out bulbs—Oliver took his foot off the gas pedal, allowing the car to decelerate, while he debated the merits of hiding out, hoping for an end to his troubles.
But there was, Oliver decided, something eerie about the Bhait's Motel, and the thought of spending Christmas alone, hiding in a cottage in the woods was just too depressing. Oliver pressed down on the gas pedal, heading for home and whatever dangers might await him there.
From the outside, Oliver's home looked empty and quiet, but he remembered how last time, Little Mack had been sitting quietly at his kitchen table. He took his time unlocking the front door, moving cautiously through his small apartment. There were no uninvited guests, no unwanted surprises, not even a telephone message. Still, Oliver was jittery. He poured himself a small glass of cream sherry and popped a DVD in the machine, Tim Burton's The Nightmare before Christmas. He finished the cream sherry and fell asleep, the television on, the movie still playing, and slept surprisingly well, waking the next morning, having shaken off the nighttime jitters, pulling on his brown mall of New Jersey uniform and getting ready for work.
Detective Bebedict climbed into his car, heading for the Mall of New Jersey. He could feel the investigation moving quickly now, drawing to a close. He didn't have all the details yet, but the basic elements of the case were clear, thanks to the help of Mrs. Pamela Bayardi. The Detective had to guard against jumping to conclusions, getting ahead of himself. What he had to do now was to follow the evidence, Eggs reminded himself, and that was exactly what he was doing. The evidence led back to the shopping mall.
Detective Bebedict couldn't find a single damn parking space in the lot, pulling up to an entrance, leaving his car in a fire lane, one of the many benefits of his job. As Christmas drew closer, the crowds at the mall grew larger, more hurried, more harried. In a mob of shoppers going full tilt, Detective Bebedict took his time, admiring the Christmas decorations, stopping for a moment to say hello to Santa, strolling along the main hall, window shopping, waving to the salesgirl in the jewelry store, making his way to the hallway that lead to the mall offices.
A teenage girl was talking on the phone in the otherwise empty mall office. She looked up for a moment, cupped her hand over the phone's mouthpiece, and offered up a hurried, "I'll be right with you."
He showed the girl his badge.
"I've gotta go," she said into the phone. She placed the phone back on its base and smiled at the detective. "I'm sorry."
Detective Bebedict smiled. "That's okay. I need to speak to the mall manager."
"I'll see what I can do," the girl answered. "This'll just take a minute." And she got back on the phone, talking quickly and quietly. "He's just down the hall. He's on his way back."
"Thank you."
The girl smiled. "So what's it like being a cop?"
Detective Bebedict figured the girl was just making small talk. "I like it just fine."
"My father was a policeman."
"Really?"
"Died when I was just a little kid."
"On the job?"
The girl nodded.
"I'm sorry."
"Can I help you, Detective?"
Eggs turned to face the young man with short blonde hair and tortoise shell glasses, wearing khaki chinos and blue golf shirt, the Mall of New Jersey embroidered on the pocket.
"Are you the mall manager?" Eggs asked.
"Assistant manager." He pointed toward a side door. "Why don't we talk in my office?"
